He had to do more, much more, than converting neighbors and leaving pamphlets in local restaurants. He took a job as a missionary with the YMCA’s International Camp Counselor Program in Lebanon—until civil war broke out, brought him back home. In Lebanon he found even greater purpose as a first responder on the front lines of the wreckage of conflict.

The sights of Palestinian gunmen killing four people at a Christian church in East Beirut, militant leaders killing thirty Palestinian supporters on a bus, played on a permanent loop in his brain. As a counselor at a Vietnamese refugee camp, day after day he listened to stories of families being slaughtered and Vietnamese women being raped by American soldiers.

Or half listened, because he couldn’t wait to speak his piece, set them on the right path. He taught them the ways of revenge—how to make themselves even stronger than their persecutors.

While he was sharing his strength, what was Lennon doing? Nothing. Living the life of a pampered celebrity inside the walls of the Dakota.

He told us to imagine no possessions. He’s done the reverse. There he is, with millions of dollars and yachts and farms and a country estate, laughing at people like me who had believed the lies and bought the records and built a big part of our lives around his music.

Lennon’s lyrics about peace and love—it’s all bullshit. Lennon admitted as much in a recent article. All his work for peace—the bed-ins and concerts—were essentially put-ons. They were phony, fake, publicity-grabbing schemes.

A mirror hangs on a nearby wall. Mark stands in front of it, sees his double chin and his round, moon-shaped face. Sees the faint traces of a man who had once believed in Lennon and the Beatles and God and Jesus.

That person is dead. That person died last month, the day he quit his security job and signed out as “John Lennon.”

Mark backs up until he can see his chest and torso. He slips the .38 into his jacket pocket, covers the gun with his hand.

Practices withdrawing the weapon and dropping into a combat stance. Does it again and again until he feels confident that he can remove the weapon in one smooth motion.

Now he takes in a deep breath and imagines himself standing outside the Dakota. He is Saint Peter the Apostle among the throng of Lennon disciples. They’re all anxious to catch a glimpse of their false god, but only he has a testament to preach. With the Charter Arms as his witness.

In his mind, he sees a limousine pull up to the curb. Lennon gets out, alone, because he doesn’t travel with bodyguards. He’s a man of the people.

Lennon gives a quick wave, then dashes toward the Dakota’s front entrance.

“Mr. Lennon?”