Five
years ago, on October 1, 2017 Wikipedia reminds us:
Stephen Paddock, a
64-year-old man from Mesquite, Nevada, opened fire upon the crowd attending the
Route 91 Harvest music festival on the Las Vegas Strip in Nevada. Between 10:05
and 10:15 p.m. PDT, he fired more than 1,000 rounds of ammunition from his 32nd
floor suites in the Mandalay Bay Hotel, killing 60 people[a] and wounding 411,
with the ensuing panic bringing the injury total to 867. About an hour later,
Paddock was found dead in his room from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. His
motive remains officially undetermined.
The incident is
the deadliest mass shooting committed by an individual in modern United States
history. It focused attention on firearms laws in the U.S., particularly with
regard to bump stocks, which Paddock used to fire shots in rapid succession, at
a rate of fire similar to automatic weapons.[3] As a result, bump stocks were
banned by the U.S. Justice Department in December 2018, with the regulation in
effect as of March 2019.
Within
a couple of days, the identities of
the victims became, one by one, known.
They were a cross section of Americans
out to have a good time in the city
that brags about keeping secrets, maybe Whiter than some concert throngs. On October
3rd I took notice of them.
Oh,
and in case you were wondering,
other than that blip reform on bump stocks, no other action was taken
to confront rampant gun violence. In fact, the massacre caused a rush
to stock up on more, and more deadly
firearms, ammo, and those soon to be banned bump stocks. The NRA
fundraised over the hysterical
threat of gun grabbers. And for most of us, numbed by way too many shootings, the event has faded into the recesses of our memories.
What Doesn’t Stay In Vegas
October 3, 2017
What happens in Vegas doesn’t stay there.
It oozes under the front door
of that little house in Tennessee
leaving a nasty stain in the carpet
that will last generations.
It drips from the empty desk
in
the high school office
where
the phone rings unattended
next
to a famed family photo
and a
jar of M & Ms.
It is tangled in the nets
of
that Alaska trawler
spilling
on the deck
and
splattering those rubber boots.
It has to be wiped from the table
of
that Disneyland café
by
some other harried waitress
before
it spoils some child’s
special
day
or
gets on Snow White’s costume.
It pools by the council’s table
in a
San Diego courtroom
the
empty chair
unable
to represent
the
mother of three.
It cannot be washed from
the
filthy hands
of
every politico
who
took gun pushers’ cash
and
kissed the ass of every
fetishist
wanking himself off
to
violence porn and hero fantasies.
—Patrick Murfin
