The first death he had caused had been an accident, over fifty years ago; though of course he had always known how easy it would be to kill.
It really had been pure misadventure when he had hit the man on the quiet, empty road that day - luckily there, because in the city, the traffic security system would have monitored the crash. The sound had been a dull thud, beside the victim's cry right before it had smashed into the front of the hydrocar. There had been only little blood; death had come instantly, and disappointment had hit him hard, for in his imaginations his victims always begged for mercy, which he would never grant.
From that moment on he planned his travels and hunted in the fields, as he called it, looking for his prey. For many weeks he did not kill, although the images ran wild - somehow, it was an even better feeling to generously allow the small little insects that he encountered to pursue their unworthy existence.
It took four months, three days and seven hours until he struck again. This victim did not sound as dull, and it still lived and begged, the pram with the baby fallen to the ground next to it. He wallowed in the sight of mother and child for a moment, before he entered his car again and lay in the reverse gear. It took three takes before the child gnashed, almost like pieces of dry bread in a paper bag, so light and without substance.
After that, he was the hunted one. They almost traced him down by the paint on his vehicle, but he changed the layer for the few months he kept it further, then bought a low-flighter. And he learned to shield his core thoughts better from the world around with every new victim he encountered.
He chased them in larger circles now and stopped hitting them directly; instead, he aimed at them with the little fins at the sides of his flighter to slit them into halves. They were still too silent, but it was much bloodier and very satisfying from a sportive point of view.
For a brief phase, he tried to live a normal life with wife and child, but soon he bought another flighter with one of the forbidden afterburners. There were many beautiful curves on the roads where he could lean into and then, when he had crossed some stray figures, push the button. And although he missed the thud of the initial contact, their burning bodies met his fantasies quite well in their destruction. He still remembered the smell of their smoking flesh…
A small sound entered his world of thoughts, and he looked up and found his console blinking; so he had missed the news for all his musing about the past. The tired face of his daughter appeared on the screen as he started the recording. "It's a boy, father, and all went well. We decided to name him after you, to express our deepest gratitude for your support."
The old man smiled and raised the glass of wine that he had poured already hours ago in cheerful expectation of the call. "A toast to you, my grandson. May the name of Lon Suder bring you good fortune," he said and swallowed it all.