The maple-syrup-soaked streets of Montreal ran crimson this morning. A shooting, a tragedy, a cliché so worn it should be mothballed. Three souls extinguished.
Among them, a police officer, a guardian of the peace who likely thought he was just going to work. What a bloody joke. Canada, the polite cousin of the United States, is now a member of the mass shooting club.
Congratulations. Your membership card is wet with tears and ink. The usual platitudes will rain down.
Thoughts. Prayers. Banalities.
But the truth is this: we are all just targets in a shooting gallery called modern life. The gun didn't discriminate. It never does.
It just spits fire and leaves the rest of us to pick up the pieces. The news anchors will look grave. The politicians will hold press conferences.
They will say the right words, the empty words, the words that fill air but change nothing. And tomorrow? Tomorrow we will do it all again.
Until the next massacre. And the next. But for now, Montreal mourns.
Three families will never be the same. And somewhere, a gun lobbyist is counting his money. Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off before I break my fist on this keyboard.
