Routine actions created by routine thoughts help make

murder easy. There is nothing to derail people in the

world from what they always do--day in-day out--

forever. Weakness has come from lack of challenge. Nothing

must interfere with happiness, and because every moment of

every life is unstressed satisfaction, my efforts were simple.

     A call entered my populace slate almost as soon as I

left Mr. God’s spire-like building at the center of the Earth.

      Red pulsed around the thin edges of the device. When I

checked, there was an urgent call to kill two random people. I

rolled the random name generator and instantly had my first

target. The deadline, no pun intended, given to me was two

days. What was left of my first day’s daylight gave me time to

research the man and his living area within the city.

      He was average. I am pretty sure everyone here is

average. Mid-height, slender, not old, not young, and paired

with a woman almost his identical twin. They lived down

on 34th Avenue where it crossed 72nd Street. It looked like

everywhere else. The mate was out working her shifts in the

afternoon and early nights when my target was home after an

early morning work effort cleaning and repairing all windows

in a small part of the city a few blocks from his home. Nothing

about him was very unique to me. His face even looked

happily bored and sedated, like everyone else in the city. No

one noticed him as he moved plainly about.

      Brand 3-264.

      Born in the 264th year of our God, Mr. God. He was

the 3rd Brand to be born that year. First names tended to be

used repetitively for spans of time before new male and female

names were chosen: another detail describing the laziness in

this contentedly sedate world.

      The next day, after tending to lights on my communal

work route, I went to observe my prey. Merely stalking him

made me tingle with excitement. My hands wanted to strangle

him. I had to calm myself constantly.

       To watch the lights go out in his eyes would create

within me a kind of euphoric high for a small time. Knowing I

was doing good while doing wrong was even more elating. My

inner world was vibrant and colorful. Yes, I was indeed made

to do this work for the social system of Mr. God’s city.

       I had to have some minor contact with the man. I

wanted to herald my approach in some, small way. So I

admired his cleaning work as he worked on a ground-floor

window to the side of 29th Avenue.

       “That looks excellent,” I said proudly to him.

       “Oh, thank you,” his meek voice reported back to me.

       “You have a flair for your work,” I inflated his ego.

      He thanked me again.

       “Windows. A barrier between two sides of life,” I

began pontificating, “Imagine what is on the other side.”

        “I will,” he cheerily said back, “I will.”

        Then I walked onward.

        He didn’t understand my simple words and their intent.

Sure, I was vague, but that cryptic edge made me feel somehow

clever or above the situation. It was a warning phrased as near

gibberish.

       Brand 3-264 didn’t seem particularly strong or able. To

me, I felt he could go down easy. Because of my assessment,

I instantly decided to visit in the afternoon when his pair-bond

was working. At that time I would immediately carry out the

execution.

       It would be swift.

        Later that afternoon, I approached his apartment’s door

on the top level of his building. The hallway was typically

featureless, like everyone’s hallways. Numbers on the door

were large and plain.

        Pausing outside the entry, I held my ear close and tried

to hear any sign of movement within the living space. There

was no sound. I waited several minutes, but there was nothing.

Impatience conquered me: I didn’t want to be seen by anyone

going through the corridor.

        Testing my ability to enter any door, I grabbed the

handle and went in as silently as possible. It worked. Mr.

God had programmed me to be able to gain passage anywhere.

Electronic detection and recognition gave me berth to the

apartment.

        No one was inside the small living space.

        Perhaps he was in the bedroom.

        I quietly stalked to the door of the sleeping chamber.

       Nothing.

       Perhaps he was out. Damn.

       Then the toilet flushed. I heard water and cleansing of

hands. He was in the washroom and preoccupied. With only a

few seconds to contemplate my next move, I stood at the door

and wondered if I should go in and do it or wait for him to

emerge and challenge his perceptions.

         My thoughts negated any true decision, because they

swallowed precious time. The door opened and we were both

caught by surprise.

        “You clean windows very well,” I told his perplexed

face as it stared at me.

        “Oh, thank you,” he said.

       “I was very impressed,” I continued, trying to figure

how to act.

       “Explain how you entered here,” he demanded casually.

       “Like this,” my equally unruffled reply emerged.

       Unusual speed accompanied my every move as my

hands leapt for the unfortunate man’s throat. I clasped it, but I

didn’t squeeze. If my hands would wring his neck, the murder

would be obvious. This had to be an accident, or so it had to

appear to the authorities.

        “Stewards,” Brand 3 said into the room, alerting the

audio emergency system, “assistance...”

        I hadn’t thought about that. Stupid oversight. The

stewards would be there within a few minutes.

      As taught to me in my thoughts, related to me by my

inner darkness which used to consume me with images and

methods of killing, I tripped Brand with one of my legs and

used my hands to speed his head down onto the toilet rim.

       The impact cracked the man’s skull loudly. His pulse

faded in my hands around his neck. I waited to know he was

gone.

      A quick repair: I splashed sink water around the floor

and left the taps running. It was a common enough death.

Most deaths occurred in the bathroom, though extremely rare.

       Seconds later I soundlessly moved from the apartment

and closed the door. Instead of going toward the entrance,

I retreated into the building and then up a corner stairwell.

Stewards would be entering via the main door on the first level,

and I didn’t want them to even witness me anywhere near the

crime.

       Seconds later I was on the rooftop of the building. Like

all other buildings, it was only a few stories tall and conjoined

to all other buildings on the street. No one ever went up to the

roof tops, so it gave me a place to relax for an hour.

       The only thing to look at was Mr. God’s spire a little

more than a dozen blocks away.