Sowetan:

When the police found the bodies, blood and brain bits blotching the wall like a Jackson Pollock, they were SURPRISED, flabbergasted—comically so. It was INCONCEIVABLE: that SORT OF thing didn’t happen in their perfectly white anglo-saxon protestant neighbourhood, among the sea of pastels, trophy wives wafting through meticulously-trimmed lawn soirees, men in suits and sperrys, yawning white yachts borne across bluer lakes, old money padded peace blasted by a .45, a HANDGUN, gracelessly plebeian. This SORT of thing happened in sprawling grey cities skyscrapers suffocated by smog and apathy, amidst the scuttling of cockroaches, hipsters hanging off fire escapes, the homeless in their baggy, dumpster-scavenged coats slouching and sagging from the weight of their socioeconomic burden dragging them down, rats foraging through the colons of metal green monsters, fighting legions of flies for pizza slices. This SORT OF THING happened in Harlem and Brooklyn and the Bronx and Queens where hooded figures pop out from shadowed corners haunted by crack whores and single mothers, no yell SURPRISE as they pull out a gun and just like that Sonny or Anton or Man or Teen is dead, blood blossoming from his brain, flooding the rivers and valleys of the sidewalk with his thoughts, ideas and dreams (but this MAKES SENSE of course because THEY also account for the majority of the suspects and it was probably GANG RELATED anyway). NO ONE ever thought the sweet all-american YALE boy next door who was SWEET and SHY with his prep school drawl that rolled words like “juxtaposition” and “inadvertently” easily off his tongue like autumn leaves could ever stain his lily-white hands. Perhaps he was MISGUIDED or MENTALLY ILL but what a shame the poor thing had his WHOLE LIFE AHEAD OF HIM to nepotize a job at his father’s firm and propagate the cosmic cycle of privilege, spinning the gold wheel of congenital country club constituencies and summer as verb.  But for all his lustrous trust funds and hauntingly large Greenwich mansions his spilt viscera was as pink and mushy as the next guy’s when he caressed the six-shooter’s barrel with tender lips and blew (senselessly, because even if the police had got there in time they wouldn’t have shot him, even though he HAD A GUN not a bag of skittles). More shockingly was what the media never mused out loud, the WHY, that he didn’t butcher the Millers because of a system stacked against him, years of institutionalized oppression driving desperation driving atavism, galvanizing a metamorphosis into the animal polite society already criminalized him to be. No, he did it because it was a Tuesday and he was bored.