The Main Character Goes Overboard at the End

The main character of this story was a killer. Actually, a would-be killer. No, no one had died just yet. But just because no one had yet been killed didn't make for less of a killer. This killer had a killer's mind, programmed to kill. Something in the killer's mind had him hard-wired to do that. In abundance. Without remorse.

And even on purpose.

Before the killing spree would be over, there would be many, many homicides and their bodies, most of them irretrievable for family and friends to properly bury then.

The killer rode with us.

On a craft such as ours, one is trapped with the passengers who are aboard. And this killer being on our vessel showed how close we can be to killers all the time, whether we know it or not. And even if they hadn't yet begun to kill. And taking no action to prevent it showed how close we can be to becoming killers ourselves.

I was no expert, but I knew what would put all the killer's murders in action — the series of ensuing death. After all, everyone has a hot button. Everyone has a fuse. And I knew the one thing I could do to set the deaths in motion.

Yes, this killer was one "last straw" away from going off and doing what a killer does best: kill. Without regret, in cold blood, without any emotional expenditure.

And no consequences.

This killer would get away with it, because society condones certain circumstances that seem to make killing just part of life.

"Sir," my second reported, "I think things are getting a little tense in here."

"Don't worry about it. Who know what goes through everyone's minds when there's killin' in the air." I sniffed about, as if to make my point,

"Sir," my second pressed on, "do the others know about our special passenger?"

"Some do," I answered. "Or at least they suspect." I closed my eyes.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"Yes, yes. Look, I don't like it any more than you. But what can we do? Nothing. Not till it happens. Am I right? Innocent till proven guilty."

He thought about it a minute, then said, "I suppose so. We could preemptively act. We don't have to follow orders."

"Like our killer has to? You and I both know our secret killer can't help it; just following instructions is all a killer can do. Besides, do you think anyone's going to miss the people who get killed? I mean, aren't they all killers themselves? Aren't we all?"

"I guess it depends on your point of view."

"So," I said, growing impatient, "you're a philosopher now."

"Even the Mafia had family — loved ones, sir."

"So did a lot of bad people. Doesn't mean we have to miss them."

"Of course not, sir."

"I know we know — generally — when the body count's going to start. But nothing's happened just yet. Would you like to see the Man of the Cloth on board with us?"

"That's funny, sir," he said. You're referring to your co-pilot.

We flew on uncomfortably, with our killer on board. This was a mean, lean, killing machine. I regarded the killer on board, but there was no engagement back. This was a killer who could kill us all instead of the wake of carnage our acquiescence would unleash. I grieved for the It's-us-or-them world we lived in.

The killer, I knew, must be getting restless. Antsy. Pretending to be asleep, but with one eye open, anxious for self-actualization. A killer's got to kill. And if no killing were to come soon, would blow. A killer needs release.

"Sir," my second said gravely, "I think it's time we do something. It's either him or us. We should just get rid of this maniac now."

I thought about it. Our orders were no more special than those of any killers out there, in the grand scheme of things. Everyone does what they need to do to survive.

Our vicious killer was a little boy, but packed 15 kilotons of killing. We pushed him overboard at 8:15 AM, over the center of Hiroshima.