Heads,
He is ticking. His eyes tell me he will blow. I used to call myself a pacifist. He sees children playing in the fountain, staying cool in the blasted heat. His tears tell me he will explode. I used to call myself a pacifist. He pulls his hands from his coat pockets and turns his palms up to the Sun. “god” passes his lips, preserve us escapes mine. I am no longer a pacifist. I am no longer a believer in peace. Give me a Gun.

Tails,
My best friend is dead in my arms. My little brother died eight months ago. They came in the middle of the night. They broke into my father’s home and took him. My brother struggled to break free. The secret policemen broke his arm. My father woke to his son, to my little brother’s, muffled howl for help. They crippled both my father’s legs when he begged for my brother’s life. My father can no longer walk without crutches. They never told my family why they took my little brother in the night. I was away at school when the policemen came in the night and left with my little brother. I found out what happened to my little brother and my father’s legs in a letter smeared by my mother’s tears. Give me a gun. I am no longer a pacifist. I am no longer a believer in peace. I can no longer do nothing. Now, I come in the middle of the night. Tonight my best friend is dying in my arms. His warm blood is pumping slowly over my chest, he is shaking, I know soon he will be dead. He cannot talk. The last words my best friend yelled were in anger, his last look is acceptance and regret. He knew he would never kill anyone, now he and I have both killed. Why? I know he asks me now. Now, he is killed too. My little brother died eight months ago. Take my gun, please, I was wrong to think a gun would bring me peace.