The Button I wrote this perhaps controversial short story this afternoon. Understanding this action is more difficult than I first thought. I don't mean to offend, but to provoke thought. Please let me know what you think. He opened the door of the old Land Rover quickly, stepped out, and slammed it behind him. A quick tug of the metal zip toward his chin, he glanced around at the bustling Oxford Circus pavements. He held the remote key toward the car, depressed the button and heard the clunk of the door locks. He turned, and walked into the crowds toward the Tube station. As he purposefully strode down the street, a sudden tough struck him. Why had he locked the car door? It's not like it mattered if it was stolen. It was parked illegally too - it would be towed away before long, and no doubt after today's events, analysed by various authorities until they discovered its owner. That's how these things worked - it happened before and will happen again. As he reached the packed entrance to the station, he slumped down the stairs, knocking into a blue suited commuter. She turned and scowled, then continued on her path to the escalator. He wondered what he should be thinking now. What had the others before him though about? He just felt anger as he watched the scurrying of the capitalist drones around him, pushing and shoving each other - these Godless creatures, no moral standing other than punishing the weak for the benefit of themselves. It disgusted him, and he pitied them. This would be the last ticket he would buy. The dull coins felt cold in his palm. He pushed them quickly into the machine and punched in an order for a single ticket to Liverpool Street. As he passed through the ticket barrier, he glanced up to see two uniformed officers walking toward him. His heart leapt, and his hand moved to his right pocket. He picked up the pace as the fluorescent figures moved past him. One of the officers watched him as he walked toward the platform, then continued out of the station. He sighed, and relaxed his grip around the small cylinder in his pocket. Was he suspicious, or wa it simply his turban they were looking at? He was no stranger to prejudice and it would not surprise him. He felt cold beads of sweat creep across his neck, and fall down his back. It was hot down here under ground, and his heart raced. The platform was long, but he couldn't see the far end - it was as busy as it always was. That was the point after all. The busier the better. He moved toward the centre of the platform where the crowd was at its thickest. An announcer buzzed overhead - a train was incoming. He reached his position and stopped. He looked at the floor and cleared his mind. He tried not to think about his #life, and concentrated on the future. Thoughts of the eternity ahead and his committed sacrifice to cleansing the human condition fluttered through his frenzied thoughts. He was doing the right thing, he knew this, and would be rewarded for it. He repeated this over in his mind as the hot breeze blew over his face. The train rushed into the station. The brakes squealed, and it decelerated as he slowly reached up and unzipped his nylon jacket from the top. Coloured wires sprung from the opening like the innards from the sliced stomach of an animal. A woman in front of him glanced behind her, and her eyes caught the white, glistening packages taped around his waist. Her mouth opened to scream but the air never escaped her lungs - he muttered a few words of faith under his breath, lifted the black metal cylinder from his pocket, and clicked the small red button on its hilt.