A MODERN PREDATOR

Go, stalk the red deer o'er the heather,
Ride, follow the fox if you can!
But, for pleasure and profit together,
Allow me the hunting of Man--
The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul
To its ruin--the hunting of Man.

- Rudyard Kipling, Plain Tales from the Hills

There is a curious sensation that I feel whenever I clinch a deal, somewhat akin to the touch of skin and the thrill of passion real. A fifty-thousand dollar contract and a generous commission to boot, in the company it’s known I can bring in the loot. Despite this I do not splurge, I resist the urge, and work in a two hundred dollar suit. My colleagues and friends buy cars, wines, and clothes of the recent trend, my frugality is something they simply cannot comprehend. I grudge them not and judge them not, for the job is but a means to an end. My coworkers  work hard and play hard and that is good and fine, but such pleasures are not really mine. I do not work for the money - though it is a perk, thank you kindly. For me my work is an act of skill, and there is nothing sweeter than the kill.
The deeds to the family estate are a joy to secure, though the push to bankruptcy is best to be sure. It is no crime to rob the widow and the orphan; I know for I've done it often. People believe legality is a shield, but for me it is but a weapon to wield. It is a game and I know the rules; a simple play to make the victim the accused. I stalk my mark in balance sheets and statements of profits and loss, and they have not built the bridge I am not prepared to cross. Rich man, poor man, dying millionaire, rising entrepreneur, with time I can make each and every one mine.
The firm reaps what I sow, which I am glad to know. Wealth and fortune are not for me, I have my own ecstasy. Yet now I am betrayed by the people I have made, and they would wash their hands clean of my sins.
This morning it made the news that a pensioner who had met my use had fallen into despair, and had last night hung himself upon a length of horsehair. Tearful scenes on the television, his wife and children crying for retribution. The law descended upon the company, and our name was blackened with infamy. Our directors pleaded to the public court they were not the ones at fault; their crimes required a scapegoat and to justice they offered my throat. So here before you all I stand, my hat held in my hand. A fair cop you might say, and perhaps I do have hell to pay. My judge, my jury and my attentive audience, I do not expect or seek any lenience. I am a liar, a thief, a slayer of men, and if let go I would do it all again. But though your tongues do not speak, from your eyes your thoughts do leak.
You believe me a monster and with my slaughter the world would be brightened and your hearts lightened.  I am a broken thing of shards and knives, something Other in your gentle lives. But I am human just like you and I am not insane, I swear it true. I have preyed on the weak and I have preyed on the strong, as do you and it is nothing wrong. There is nothing gained with nothing lost, and all that you have is at someone else's cost. In truth you are the broken ones and I am whole, for no virtues have I betrayed that I did extol.  Judased am I by those who took their money and turned a blind eye. Let us follow the conceit to its logical end, and admit that I am damned your sins to amend.
My dictum is simple and I will speak it plain: in a land of sheep and Abels, it is better to be Cain.