For a long time, I’ve been interested in the same issues as you: extending the boundaries of Beaux-Arts through performative acts that force one to reconsider not only the definitions of performance (who gives a fuck about that shit?), but the reasons to believe in this world of which fools, confidence men, and tricksters (those who give a fuck about that shit!) are a part, as well as, inventing a method to document such acts without spoiling their radical and ephemeral nature, so that later generations can reenact my oeuvres and thus the belief in this world.

I have discovered the ultimate solution to this two-fold problem. An act that radically transgresses all kinds of borders desperately set by our fellow men between the public and the private, art and life, genres and disciplines, and is purely ephemeral in nature while automatically leaving an ineradicable mark on the world and on those who happen to encounter it. For a while, however, I had refrained from executing my plan since I couldn’t figure out a way to document it in a publicly accessible manner. But then I learned about your project to publish any written documentation of performance regardless of “genre, quality, popularity, politics, or venue,” welcoming “political, commercial, scientific, therapeutic, or other works not typically documented as performance.” Hooray, hooray. The time, my friends, was ripe.

On December 22, 2011, 11:30pm, I drove into the town of Danville, Illinois. I perused around the shit town for about 40 minutes, searching for houses with lights on (but trying to avoid family residences). I eventually made a right turn on East Main Street to Quincy Street. The house I found was number 20 on that street. I quietly parked my car and walked up to the front door. I remember faint music coming out from inside (hip-hop?). I twisted the door knob. It was not locked, so I sneaked in. Eventually I found myself face to face with an African American guy. He seemed young. Later I learned he was 17. I tried to remain calm. He shouted something, which again, I don’t recall the details of, and pushed me out to the front yard. I took my gun out and pointed it at him. He became quiet. Then I recited the words I had prepared in advance: “This is a performance by Vicente Lloco called ‘Meet is Murder.’ Do you have an audience who would like to witness the piece, or would you rather be the sole audience?” The kid replied in a clear voice: “Fuck off, you crazy mother fucker!” And then he turned back to run away. I sighed and pulled the trigger. The bullet went right through his back. He fell. I was somewhat surprised that there wasn’t much blood. But then again, this was my first time. As my performance was over, and my sole audience dead, I had nothing more to do. I left the house, and drove out of Danville.

Le performance est mort, vive le performance!