“Oh! You are killing my people! You are killing my people!”
This is the mantra of the killer-elite-anarchists of the Twenty-First Century. This was their excuse for killing some poor, stupid drunken surfers in Bali; their excuse for blowing up timid bird sellers in Bagdad; their rationale for spilling the guts of little girls who have the nerve to go to school in the ‘Stan; now an excuse for killing unknown whatevers in Bombay, India. Big men, tough guys, “you are killing my people!” Self-aggrandizing numbskulls, delusional would-be martyrs, smarter than you and me, know-it-all wonder-men of some stupid cause or other.
If they tried this in the Uncle Mustache universe, the J. Steel terror machine would establish their identities and demand a horrific vengeance. With just a finger left from self immolation, he would know who they were, and he would find their families and kill them all, the bomber’s brothers and sisters, his children, nieces and nephews, his aunts, uncles and cousins, and, most especially, and slowly, with pictures, his wife, mother and father. And let them try to get someone to do it again, knowing what would happen to a score or two of those left alive. Uncle Joe wrote the book on “everybody in your house ‘gonna get killed.” Just ask the Columbians, that shit works, big time.
But me? I’m a man of peace. For me, maybe somebody in the middle ground of revenge logic, like maybe Lyndon Johnson.