USA Today is running an article about a deplorable who, instead of liberating Hillary Clinton’s underaged sex-slaves, actually committed a felony.
Of course, as today’s DWP reminds us, the problem isn’t tragically dumb lunatics chasing down every internet rumor with the business end of an assault rifle (and I say “assault rifle” specifically because the fastest way to determine if someone is a deplorable is to mention any shooting and see if their response is, “you know, ‘assault rifle’ isn’t even a thing.”). No, the real problem is that everyone is just so darn sensitive and love rape.
Clifford wrapped his hands around the cold bars of the jail cell door and a thin-lipped smile stretched across his face. The corners of his eyes tightened as did his grasp on the bars. Everyone was so scared of him. So scared because of a couple measly letters and phone calls and all the stuff in the van. No one was worried about the zombies.
What’s the worst Clifford could have done? Accidentally blown up a family? Hell, he had already done that. Cindy was off in, Missouri, maybe? He thought he had heard that through the grapevine. It was hard to say. And little Mark was living with Cindy’s folks out in Grand Forks. Trap had run off, who knew where that mutt had got to.
The point was, families stop being families but come on. That’s life.
Zombies though. Damn. Zombies are the end right there. One zombie, just one and soon every city starts looking like Detroit or, or, Dubai or where-the-hell-ever.
But no one wanted to talk about that. No one wanted to talk about how Clifford was doing his part, as an involved citizen, to wipe out a potential zombie Voodoo ritual-ground. On, all anyone cared about was that his van and all the stuff in it was found parked just down the street from that shyster lawyer who that got Mark taken away from him. That stupid lawyer who wouldn’t even have been at any risk whatsoever if he had just taken Clifford’s advice, and Lord knows he sent enough letters and left enough voicemails, to get the hell out of town before it was too late.
Because, and Clifford was absolutely sure of this, that bottom-feeding lawyer’s backyard was right on top of some Indian cemetery business. And what kind of person would Clifford be if he didn’t do anything about it? Well, he reckoned that would make him the kind of person who was more worried about voice mails and vans than about one or, possibly, potentially two, broken families.