This story is not unique. It's honestly all too common.
It's 2019 in Tampa, Florida. It's summertime, and it's hot.
Jose was born in Xicoténcatl and came to this country looking for milk and honey. He loves his family more than Trump loves putting k...
Braxton sits in a lawn chair on the front lawn of his Bayshore home, gazing out at the copper sun as it smolders and sinks into the sea. The fragmented light ripples of the water. He raises his vape to his mouth and inhales 50mg of fruit loop flavored nicotine salt. He's lost 20lbs since Conner died. He hasn't showered in a few days. You could scrape the film off him with your fingernail. He's not sure how long he's been wearing this tie-dyed t-shirt. His dad forced him to start attending therapy. He goes twice a week, "To help him deal with all of his shit."
He doesn't like to talk about it though, especially to that, "Jew-Cunt therapist," that his dad picked out for him. Part of him thinks his dad picked her on purpose as a great big fuck you for getting Conner killed. No, that it matters much— everything will all be over soon. His phone vibrates in his lap. Taking a deep drag, he exhales a large cloud of white smoke and checks the new message— it's Devin.
"Bro did you see this"
He knows what's coming before the link to the story appears on his screen. It's the reason he's sitting out here—
He can't afford to let on too much. All it takes is one slip up, and the next thing you know, the cops are at the door, and you're getting Baker Acted. A lot of good that would do— at this point, it's only delaying the inevitable. One way or another, this shit is going to happen, and once it does, it will make perfect sense to everyone who hears about it.
Nobody will say, "He was such a good kid, I can't believe it—"
They will just be wondering why they didn't do more to stop it.
If you walk through the large oak doors to his house and go through the white marble foyer and up the curling staircase, and then walk down the hall, all the way past the master suite, to his bedroom, you will find an M4 Carbine AR-15 sitting under his bed. Buying it was simple— it was like ordering anything else online. You put the item in your cart, fill out the billing info, and wait a few days for shipping, then you go in and pick it up at the gun store. It arrived in a nondescript cardboard box save for a small label on the end that had the name of the manufacturer on it. When he came home with it, nobody even bothered to ask what it was. It could have been anything— a guitar— bike parts— a semi-automatic rifle capable of firing off 45 rounds per minute.
The average response time to this sort of thing is anywhere between four and eleven minutes on average. With two 100 round drum magazines, that should give him a few solid minutes of fun before the cops cut him down.
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