Stephen

Stephen got up one day with the sun shining on his face. The little trees glittered in the dewdrops of the midnight sleep, and the houses all stood, waking in the morning light. Stephen dreamily gazed outside, smiling slightly. The lawn - perfectly mowed; the street - beautifully paved. People waking up to just another day, on just another street, in just another town, with the rich aroma of coffee lightly dancing on their noses - the coffeemaker bubbling in slight babble as it fills the pot with gold that will warm their greedy bellies. Stephen smiles. Stephen gets his gun.
As he steps outside, uzi in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, he gracefully steps in and out of homes, violently decorating walls with dabs of red and streaks of crimson. Bloody bodies and gleaming guts fill the houses with a funny feeling of, "Oops, I've wasted my life."
In the street, the running mob is gunned down with incredible ease. Beautiful blows to the face that send chunks of the medulla oblongata flying straight into little trees, replacing dew with goo that hangs limply from the branches, creating a surreal beauty. The show goes on until, at last, its smiling Stephen who laughs last. Decaying skin and babies who have never lived, surround the new conqueror worm with lifeless expressions that exalt their fuhrer.
....and somewhere in your little world, you pass the time by taking orders, when ,instead, you should be taking matters by their fucking throats.
Then you'll see as Stephen saw, that when you try to change the world, you're never the acknowledged hero, but at least you've gotten peace.