The girl sits in the war zone, alone, afraid, cursing.
"It's all his fault," she says. "If he had never become president. . . "
Suddenly she is hit. Caught in a hail of bullets, with no possible way to escape.
From behind her her secret admirer watches, heartbroken, as she drops dead in a pool of scarlet blood.
From a dusty brown sachel he pulls out a bomb. He pulls the pin and throws it as far away as possible. He pulls out another bomb. And another. He pulls out all the pins and throws them around like a maniac.
He is a maniac.
He is a psychopath. Destined to be an outcast.
But now he's gonna do something about it.
He pulls out the biggest bomb in his possession. He knows where to aim it.
He throws it; it hits the gravel with a dull thud.
Everything is in place.
In his final moments he leaps forward and grabs the girl in the pool of blood; he kisses her on the lips and pulls out a gun.
There is a gunshot.
He is dead.
And then the whole world goes boom. ns 220.127.116.11da2