General idea
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>> we follow the main character (name?), while he informs us that he killed an asshole, who really deserved to be killed. main character gets convicted of murder, is sent to prison and World War III breaks out. Everybody is sooo exited about the war and convinced that its really the right thing to do. Last scene should be something like: Francis visits main character in prison. Francis complains about the draft and that he will have to go to war. main characters ends conversation with something like: "Francis I'll leave you right here, because I don't talk to murderers!"

You get the idea? What happens if somebody kills an asshole, gets send to prison, while the world is about the slaughter itsself. Do we consider this person a wise man? Who is the murderer? - the main character or his friend francis (placeholder for all men going to war)? By public definition the main character is a murderer, but Francis is not considered a murderer, because he is "authorized" to kill hundreds or more "enemies" in combat.
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***** 1. Illusions *****

(elaborate a bit more about the guy that has been killed by the main character. the "victim" was a real asshole and deserved to die. everybody would agree on this)

"Tensions are getting higher and the stakes on both side are stretched to the max. The americans are not gonna sit still and watch while some fucked up emerging, asian nations conglomerate is sucking the world dry of petrol!" Francis was angry. I could tell. His head was red and started turning purple. I smiled and watched a woman in a fancy working dress pass by.
"Hey, Francis! Listen! The political situation is of no importance to me. Its gonna get solved somehow, anyhow." I said, preparing my real statement, which was the reason we were sitting in this cafe. "I killed this guy. We both know he was a fucking idiot. Nobody liked him. Everybody hated him. Even his own mother. He sold drugs, he cut women. He was a lunatic. His dayjob was just a deceptive facade!" I started to get into this. "What I really need right now is some help." looking deeply into his eyes, hoping for some remorse. He turned his head, teeth grinding. I could tell he was considering the situation. He fumbled for a cigarette, ignition, taking a deep breath. "Look dude, the world is going to hell. That's a fact. People in charge are way to busy to lock you up for this!" he was trying to be cool. Obviously it was my ass hanging out of the window, not his. This was a waste of time. Francis used to be a good one, but he must have been manipulated years ago by common sense. I tossed five bugs on the table and got up. Wrapping my hand around the exit door knob, I turned around: "You know, what works best in wartimes? Its bureaucracy!"

***** 2. xxx *****

(A SIDE STORY EXPLAINING HOW THE WAR STARTED)

Hopped up and sweaty, Paddy McCoughlin tripped on a cable on his way to the podium. He farted. Normally he moved with that strange grace that large men seem to have. But today, with waddles of fat jiggling like petulant children that grace was nowhere to be seen. "Doesn't matter," said Hank. "He'll have their panties wet by the end." The room full of equally sweaty middle managers seemed eager to forgive the mans crudeness, averting their eyes doveishly: Paddy McCoughlin was still who they wanted to be.

Paddy McCoughlin was Americas most loved, feared and hated demogoge. He is the type of man who starts wars. And now, brimming with righteous indignation, and a raging hard on to destroy those fuckers who made him feel small, he has.

He tapped the microphone. And then he beamed. His smile was almost beautiful.

* * *

It wasn't a hard sell. The flyover country had always served as a deep resevoir of anger, tapped every 20 years or so by a man like McCoughlin. Most communities tell stories to themselves, more fiction than fact, but the stories represent an aspiration. For a long time, these midwestern and southern communities told tales that involved a helping hand for someone who was down. Or how everybody pitched in to sandbag the river in flood. But lately you'd hear more about the illegal immigrants stealing jobs. About the muslim kid in the next county who stabbed a teacher. Gillespie down in Alabama. Terre Haute, far across the plains in Kansas. A thousand other towns ripening. Readying to do something about the enemies in their midst. Into this picture came Coughlin, first on the radio, and then with his fraught appearances at Nascar rallies.

***** 3.xx *****

A group of five or more seven-year-olds made their way through the supermarket. Armed with plastic rifles and dressed in camouflage jackets. They reminded me of Foday Sankoh's child soldiers - no remorse, cruel and doomed for live. The perfect weapon ready to be tossed into action. I had to cover my ears when they ran by.

Dazed and confused I tried to focus on my initial task. These days it was hard to find a sixpack on the shelf, because of all the Pro-American stickers, which practically covered the whole thing. German export beer could not be found so I settled for the first sixpack I could get hold of. I paid and while driving home I thought about how pathetic I was. "I can see it coming, they wont let loose and here I am drinking this shit while I should be enjoying the fruits of live." Even drugs are not affordable. If you could get hold of some. "Seems like the dealers rather use it themselves, than share it and ease the pain."

-- warrant and arrest / forcefully by police cars

***** 4.xx *****

-- conviction

***** 5.xx *****

-- war breaks out & patriotism

-- prisons still work

-- Francis's visit in prision / he got drafted / "I'm not talking to murderers"