Since the attack in Manchester on Monday night, people have petitioned the Internet for help in finding their missing loved ones in a frenzy of fear and utter panic. There are a confirmed 22 casualties, and, even today, only two of them, to my knowledge, have been identified. The rest are Jane and John Does, and the ambiguity of the whole thing has drawn a nasty display of terror from those who are still looking for their family and friends after the events. It’s enough to wear a hole in your stomach lining.
But, as is now customary behaviour for our contemptible species, there are foxes in the hen house. No, no. Fox isn’t right at all. These people don’t resemble any kind of creature with a beating heart in their chest. These people are something else entirely. They are the essence of what you smell when you pass over a sewer grate – demented bozos that need to, by all means necessary, be stomped out, and quickly.
Here I’ve found myself so worked up, uneasy, and sickly paranoid about the whole thing, I’ve forgotten to even mention what they’ve done to deserve such a critical denouncing. Well, let us not waste a minute more, for these venomous lizards deserve as little of our time as possible.
What they’ve done is shown up in numbers, and asked us – the tax-paying, mouth-breathing, warm-blooded public – to help them find their loved ones. Indeed, these cries for help are completely fabricated. Sleuths have put on their capes and blown up their spot. They were swift in their justice, and we all must be swift in ours. We must segregate these hungry animals like rabid dogs and prevent reproduction. We’d all be better off for it. And the real victims of this attack, and the ones that will inevitably follow, will be free from having their circumstances pissed on by any kind of pitiful sideshow act.