THE LEAD OF DEATH.

The date is 50 August 2250. I have been logged here in this cavity for a couple of days now, that is after some bastard lodged me from the chambers of ‘Pissie’. Before I introduce you to Pissie though, I feel obliged to give you an account of my adventurous face of life.

I was born over 20 years ago. I’m made to understand that my ancestors were mined from an Australian lead mine. That is long long ago before I was created. Later on, they sent them to Russia where we taken through a scientific creation process. The lead creator was Mr. Andriey Zielkov, a mustached Russian scientist who designed and created our models. They put us through machines and literally blew life into us by attaching a primer on our thoraxes. Our creation seemed rather important, and at one time, my brothers and sisters were taken out for what were experimental purposes, as per our makers acclaim. We lay stacked up in packs for ages, our metallic bodies in highly potential rest. Then, came the year 2245 which was a rather active one; so to speak, it seemed that we were highly demanded in our scope of duty. The papers reported of a great war, the 3^rd World war, if I’m not wrong. My relatives were been picked up every other day from the warehouse where we were stored. No one ever returned. Just new faces used to pop in, shining and glimmering with newness.

In this sudden urge and demand of our services, I got my call of duty. We were packed into a cartridge and handed over to the master courier. This is when I came to learn that I was actually of service to a rather large class of united states that were fighting the western countries. Still I had no idea what our work was. In the cartridge rumors often hit the road, that we had been created with an intent to kill. I hated to think so. I couldn’t imagine why a human being would create me with a reason to kill a fellow human being.

In packs and cartons we were loaded into a military ship at the Russian port of Marinas. Our predestined destination was Kenya, a highly industrialized country that was on the verge of being the World’s superpower. There was where the wing of the World Partnering states operated from. The journey was rather long and highly secretive. They claimed the route was highly dangerous since a neighboring country, Somalia, had actually taken pirates to a whole new level, aided by high technology and ammunition availability. As fate would have it though, a month to go to the end of our journey, the ship got attacked. The number of insurgent pirates diminished the soldiers on board to mere puppets. We were under control, and the ship’s course was diverted to head to Somalia.

This certainly did not augur well with our masters, who demanded our release and that of the hostages, failure to which they warned they would attack the pirates’ haven and carry out a rescue mission. The pirates would have none of that though, they were hard headed and daring enough to keep hold of us and in fact demanded a ransom. For two days we stayed in some building in Somalia, still stacked in boxes and by us lay the soldiers sent to guard us on bored. We weren’t surprised when on the third day we heard planes flying overhead. Later on there were large booms and breakages of glass. The soldiers lay in anxiety, when suddenly the little room’s door came down in a thud. In stormed a couple of heavily armed men, who untied the soldiers. The rescue mission was a success. So we were once again loaded, this time into a plane and touched ground at Kenya barely an hour later.

It was in Kenya that I met Pissie. Let me now tell you about Pissie. Pissie was actually called Pistol, but I preferred to call him Pissie. He was a colt, according to what was inscribed on him. He must have felt pain when that was being done. Though I hear our earliest ancestors used to have similar inscriptions too. Anyway, still packed into the magazine, we would later on be loaded into Pissie. Then we were handed over to a man they used to call Major Rashid. Major Rashid was later taken to the gulf where the war was big. He however hardly used Pissie; he had another more convenient Machine gun, an M249 SAW. He just tucked Pissie into his holster and would only pull us out to shoot if he was loading his machine gun. It was with Rashid that I finally discovered the gravity of our duty. We actually were murderers as the rumors told. Every time we hit someone, they would collapse and cough their last.

I loathed the day I would be sent from Pissie to accomplish my mission. Luckily, the war ended while I was still waiting against this day. So we were taken back to the military base. Later on, they handed us over to the police, to serve for the fight against crime. My owner at the Police was a funny character. He was called Mkaidi, and somehow his persona was just that. It was under his service that I met another of my future owners, called Ras, a shaggy character who had locked his hair and whose nails reeked of bhang and liquor. So one day, Mkaidi actually caught Ras having his daily dose of the ever since time immemorial outlawed drug, bhang. However, with a handshake of shilling exchange, Mkaidi would always let Ras go.

One day, Mkaidi carried me for his daily rendezvous. This day in particular, he headed into a local drinking joint. He had a couple shots of his favorite drink. He was quite drunk by the time he got accosted by some skimpily dressed lady who I later on came to learn that her name was Belinda. She approached him, seductively I should add and before we knew it they had carried us with them into a tiny room in the upper floor of the joint, where as I should say, an act of glory took place. Not what you think of course, you evil minded human beings. However, what took place is the easiest form of trickery and stealing that I ever saw. Belinda cunningly dug into his pockets, retrieving a few notes which had been previously given to Mkaidi by Ras, and finally she got hold of Pissie and the rest of us still loaded into him, and then left an already sleeping Mkaidi to meet his fate.

