Engineroom

There wasn't a gun or a knife in my hand, but a wrench and a rag. Yet, he still lay dead in front of me. Murder, in the second degree. The machinery chewed him up and spit him out like tobacco chaw, the spit seeping from his open skin. His ripped coveralls soaked, his perfectly combed hair, full of pomade and now blood, left bear from his cover, which laid on the ground a few feet away. It was the first time I killed a man, and I learned that carelessness is the deadliest weapon in the world.