But, seriously, that would be just another impersonal brand of killing machine. Killing has always intended to be a personal act. Whether you slice arms away or grope they eyes from someone. It’s close, fierce, emotional. Life, the greatest prize, death the greatest gift.

A hard fought battle, bloody, vicious, and your fingers en-wrap the enemy neck. Your face is inches away from him, his hacking of bloody froth into your eyes. His life’s blood pulsing within your grasp. It is so easy, squeeze, see the cloud fall over the face. The pulse slows, air chokes the thoughts and his movements are reduced to meager flopping like a beheaded chicken.

This is not a chicken, this is a man. You know him not, but like you he comes from a family, perhaps children. Maybe, even, a good and faithful father and husband. He came into this combat as you and now the whole great brawling fight is down to the two of you. You dig your thumbs deeper. The gristle within is broken, the strength suddenly falls away. Hold a few moments longer as the bloody spurts slow and die away. The release, the head falls back sodden upon the ground. Your bloody palms and weakened arms. There before you, the broken prize, death. And, you live on as a victor or a victim. Roll the dice…