In a fresh chapter of the ongoing buffet of barbarism, a drone strike has turned a humble bus into a mortuary on wheels in Russian-occupied Ukraine. Reports dribble in like a leaky tap of tragedy: eight souls, possibly commuting towards the mundane miracle of another day, now permanently detoured to the great celestial terminus. The conflict, already a bloated toad of absurdity, has found yet another way to remind us that the logic of war is a game of chess where the pieces are made of flesh and the board is soaked in petrol.
The drone, presumably piloted by a man in a climate-controlled bunker sipping tepid coffee, executed a precision strike that was splendidly accurate if your target is a bus full of civilians. The Kremlin, predictably, will offer a platter of denials and whataboutisms, while the West will tut loudly and threaten sanctions that land with the force of a wet paper towel. In the end, eight families will receive a phone call, a folded flag, and a lifetime subscription to grief.
And the bus? It will be hosed down, repaired, and sent back out to pick up more desperate passengers. Such is the eternal cruise of the damned.
Meanwhile, I shall raise a glass of gin, the only honest fuel left in this dishonourable world, and toast to the dead who were simply taking the bus.
