His minions would always lower their heads and slink back to their slimy, dark corners.  That’s where he like them best.  He realized something that the rest of them didn’t.  He was their weapon.  Without them they were defenseless, useless.  And he realized that a weapon is more than a tool to kill.  It represented more than death.  It was a principle. 

Guns are mankind’s fears materialized.  A gun can give a man the feeling of power but in reality a gun is a weakness.  A gun will make a coward feel courageous.  They are said to be a practical necessity but they create the impractical reality of violence.

A gun is far and beyond its grey, cold exterior, its butt-handle and reinforced barrel.  It is more than its trigger assembly or its pin mechanism.  A gun is the culmination of man’s imagination coupled with his weaknesses.  It is a dangerous mechanism that brings man’s first enemy, death while the very same man argues that it is life-saving, security-making.  A gun is the lowest commonality of man coupled with his gravest desires for power.

Although he had never held a gun in his hand he imagined that the feeling would be easily addictive.  He imagined that it would feel good because deep down inside everyone knows what it is capable of; what it is made for.  A gun is a hand-held atom bomb made by monkeys cowering behind rocks.  He was always amazed at the ingenuity but was more amazed at humanity’s commitment to our own suicide.  But he was willing to accept suicide as long as it paid.

“I am your weapon.  I am their doom.  Don’t ever forget that.” He reminded his minions, and paused before turning and walking out of the room.

He walked down the corridor to his room and turned on the T.V. where he would sit for the next four hours.