The Shots Heard Round the World


Yesterday a male human walked into a mosque in Christchurch, NZ. He had not come to pray, but to kill. And in doing so he wrote a new chapter in the history of man not-so-kind.

And I can guarantee this won’t be the last. Right now, somewhere in the world another male human is being prepared by groups of hate that dot the underside of the internet. That twisted soul is being fed lie upon lie about his worth, his life, his future. He is a bomb in the making.

When he is sufficiently convinced that he is nothing and has nothing to lose this person will gather up the weapons he has collected, and stuff his pockets with filled clips of ammo strap a web camera to his head and leave his dark den to inflict his darkness on the world. He has a target, something that has caught the attention of his anger. There is a group that is the focus of his hate.

Women, Blacks, Jews, Muslims we are all hunted now.

When he reaches his target he will turn on his camera; if he hasn’t already spent the time traveling to his destination mentally masturbating on-line about what sick fantasy he is going to live out. He will approach a human being, a person who has a family, and all those ties to community that our shooter envies. The first shot will be heard around the world.

His performance will be watched in living rooms, in basements, in cars all around the globe. There won’t be a single corner that will be able to escape this horror. We are all assaulted.

While most of the world will recoil in horror, in the darkness of hearts and minds that created this bomb, they will watch their creation. They will comment on those he kills. Who drops. Who tries to crawl away. And, yes – they are already laughing.

The voices behind the bomb, this killer they have groomed and fed and cultured, they will judge his performance. They will comment on nuances. They will grade his efficiency. Then after the shooting is done and their puppet is captured or killed and of no further interest to them they will calmly sit at their computers and discuss the quality of the entertainment they had. They will dissect his performance as meticulously as the surgeons will repair the survivor’s muscle, nerve and bone.

While the bereft grieve and tend to their dead, the voices of hate will tend their garden. The on-line forums where they spread hate like manure gathering flies above dung. And in those electronic fields of hate they will find a new soul, in pain and vulnerable. They will welcome him in and add him to the line of bombs that they produce.

Right now this individual exists. And the next one, and the next…

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