I sat listlessly in the small office, shuffling my feet like a child and hating every minute of the humiliating interview.

  �I am trying to clarify, Brad,� the short, squat man behind the desk was droning, �what you meant by saying you�re a �team player who doesn�t stay close to the team.� How can these two statements not be contradictory?�

 I sighed inaudibly, struggling not to make eye contact. Anything but eye contact. �I�m just trying to say that I�m a man who works better behind the scenes as opposed to being a part of a lively social circle. I am not a very outgoing person, but my skills are invaluable to your company, as my resume must have shown.�

 I believe my swelling irritation must have boiled over slightly in those last words, for the interviewer frowned deeply. �I�m sorry, Brad, but an outgoing nature�Brad, look at me, for God�s sake! Not once during this interview have you looked up.�

 I felt the tension growing in my gut. This is going to be it. Another one of those times. �I�m sorry, sir, I�m really uncomfortable making eye contact��

 �Look at me!!�

 Heaven forgive me. I looked directly into his eyes, anger surging within me. You poor, stupid little man. Now see what you�ve done.

 I saw his expression change; that instant switch from normalcy to raging insanity; the shock of a boring little man discovering his primal animalism in all of a second.

 It was too late, of course. I had already chosen a thin metal ruler from his boring little desk, and even as he Changed I swiped the ruler�s razor edge across his pudgy neck, severing his throat instantly. Reflexively, I darted to one side as a spray of hot blood pumped out onto the desk and the completely predictable paperwork that lay upon it.

 No sense in ruining my good suit.

 His body, its face skewed into an already-too-late scream, tumbled softly from its swivel chair, landing almost soundlessly upon the luxury carpeting, neck snapping from the awkward impact. Just like that.

 I rose. �I had a feeling this would go like all the others,� I said with mild disappointment. �I�m truly sorry about this�� I glanced at the corpse�s name tag� �Victor. I can�t fight it. There�s no fighting lunasense.�

                                                         ***

 The old gypsy woman had warned me, to be fair. I was only a child when she said that my lifelong hobby of staring at the moon and meditating would one day lead to insanity. What she forgot to tell me was that she meant everybody else�s insanity.

 My lunasense, or, my moon-given ability to drive any man or beast to homicidal insanity at a moment�s glance, became evident for the first time when I was a teenager.

 It was after one of my late-night discussions together with my friend, Jake. He had brought over some beer and a couple of funny movies, and we were planning to spend a relaxing Saturday night getting pleasantly buzzed and laughing hysterically. But first, traditional to our friendship, we were to have a deep discussion about Life, the Universe, and Everything under the summer moonlight.

 I had just made a point�I think it was about the futility of the human condition�when it happened.

 There was no warning. One second I was looking into Jake�s face as I described my passionate opinion on something or other; the very next second I was writhing and gasping on the grass as he bellowed like a wounded bull and tried to strangle me.

 Pure adrenalin allowed me to break free, and I fought back in sheer terror, pounding at his face, his neck, and any other limb that presented itself in our desperate struggle upon the front lawn. Finally, I had him pinned, and I pummeled his rage-contorted face over and over, blood, froth and tooth fragments spraying into the night as my fist landed again and again with an increasingly wet thud.

 I�m afraid I must have lost myself in my mortal fear and defensiveness, because Jake never arose from that lawn. His face had been reduced to a hideous mess of blood, bone, and pulp, and I suspect quite a few of his ribs were completely shattered.

 I�m not a small man, you see, and even then it was considered suicide to enrage me, a notion that was cheerfully endorsed by most of my high school crowd.

 I�d never killed anyone before, so I�m a bit embarrassed to say that I spent the whole night on that lawn with Jake, shaking and crying and listening as his gurgling respiration slowed, slowed, and then finally ceased.

 I didn�t understand what had happened, and I didn�t have the presence of mind to examine the details clinically. That only came later, after I had run away.

 Surprised? I didn�t think you�d be. I mean, every teenager dreams of running away, albeit not because of murder. I simply fulfilled my dream sooner than I�d thought I would, stealing whatever cash was in the house along with my father�s car keys and driving off, well above the speed limit, as the sun rose upon a new day.

 In the next county, I tried to book a room in the Hilton so I could think things over. Suspicion bloomed at last within me when I was forced to kill the man at the registration counter with a fountain pen I had taken to sign. It occurred to me, as I drove off at high speed once again, that the nice man who now had the Hilton�s own monogrammed pen buried in his throat had not tried to kill me until I looked him in the eyes.

 In time, I pieced together what had happened to me. Some taboo literature at the local library enlightened me about the mystical, usually demonic influences open to those who meditate upon the moon. The word lunacy is apparently derived from these very beliefs, and thus it was a short leap of logic to entitle my personal demonic influence lunasense.

 Before I continue, I must pause to express my regrets about the kindly librarian who only wanted a bit of personal interaction as she scanned my book into the computer registry. The fact that she died strangled in the cord of the scanning gun was not, as some of the media posited at the time, a sick joke. The scanner was quite simply the only object around.

 In the next several years, I necessarily became a very withdrawn, shy character. Having changed my name and identity, I actually succeeded in attending much of college and obtaining a degree in Computer Science. Although I was billed in our yearbook as �Most Likely to Be Bullied by his Own Wife and Children,� my pseudo-bashful nature was never questioned.

 Occasionally, circumstances would present me with a lunasensic situation. I became expert at dodging the resulting �crime scene,� (as though it were even my fault) and was never suspected in the deed. Who suspects a quiet, earnest young gentleman who is so bashful that he can�t even make eye contact?

                                           ****

 Unfortunately, I suppose I will now be obligated to seek work elsewhere. No doubt, the next potential interviewee will be quite taken aback to find pudgy little Victor dead on his own carpet, but such is life.

 Where do you work, I wonder? I don�t suppose there�s an opening that you know of, if it�s not too much to ask�

 But then, perhaps by the time you read this I will already be working right alongside you. You probably won�t know me, as I will just appear identical to the next quiet, socially inept co-worker. But be careful, I beseech you. You may talk to me and bully me as much as you please, but do not, for Heaven�s sake, coerce me to look at you.

 Many people have disabilities, and I�m afraid this is just mine.

 It�s tough at first, but you get used to it.