[ WP ] You are part of an Elite Bodyguard team hired to protect a wealthy business mogul from an assassination . But the longer you listen this person business practices and plans for the future you find yourself wanting to help with with the assassination rather than prevent it .

So there was a bar-crawl on my college campus to celebrate the death of Osama Bin Laden. When the news broke of his death, crowds formed outside the dorms cheering, blasting Bruce Springsteen ’ s “ Born in the USA ”. If only they knew the irony of using that song in a patriotic manner. The whole night threw me off a little bit. What is more fitting to represent our country than celebrating, shouting, getting drunk and spewing overtly racist chants as you march down the streets? Walking steadfast, if not a little bit askew towards a fake Irish Pub celebrating the death of a tyrannical martyr. 
 
 I mean I suppose you could make the argument that it wasn ’ t that bad. That I didn ’ t know the personal histories of each student. That maybe a few had had family at the World Trade Center and that years of repressed grief can come out in unexpected ways. That Bin Laden was a truly despicable person, and like the death of his equally evil counterparts, doesn ’ t deserve even a moment of somber reflection. Who am I to sit on a high horse, peering like a voyeur out the window unwilling to truly take a stand one way or another? To what extent is inaction placing yourself complicity with those you believe are doing harm? 
 
 But I mean really, at the end of the day, as hundreds of college students pass out in various manner of garb with fake beards and turbans, bodies covered in fake blood and dirt, you have to sit back and really think about the larger moral questions. Is death really a form of justice? Something that should be celebrated and mimicked? 
 
 I mean, it ’ s not like the moral implications really make any difference one way or another, but it was hard not to think back on that night every time my security detail was scheduled to work on what can best be described as “ notorious individuals ”. That the threat of assassination is somehow the best way of enacting revenge has always been a constant. Though to be honest, following those few horrific years in the late 60 ’ s assassination attempts had dropped to historic lows. Threats on the other hand were at a peak, almost certainly due to the ease of making them in an increasingly connected world. 
 
 The rest of the group was almost comically made up of the classic military archetypes, me being the only one without combat experience. Relying almost entirely on my god given size and history of shooting squirrels in my back yard, I tended to be an imposing force without actually needing to do much. In fact, for nearly three straight years on the job I never had to un-holster my gun. It was sort of a running joke among the guys that I might as well have just been a huge mannequin placed on stage. 
 
 The night in question, well I mean night may be stretching it a bit, it all happened in a few seconds. Well we were working this guy, Neil Watkins, normally the people we escorted didn ’ t say a word to us, but I suppose people with certain levels of hubris need to brag to just about everyone. And he did. Not only about the number of death threats he got per year, he would go so far as to substantiate the claims. He ’ d pull them out of his pocket, start reading some conspiracy nut ’ s manifesto on needing to end the sale of arms to radical regimes and not only confirm every single detail, but elaborate on the drug and human trafficking that was also going on under his watch. 
 
 The easy explanation was that this was just some pompous asshole with a Napoleonic complex trying to impress a bunch of huge security guards. But there was just something about the intensity of his speech. Like a man whose looking at a world completely out of line with the rest of reality. So distorted to his own self-interest that he ’ s lost track of the edge where distortion begins to blur. And as he walked on stage quipped, almost in a congratulatory tone, “ this is the night, get ready boys. ” Like he was ready to get shot. 
 
 The key to being good at preventing harm isn ’ t profiling; racial, religious, whatever. The key is noticing those who are unnervingly calm. Completely assured that whatever moment they currently occupy is theirs for the taking. A sort of grandiose exuberance emanating complete and total overconfidence. An innate knowledge based in something completely untrue. Though I suppose in Neil ’ s case, every horrible accusation was true. By the third minute of the asinine and rambling speech being given on stage, there were three obvious would-be assassins in the crowd. 
 
 The official explanation in the record, and the main rationale for my discharge was that after years of training, when finally asked the question, “ Would you die for someone else? ” I wasn ’ t able to. Not that I was implicitly at fault for anything, just that at the end of the day I didn ’ t have what it took. Though I don ’ t really think that ’ s true. I knew the signals; I was ready to point out to my comrades that there was trouble. Able to pinpoint which specific people needed to be watched. But I didn ’ t. It didn ’ t happen too quickly. It felt like ages, watching the three men take out their guns. 
 
 I could see into their pupils; could see into their minds. See their loved ones sold into slavery, their daughters murdered by warlords, brothers lost to addiction and disease. I could picture myself stumbling, pitcher of beer spilling into the street, an effigy of Neil Watkins burning on the Quad. Singing misrepresented patriotic songs as a great villain has been defeated. And I just watched as they poured round after round into his chest. His last moment staring off stage, completely surprised at his own lack of immortality. And it all felt okay; for a moment at least. 
 
 It ’ s hard to pinpoint why justice feels the way it does. That ’ s the crux of the matter isn ’ t it? We feel like death and justice go hand in hand because of the way it makes us feel. This most basic sentiment, an eye for an eye. That the unrepentant man deserves no chance of redemption. No one sees their daughter ’ s rapist put to death on a cold evening and thinks, “ Objectively and empirically, this makes sense. ” It is the emotional representation of finality. The karmic forces of the world finding equanimity. 
 
 That would be hard to justify in an official statement though. And in the ensuing months it has rattled me more and more. Not so much just being a witness to it all, but more the fact that I let it happen. That I had control over this man ’ s life, the judge and executioner. And with inaction placed the final verdict. And it felt good, felt right. If only for a few moments. Where you can look past the moral and ethical limitations and let your emotions run free. 

