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Nick checked his watch, then leaned back in his seat. A briefcase lay at his feet. The plane would leave soon, he was safe. One quick flight, and he would be fine, they would never find him, and he could carry out his plan accordingly. The fasten seatbelt light clicked on above him, and he obeyed. The stewardess’ voice came on over the loudspeaker, and told everyone to turn off their phones. He did not intend to reach his destination.

Nick sent one last text to joseph, making sure that everything was perfect, then shut off his phone. The sound of the plane’s engines revving up reassured him that he had done it, the escape had worked perfectly. The plane began to inch toward the runway. Nick was a criminal.

Not a violent one you see, it was never his intention to hurt anybody. Sure, he robbed banks, and waved guns at people, but the guns were never even loaded. Nick didn’t want to be a bank robber. He wanted to be a writer.

The first story he ever wrote was about a man with gigantism in one of his thumbs. Nick had read somewhere that if you see a nuclear blast, hold your thumb up at arm’s length. If the mushroom cloud is still visible above your thumb, you would be incinerated by the blast. In nick's story, the man with the giant thumb believed that he was immune to nuclear blasts, due to his hideous deformity.

As soon as the man discovered this, he became full of hatred at anybody who had ever insulted his grotesque thumb. He enlisted in the military. He slowly worked up through the ranks, and finally, when he was old and dessicated, he was put in control of all of his country's nuclear weapons. He blew up the world, and died happy.

After nick wrote that story, he began shedding himself of stories like a leper sheds fingers. He wrote about a race of intelligent chipmunks taking over the world, about alien invasions, about genetic monsters attacking military schools.

He wrote horror, comedy, satire, fantasy, science fiction, and every other genre. He sent his short stories to every magazine he could think of, his novels to every publisher under the sun. they were all rejected. He began to despise every other person in the world. In his eyes, they were all automatons incapable of intelligent thought, brainless insects who would inevitably fly into the campfire.

That was why they couldn't understand his genius. Nick sunk his head further into the cushion on his seat and smiled. They couldn’t help it. In his mind, the reason that they couldn't understand his unique genius, was because they were incapable. From birth, every child was taught to laugh at those dumber than him, and to loathe those smarter than him.

They were taught that the correct way to live was to be just like everyone else. Watch the same mind numbing spirit crushing reality shows, read the same books about wizards and spies, watch the same dull, pointless movies. They were taught to be unique, yet all uniqueness was hammered out of them at an early age.  

Nick had begun robbing banks when he was twenty-eight. He was thirty-six now. Every time he robbed a bank, he gave the teller one of his novels, of which he had written fifty-seven, or a short story, of which he had written two-hundred and eighty-six. his wishes were completed when the police began publishing his stories, to see if anyone recognized them. Nick’s criminal name became “the author”.

The police eventually found him, after he left his manifesto with a frightened teller. He was determined mentally insane by new york city's top psychologists. When they found him, he was sitting naked on the floor of an abandoned apartment, a cigarette dangling from his lip, hammering madly away on a typewriter.

he was writing about how everyone was insects except for him. They put him in a maximum security asylum for the criminally insane. They thought that was the end of it. Three months later he convinced the prison guard that he was god, and the guard, being a devout christian, let him walk out the door. Nick bought a plane ticket to Madagascar, and no one was the wiser. The guard commited suicide three days after he let Nick out, because he thought he had been tricked by Satan and denied access into Heaven.

Now Nick leaned forward, and after a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, clicked open his briefcase. Inside lay a thick stack of papers, labeled “the exterminator”. Next to it sat a tangled mess of wires, with what appeared to be an alarm clock in the center.

He armed the bomb.

Thirty seconds left.

He motioned to a flight attendant. “Scotch on the rocks please.” she poured it, then handed it to him.

Fifteen seconds.

He took a sip. He looked around at the smiling children, crying babies, and the sleeping, toothless old grandmas. They were all brainless, unfeeling insects.

And he was the exterminator.

The bomb went off.

Half a mile from the explosion, a man sitting next to his wife clicked on the tv. A smiling news anchor was sitting at a shiny desk.

“We now go live to the mayor, for his Ideas about the terror attack. The screen clicked to a plump man, standing at a podium. “We have no Idea what the reasoning behind this attack is, although we have reason to believe that the bomber was acting out a bombing he saw on the television…” the man turned off the tv angrily and stood up.

He addressed his wife “I can't believe how most people are such brainless insects, that they just do whatever they see on TV. And I…” he stopped as a burnt piece of paper fluttered through the open window onto the floor. He walked over and picked it up. Rendered blackened and barely readable by flame, two words were typed across the top of the sheet. The Exterminator.

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