I killed for the first time when I was fifteen. I could have done nothing to prevent it, except die myself. A shadow fell in step to me on the street and ten minutes later I was in the ring, the same cold, dirt-floored pen they used for the dogs, one hand tied behind my back and the other holding a knife. I had to kill or be killed. Not much of a choice, although I didn't know it then. I didn't know it for a long time, in fact. Because whether or not it was against my will is irrelevant. I've done other kinds of killing since then: mercy, revenge. Downright murder, even. It all feels the same, if you ask me. Taking another man's life is a little like taking your own. You still die. It's just slower.
"Uh, you were right all along, pal. You were here first. My mistake. Please, do take that last Danish."
Opening: freddie.....Continuation: anon.