Monday, April 16, 2012

Cracker Barrel killings 04/12/2012

         Birthday Massacre: The killings in Brooklyn Ohio. April 12th 2012.

          Intro to thoughts most will not tolerate nor consider.

           Play this as you read:

Let me start by saying I am breaking my own rule of engagement with this post. I said I would not go into the realm of violence and killings that seem to permeate the United States unlike most countries that do such human trashing for religion, civil rights or other such acceptable causes. I say acceptable most loosely: We can so easily find justifiable reasons to kill each other on the mass scale and cheer as hundreds, thousands die for “our’ cause.

The killings and wasting of families in other countries is so okay with us, as Americans, we cope with this on an almost daily basis. We have so reduced human life to the least common denominator that collateral damage and the decimated lives in the wake mean less than zero to us.

To any of you with children: What would you do if your innocent kid had their body chopped in half while some country said: WE’VE GOT TO STOP THE EVIL DOERS!

Those wasted lives hadn’t even paid taxes to fund their own comrades in their fight.

We in United States cannot say this. Our taxes make the bombs, bullets and planes possible to make such things happen abroad. We are all guilty for such collateral damage. We are, or so many would like to say, are responsible human beings. We work, we pay our bills and support a welfare system; perhaps giving to charities with what little money is left to us after local, state, federal and county taxes cut us of our real monetary worth.

Bottom line: our funding of the American Military machine is far bellow what we think as a people of the Earth. We seem to be more interested in our IPODS, the latest cell phones, and our single minded greed to further ourselves on and individual basis: fucking all others to advance such things, finding innocent deaths justifiable. Yet many of us head to churches once, twice or maybe three times a week to feel at home with God, Buddha, Christ or the Sacred heart of the Royal Frisbee, to level things out and dispel

guilt unknowing to us, though tugging at our hearts making us feel uneasy from day to day existence knowing something is wrong within us.

Yet we fund the killings, with each dollar we pay.

And to think we left and revolted against taxation without representation.

With the exception of the American Civil war when counties voted, when has the People of the United States of America ever personally voted for a war?

Brooklyn Ohio: April 12th 2012.

Sitting in a sometimes loud, though happy place to talk, eat good food and share the events of our lives. We have great wait staff attend to my wife, friends and I as we go about our stories. Fire burning in the open hearth, whiffs of Yankee Candles joining us and happy children wanting to finish eating and play with the cool toys in the store. My wife and friends almost wanting like our children, to see the things you can’t get from other restaurants.

The waitress, I’ll call her Aimee-Lynn, brings the bread to us. The scents of muffins and cornbread take hold as we imagine the butter and jelly we’ll spread on them and how they will taste.

Content with all around us. Peace after this never ending week. What more could we ask for?

Our children, not so taken by this, ask for more IBC root beer, to which, Aimme says she will oblige them with a genuine smile, short brunette hair dancing on her shoulders, liking her shift.

Looking around at the wall items: The tree saw, old trombone, pictures of stoic men and women from a long age when glass negatives were the norm. The Triangular puzzles which vexed most.

The food arrives.

A family next to us is celebrating a child’s tenth birthday. Such a happy kid, beaming with the light that only the innocent can possess.

We begin to eat. Smiles all around.

The sounds of Dolly Parton shattered by gunfire.

The fantastic smell of fried apples goes horribly afoul when mixed with the smell of fresh gun powder.

Madness takes hold.

The plastic electronic bird in the store, with flapping wings, mimics the gun fire and the shrieks of those close.

A crazed man with eyes filled with desperate hatred and total anger keeps firing. A child, his child, becomes lifeless by his hand on her tenth birthday. His wife, who had said she was leaving him, gets blown away. They youngest child gets nailed, though still carries some air within her tiny lungs, isn’t dead.

Pandemonium sets in, my back toward the shooter. Fearing this nut will keep firing, rather to have myself take a bullet before those I love, I cover them as we head for the kitchen area. We get the to parking lot, hearing a train go by, seeing some bank building behind us, smelling Italian food and the wood fire of Cracker Barrel. We run and keep running.

More gun fire crushes this once gracious night, making my children shake and my loving wife look more pale. And there was nothing more I could do.

We hunker down until the Brooklyn Ohio police give us, and all those around, the All Clear. They have either captured this freak or killed him.

The looks of fright my children displayed, their wide, brimming eyes with tears yet to fall: the horror of my lovely wife’s expression, sweat beginning to descend, long blond hair mussed up as she hunkered over our children as a second barrier over my own body.

We arrive home after giving witness statements. We do this with some sense mixture of shock and relief as our physical lives weren’t connected by bullets that so freely filled our dinner.

My wife calls off her job the next day.

I do the same. We call the kids off from school and daycare.

We think of counselors, knowing full well our kids have seen a horror that so eclipses anything we have ever witnessed.

Where do we go from here? Where do we trust and teach our children to do the same?

We took our children there… There is guilt that goes with this….


>>>Authors note to the above: I was not there. I simply put myself into the restaurant that I have visited many times since it opened. I planted myself in the respects of a man that might save his family, as witness statements would concur.

In my minds eye, I can visualize almost anything. Those closest to me would attest to this. I can do this with a coldness totally devoid of emotion, giving verbal, olfactory or written images to what I see. This more often than not brings out an emotional response that I can see, yet not feel. Call it this: In my Minds Eye.

But I can write about it in a way that may touch others and make them see, think and hopefully do what I cannot: Feel.
My god has not forsaken me. My god and those chosen for me to seek out, got meds to level me out and be whole again.

I kicked the booze via Laurelwood. Got meds to control Manic Depression, as my family and others told me I needed years ago. My 49th year has seen the most medical and mental benefits I have ever used than in 30 years of having such things.

Yet, thinking clearly, writing clearly, so few of those I physically know, comment, and so often change the subject when I bring up this site I have created.

Clamping down roads to be later traveled.

Was the shooter a Psychopath?

I would have to say he wasn’t. Based on all known things; he did have one account of domestic violence some twelve years ago and a few histories of theft.

What he did was not some well planned out event. Unlike Manson, Bundy and Ramirez, who did what they did, calculating what would be gained: and most significantly, giving themselves up to law enforcement without being killed for the sole purpose of bragging rights and the eventual historical accounts for their deeds.

\ Ego plays such an enormous part with psychopaths, both the killing and the Non-violent alike, that running out into a parking, knowing cops were there to kill them, just does not fit.

This fucker acted out in a crime of passion. Nothing more, nothing less.

The children? His Children?

Collateral damage and little more.

And who really gives a shit about collateral damage in the United States of America?




     My humble thanks to those in the US, Germany, Russia, Italy, Ukriane and Canada and Spain. You knew i was close and asked to put thought into word. You shoved me: This is nice to see. Thanks!