[ WP ] You accidentally discover the sentence of death ( a sentence that kills anyone who hears it except the speaker ) when you say it over national television .

`` The words. The words I mean -- *woops*. What else is there to say?'' 
 
 The interviewer squirmed in his chair, as if he were nervous. `` **Well, why did you say them**?'' 
 
 Six. Seven cameras pointed in my direction. Great. Who in their right mind approved this? I kill near two million people saying some mumbojumbo on national television and instead of slapping me with a prison sentence they ask me to do interviews. On national television. That's like giving a convicted jihadist a bomb and telling him to go pick you up some groceries at the Wal Mart. 
 
 I looked at my interviewer dumbfounded for a moment. Then two. Then, `` Jesus Christ, how was I supposed to know that they were all going to die? I still remember being there, sure -- yes, in the newsroom -- reading that stupid prompter. Something happened. I happened. The machine glitched. I do n't know. Hard to remember.'' My head shook in disbelief. I hated these interviews. But my lawyer said they'd do a lot to prove my innocence. Make the people believe it was a total accident. So I rolled with it. Sure, whatever. 
 
 I cleared my throat and continued. `` But I remember there was something on the prompter I could n't quite read. So I just winged it. Made a half assed attempt. Did what any anchor who's had a few years in the business would have done.'' 
 
 `` **Which is? **'' said the interviewer, casually taking a sip from his Good Morning New York! coffee mug. 
 
 `` Ever hear the saying `` the show must go on''? It gets to a point where you ca n't sweat the small stuff. I mean, everybody went quiet right after I said the words and I thought -- great, I've crossed that line. I've winged it a little *too* far and said something totally embarrassing. The station'll skin me. Whatever. I just wanted to get off air and head home to a glass of whisky.'' I swallowed. This part was always the hardest to tell. 
 
 `` Then I heard the thuds.'' 
 
 `` **Thuds? **'' 
 
 `` Sure. Thuds. Like the sound of bodies hitting the floor? They were dropping all around me. I was in a daze. Then Emee hit the table beside me and -- and me? Do n't look at me like that. What the hell was I supposed to do? I'm not a paramedic -- yes, I did a first aid course, but it's not like you remember that shit when you're in a situation that surreal. I thought I was next for gods sakes.'' 
 
 I took a deep breath and started patting down my jacket. The way this interview was heading I'd need every smoke left in my pack. 
 
 The interviewer casually consulted the prompter before regurgitating another question I'd been asked a million times. **'' Do you have any idea why that sentence - the one that uh-'' ** 
 
 `` Killed those people?'' I offered. 
 
 **'' Precisely. Why it has n't again succeeded in causing such widespread, horrific, and spontaneous death? `` ** 
 
 *Are you fucking kidding me*, I think. *Is this guy for real? * 
 
 `` No idea. Do I look like a scientist to you? Try asking the guys at CERN or something. I was a weatherman. Now I'm a fucking murderer. I do n't even wan na know why somebody felt the need to go ahead and try it out again. I do n't know how it worked, or why it worked. All I know is it needs to be left alone.'' 
 
 I found my pack in my left chest pocket and weaseled my hand inside to pull them out. 
 
 The interviewer made a loud show of clearing his throat. `` **So no idea as to what's behind any of this, then**?'' said the interviewer, casting a threatening glance at my cigarettes. 
 
 *Like no shit, I realize I ca n't light one up in a studio. Only spent eight years working in one. * 
 
 I ran a hand through my hair. I hated interviews. Interviews like this, where I got to spend the better part of a half hour reliving my mass execution of over a million people. What a great way to wind down on a Friday. `` Look, is this thing almost over wi --'' 
 
 ^^^Thud. 
 
 ^Thud. 
 
 **Thud. ** 
 
 Bodies started dropping everywhere around me again. In the distance all I could hear was the sound of corpses meeting the linoleum. In front of me my interviewer's form went limp and smashed onto the table between us, slack jawed. All life gone from his eyes. Not that there was much there to begin with. 
 
 I took a smoke out of the pack and lit it -- it might've been satisfying, even, if I was n't having a mental breakdown right then. 
 
 Out of the corner of my eye I caught somebody on the street looking in at me. She was in rags, had dirt covering the majority of her face and looked like she got maybe three square meals a week. She was holding up a cardboard sign with a single word written in thick marker. I squinted to read it. 
 
 `` *Horseman*''. 
 
 Huh. I took a drag. 
 
 Wonder what that's supposed to mean?
