Are you fucking kidding me?
Imagine this. I wait outside the front of my house for the postal
carrier, pretending to trim the trees. When he or she comes by I
say, “Hey, be careful. My neighbor is letting his dog wander
loose, and it's a mean one.”
Or, I go down to the grocery store and stand by the entrance while I
pretend to text my wife and ask what kind of cheese she wants me to
get. When a customer with either darker skin or wearing some kind of
religious clothing clears the checkout line I go up to the manager
and say, “Excuse me, but that person just pulled some steaks out
from underneath their coat.”
Or, I drive down to Brownsville, at the Mexican border, and I run
around yelling, “The Mexicans are coming! The Mexicans are coming!
Their tanks will be here in fifteen minutes!”
Or, I take a bus to Boston, Massachusetts, and run up and down the
streets yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!
They're worried about Trump taking power and they're going to
invade!”
Now at what point did your disbelief give you pause?
A few days ago a man named Edgar Maddison Welch scared the hell out
of some people and could have gotten those people and himself killed.
The details are few and far between right now, but what's generally
agreed on is this: He read some writings online that claimed a
certain pizzeria was just a front that masked child abuse. He
believed those writings strongly enough to arm himself and go down
there. He fired his weapon inside the business, and later he was
arrested.
Now, we haven't heard directly from him (and if he or his lawyer have
any sense at all, we won't), but a couple of facts stand out.
- He didn't go in shooting, wasn't focused on killing every adult in the building.
- One phrase keeps being used over and over again, in quotes. Self-investigate. Again, we haven't heard from Welch's lawyers (by now he should have some), but whoever they are they haven't come forward to denounce this quote as false, and every time it's repeated it digs this man's grave a little deeper. A very specific grave.
Now I've stated my assumptions first. If any of them turn out to be
false, then my conclusion is invalid for Mr Welch, but my point is
still going to be valid.
I don't think he is a fanatic. We've seen a lot of fanatics lately,
in this country and others, and they go in with guns blazing, intent
on racking up as high a body count as they can. Blood is the goal
for fanatics because as far as they're concerned they're the ones god
chose to whip the whole world into shape, and when you're having that
intimate a tea party with your spook of choice, blood is the only
drink you serve.
So if he isn't a fanatic, what is he?
Naïve. A naïve fool.
If you just got an incredulous look on your face, please understand
my terms. There's no pain or damage that a fanatic can inflict that
a fool can't match. Anyone can inflict pain and shed blood. You.
Me. Anyone.
Again, how did he wind up where he is now? He read a story online,
something along the lines of the bait stories that leap out at you
while you're waiting in line at the grocery store, and he went in
there ready to shoot. If you claim he isn't a fool, show me what
scale he used to judge that all the people in there were part of that
conspiracy, and that's why he didn't mind driving them into a panic.
Show me where he studied the architecture of the building to be sure
that whatever point he fired that weapon at didn't have a brick wall
or metal pipes or something else solid enough to shatter the round
and send fragments into the crowd. You fire a rifle inside, you're
gambling with your own life and with other's lives. He's a damn
fool.
Go back to those example I gave you above. Some of them I think most
of us would fall for, but they get progressively ridiculous. Now add
a fact to each case. In the first, I've been feuding with my
neighbor because his dog has been doing his business on my lawn.
Second, I'm wearing a tee shirt that says 'God bless the KKK.'
Third, I've set up a little stand by the side of the road, and it has
a big banner that says, 'Anti-tank rockets, $500 dollars apiece.'
Fourth, if anyone stops to listen to me explain my claim, I tell them
that in order to get the whole story they'll need to buy my book, and
I just happen to have a few copies with me. In other words, in each
case I have a reason to lie that benefits me personally. Now does
that fact give you pause, even in those cases that seemed
straightforward?
Then put your pause function on speed-dial, because you're going to
be using it. Everyone has a reason to lie. Why? It's fun to lie.
Why the hell do you think I want to make my living doing it? Why do
you think damn near everyone does it, every single day of their
lives? It's free, it gets the liar some attention, and it's easy.
Now I'm not talking about the simple lies that make a person's day
easier. 'Damn, honey. I meant to unload the dishwasher but I
forgot.' 'Honey, you know I would never forget your birthday. I had
reservations for dinner but the boss says I have to work late.'
Those are lies of convenience. They're a quick shot of bullshit to
cover up mistakes, and so, we benefit from telling them. But the
person who first claimed that J. Edgar Hoover liked long dresses and
frilly undies? That friend of yours and mine who swears that their
cousin's neighbor once popped her poodle in the microwave to dry it
off? They get that moment when we fall for it, and that shared magic
when a good story finds an audience. Storytelling is magical, and
magic can be worked with truth or bullshit. That's the power of
magic.
But please don't start believing in spirits to the point of handing
over money to Madame Zelocka, who claims she has an urgent message
from your-long departed Uncle Phil. Believe in fairies if you want
to, but not to the point of hateful words for someone who doesn't.
Don't be so ready to believe that hundreds of people can consciously
work together to keep a secret, a secret that's spread all over the
web. If you do, you're a fool. Not evil, but a fool.
Enough with the blogging. Let me get back to telling lies that I'll
get paid for.
Back to writing.