I later on came to learn that besides being a solicitor of money for a good time, and of course cunningness of her own kind, Belinda was one of the many assumed Ras’s girlfriends. He actually took her days catch to him, including me and Pissie. Ras was elated, and he seemed to let his lips explain the gratitude on hers. Life with Ras was rather worrying. He had a number of pals in his ring, with whom together they would use Pissie and some other firearms to violently rob from people. People actually feared them because of us. They hardly used us, only once or twice, and if they did, they would aim for the head. It was from Ras’s hand that Mkaidi actually met his death. The story was that he had approached Belinda after he realized she had robbed him. A few days later, Belinda came over and met Ras who was chilling out with his pals at a drug den. Her face was creased and bruised. So that night we attacked Mkaidi at his home. You should have seen the shock when he saw the man he often let go from jail sentence pull a trigger on him. My brothers vomited out from Pissie as if he was suffering from cholera. Just when I was next in the chamber, one of Ras’s friends held his arm signaling that it was time to leave. Lying on the floor, Mkaidi’s riddled body. Blood and pieces of meat splattered all over the wall. Quickly we made our get away.

Ras didn’t last long either. As I later on came to learn, Ras was subject to yet another person, this time a high government official who was known as Mheshimiwa. It was Mheshimiwa who orchestrated the death of Ras. He snitched their hideout to the police. Mheshimiwa actually used to receive most of what Ras and his gang robbed, and being a drug baron, he would supply them with drugs and ammunition. So came the fateful day, Ras was chilling out with his crew in his ‘diggs’. There were tens of half-dressed women hanging around, giving lap dances and goodtime. Then there was a sudden loud bang then the roomed was filled with some choking gas. Ras quickly and dexterously tried to reach for Pissie from his pocket. It was too late. He got his hit and collapsed. After a melee that lasted about 10 minutes, all the gang members lay in pools of blood.

I was later given over, together with Pissie of course, to Mheshimiwa. It was a token of his good work, they said. I still lay lodged in the chamber, and I dreaded thinking the events of the next few days. Mheshimiwa used to keep me in a drawer in his room. His young son would often hide to come try play with Pissie. Was it not for Pissie’s safety pin I would have probably been lodged into the ribs of an innocent cat. I was also a fan of Mheshimiwa’s house girl, who I often heard say he would have wished he could just push me into Mheshimiwa’s cavity for often sexually assaulting her.

One day when Mheshimiwa was having his late night errands, his phone rang. The caller’s voice was rather familiar. My suspicion was confirmed when two days later when Zielkov checked in to Mheshimiwa’s residence. That night they slept late, talking and talking, for what appeared to be important matters. I found out that Mheshimiwa was preparing for a forthcoming general election, and he wanted him and Zielkov to work out an important ‘business’ issue that would raise funds for his campaign. Zielkov seemed rather reluctant to it, and this did not seem to impress Mheshimiwa. So they hatched out a plan with his wife, after all he claimed he knew Zielkov’s weakness.

The next day, Mheshimiwa left quite early, claiming he was going to pick his daughter from school (she was a boarder). He didn’t though, he just checked in into a police station to ‘formalise’ his plan. Meanwhile, his wife back at home was to waylay Mr. Zielkov to bed, and Mheshimiwa would do the rest. And so it was. Mheshimiwa flushed me as he cascaded up the staircase, and immediately he stormed into his room, he swung Pissie towards his Mr. Zielkov. He still lay there, on Mrs. Mheshimiwa, a rat in trap, and he pulled the trigger, there I was, I rushed out, my thorax detached, and I raced to my aim and hit his chest, thrived through his flesh and stuck in between his ribs. Then, suddenly, Mrs. Mheshimiwa picked out her own rifle from her bag, aimed it at Mheshimiwa and claimed that he knew of his affair with the maid. Bang! He had got own dose.

Anyway, that was it; finally I had risen to my own task. Now here I still sit into the cavity of Zielkov. They are trying to save his life. This room smells of medicine, and the machines keep beeping. I can tell he won’t make it far. It seems my thoughts are rather concurrent, because suddenly the beep has become quick and quicker, the medics are rushing in, rushing in to rush out and confirm his death. I wish he knew he died of the same that he created. If you live by the sword you die by the sword, that is the story of my life. So I wonder why they waste so much time and energy to create me while they die of hunger and lack or resources. Don’t they ever learn?  They kill by brain and wit. The lead of death, yet they know I lead to death, and suffering, tears and hurt. They fight their fellow human beings, and idolize us and money. These human beings! I wonder what lies ahead for me; they probably get me out and throw me away, or bury him with me still lodged in. One thing I’m sure though, is that these fools will never get tired of creating others of me. Likewise, neither shall we get tired of serving them right. After all, we are the Lead of Death.

Disclaimer: This account represents no actual occurrence. Similarly, all the characters are fictional and represent no actual human beings.