Off in a land that George Dogul had never been to, a man crouched anxiously behind what used to be a wall, beat up old rifle clutched in his callused hands. Artillery shells pummeled the ground around him, throwing rubble and pieces of people he knew high into air. He spat out the dust that had accumulated in his mouth and gritted his teeth, frustrated at his inability to hear his commander's shouts over the deafening gunfire that came from the infidels' entrenched position. A silent prayer for his fallen comrades, and he begged God to spare his life for just a while longer.

George Dogul stood in a very different building, one with chandeliers and expensive marble floors. Well-dressed people moved about; rich people, some of them friends, some of them strangers drawn to his lavish parties. When he crossed one, the person would grin politely and shake his hand, ask about his family, his business, all like clockwork. The laughing and small talk were a muffled noise to him, silent thoughts roaring in his skull instead. He could still feel that woman's slap on his face as she yelled, "How can you sleep at night?" while his bodyguards dragged her away. How indeed?

Another one of the shells that George's company manufactured exploded ahead of the soldier in that faraway country. His superior took a shrapnel wound to the head and crumpled to the ground, immediately causing the remainder of the troupe to rout. But the soldier didn't panic. This was the cost of their holy war, and he smiled for his part, not in spite of it. He thought of his parents, teary eyed but full of pride as they bid him farewell. For you Mama, Papa, he thought.

The sounds of the party were distant to George, now in his bedroom with pills in his left hand and a glass of water in his right. Three thousand dead. He'd made a hundred times that number in dollars for every shipment of shells that went out to kill more. Even while the Dogul family's prestige continued to rise, his own son had disowned him, shouting "War profiteer!" as he drove away from the mansion in a Ford that he'd paid for himself. George thought of his wife, who'd stayed awake comforting him in the last few weeks, when his nights had been growing longer and longer. But in spite of her support, even her kind, loving face shouted at him. War Profiteer!

One breath, two breaths, three breaths, the soldier channeled all his spirit to his lungs and with everything he had he cried out God's name and charged the infidels' position! When his clip was empty he kept running, his defiance unending even as his body was destroyed by machinegun fire. Only when he was on his knees, the last bits of life leaving him did he fall silent, and he died with a smile on his face.

George did not die smiling. Others would take on his role and the fighting would continue for years after he was gone. But even as he shivered in his final moments and looked back on his wasted life, he took solace in one thing- he could sleep tonight without having to face the dead from that faraway land.