Reading about the tragedy in France today, one word keeps entering my brain: Cowards.
Two words: Fucking cowards.
You’re terrorists. You’re angry. You want to prove your point and scare the world and show how mighty you are. So what do you do? You use your weapons to kill people without weapons.
Are you expecting folks to be dazzled? To be moved by your actions? Are we supposed to say, “Those guys sure are tough”? Because you’re not tough. There’s nothing tough about shooting the unarmed; about stabbing the unarmed; about donning a hood and slicing the throats of the helpless.
Need proof? Right now, these two pussies are on the run …
They’re Chérif Kouachi and Said Kouachi, the brothers who entered the offices of Charlie Hebdo and fired away. They killed and killed and killed—then fled. Like wimps. Like cowards. They’re in France, hiding, cowering. They’re rats in a sewer, surely proud of their actions, but also terrified of being caught. Oh, and they were masked. Masked. I love that. Fucking masked.
One more thing: I don’t believe in God. But, if there is a God, he sure as fuck isn’t proud of you. There will be no milk and honey and 1,001 virgins awaiting your visit to the afterlife. This, we know. I’d argue your fate is either one of two things:
1. Dirt rotting.
Meanwhile, you’ve ruined families, ruined lives, ruined existences.
And you were masked.
PS: I’m a wimp writer. But I invite Chérif and Said to a 12-round boxing match. No guns, no masks. Just fists. Assholes.