Merchant of death, the arms dealer, the war profiteer, the one who grows rich from the worst impulses of humanity. Though they don't pull triggers, they enable every massacre by providing weapons to whoever has money without regard for intended victims.
Selling dynamite before creating his peace prize as redemption, Alfred Nobel gained this title. Modern merchants dress in suits, lobby governments, and call themselves defense contractors. They only see quarterly earnings, not bodies. Conflicts boost their revenues; peace menaces their holdings.
Every bullet purchased is future anguish packed in brass. Each missile stands for children who will never age. Having persuaded themselves they just meet demand, merchants of death sleep soundly. Demand for murder seems to justify supply.