The only thing I really remember is the television. Truck LeMond’s constipated frown watched everything, his curated sneer propped up by Botox treatments and millions of dollars of blood money from insanely rich septuagenarians convinced that liberalism was something you could stamp out if only you controlled all the media channels. I fixated on him too long, my eyes watching his, reading every lie that came from his lips. Now here was a target—the Goebbels of America—but I’d have to find his hidden broadcast studio located somewhere in rural New York. I looked down at my blood splattered hands and had a brief moment of clarity, during which my hands shook and my eyes widened in horror. But you can’t stand there blinking—once the choice has been made, there’s no going back, that innocence is lost, now you’ve done a thing and it can’t be reversed because time doesn’t flow backwards, at least not from a human perspective. And so I erased my doubts and destroyed the place, leaving it a burning ruin, the howls of the vanquished echoing through the night as I fled like Grendel from the Heorot, a new fire burning in my chest.
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