"Well, he's not dead," said S, when I asked what happened to Charlie Kirk. "You're not so foolish as to believe that kid did it, are you?" he demanded, casting side eye at me. "A Lear jet left the airport 20 minutes after, turned off its transponder, which is illegal, then landed in Delaware and came back. And that wasn't blood, it was goopy, like motor oil, and his white shirt wasn't stained. There were three guys giving hand signals next to him, and the one guy just stepped back after the shot, didn't even look at Charlie Kirk."
"That kid, he was wearing one set of clothes going up the roof, another on the roof, and then a third change of clothes after the 'shooting.' No sign of a rifle on him, not even when he had a limp, which they said was because he had his gun under his clothing. Then he runs off without a rifle." You can fold a rifle, I suggested. "Not a Mauser; requires a kit and 20 minutes to do that," he said, after earlier saying he wasn't a "gun guy."
I wrote a prose poem years ago called "The Untraumatized Man," about someone who had refused to watch the twin towers fall on TV. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't wounded by the imagery of that day, because he didn't see it. But the friend on whom I based that poem knew that 9/11 had happened. S is another untraumatized man, one who denies that the trauma even happened. His world is oddly safe, wound in stories that make no sense but insure that what we saw happen did not. "That was sheer AI," he said at one point.
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