Death is not an easy game to play, yet we players love our sadistic pleasures. A symphony of gunpowder accented by the shouts sounds finer to us players than the melodies of Bach or Mozart. Louder they said and more I gave them. Glory. honor and death, that is all that I give them and that is all that they need. I hate this game I play, yet I am forced to by hands stronger than my own. I play in hopes that someday I might win and end this game of death. A feeble dying hope now, I play now out of habit, what spirit I had has been drained by the lecherous men I surround myself with. I am a symbol, what they see is not what I am. What I am they could never see. Death is my game and nobody plays better than me. Some try as opponents and more try as allies yet the power of death is invested in me. Why this power is available to a mortal man I will never know. Again now the leeches want it louder, their lust for blood has dominated their thoughts and now they wait me to sate their thirst. This power is mine, I have my hand on the knob, so little effort it would take to turn it higher.
"Sign it, Mr. President"
I sigh with what I hope appears to be restrained acquiescence.
I try to stop my hand but the knob is turned by my hands powered by hands stronger than my own.
I smile as the sweet music begins to play.
