by Colonel Bob Pappas, USMC, Retired
Until December 2012 I was Bin Berry Hussein. Until then I lived in Connecticut with my Mom where I played and lived for violent video games. They were games of violence and involved a wide array of scenarios. Some were very expensive and most could be downloaded from the internet, so I didn't have to leave the house. Whenever I felt like it I would download any game I wanted for free because in addition to being really hip on video games, I loved porn and was an expert hacker...I could hack just about anything.
Some people thought I was weird, in fact my Mom had expressed concern about my mental health to my face and it made me furious. But I just sulked away to my "dungeon" in the basement and played my games; that gave me some relief because I could blow away my enemies, both real and imagined. Mom recently told me that unless I began to get my act together she was would have me committed to The Center with Humane Treatment for evaluation. Well, I had news for her...that would never happen!
My Mom and Dad split up a number of years ago and I elected to stay with Mom because she was a lot easier to get along with than my hated Dad. She fed and otherwise cared for my needs and pretty much stayed out of my way. That was fine with me because I could go downstairs, turn off the lights then immerse myself for hours in violent video games that taught me how to fight using a wide array of martial arts weapons and firearms. I knew that someday I would use what I learned.
When a game was over, I just "reset" and played another scenario; the scenarios never repeated. Those who play video games know how absorbing they can be and the feeling of power when unleashing the fury of an all out attack. With headphones on and the volume turned up, it was awesome! The good part was, when it's over, I could hit "reset" and the program delivered another scenario. I did that for as long as I could remember...Mom would be apoplectic if she had known about the porn and masturbation marathons but she never came down...when meal time arrived she just yelled that it was ready.
I never saw her play a video game and suppose she didn't need to because she had a closet full of weapons and plenty of ammo to go with each one; and she knew how to use them. We had gone shooting together a number of times. She thought that Obama is going to destroy the country and wanted to be able to defend us and our home...I thought she was nuts, but as long as she left me alone I really didn't care about Obama or any other politician. Besides I knew what to do if they ever bothered me.
What did bug me was her constant picking at me about getting my life together, and that "those video games" were having an adverse effect on my disposition. I told her to butt out, to which she would say that she loved me and was advising me for my own good. Bullshit! It still pisses me off; I know what's good for me...although it is uncomfortably hot here. Whenever she did it I yell at her and she would back off. But in recent weeks I exploded when she became too insistent on my doing something about my mental health. In fact the last time she said that she was planning to have me evaluated, I screamed that if she brought it up again I would blow her away...and I was surprised that I meant it. I would rather die than be put in some mental institution...hum...I began to give that eventuality serious thought.
In the meantime I would fall asleep while playing, then when I woke up I would continue the same game I was playing when I fell asleep. Once awake and after playing half a dozen scenarios I would go upstairs and make myself something to eat. By then Mom would be gone to her daily events, some of which included volunteering at a local grade school, Saney Looke.
I played so many games that eventually a sense of boredom and worthlessness set in. Even in my addicted and crazed state I realized it was all empty and meaningless. But I couldn't break the cycle...nor did I really want to. Recently I began to wonder what it would be like to blow away real people. The debate with myself was short and although I knew there would be consequences I didn't care. I wanted to find out but would have to give some thought about who, how and when. If I was going to kill a bunch of people I could head to the Mall, a ballgame, church, or a movie theatre like the one in Aurora, Colorado. But my chances to kill a lot of people would be improved if I went somewhere that I knew has no defenses, a place where I knew there would be no police and where firearms were prohibited. It didn't take long to for me to decide.
I could make and use a suicide belt, that would be easy enough. Finding the "how to" on the internet and buying required ingredients to make the explosive wouldn't prove to be much of a challenge. Making a detonator would be no sweat...I had done that a dozen times in various game scenarios. But...if I used a suicide belt it would all be over the moment I actuated the detonator... not nearly as satisfying as feeling the recoil of a high powered weapon as I repeatedly pulled the trigger. So....
Mom asked me this morning what I was doing when she saw me with her AR-15 and clips of ammo stuck in my belt. I told her I was going "hunting" and she blew up, yelling at me that I must be out of my mind, that I had no business with her gun and to put it back where I found it, immediately! But it was too late, I had my mind made up and screamed at her that there was nothing she could do to stop me. She reminded me that she was my mother to which I screamed back that I could care f___ing less! As I turned and started to walk down the wide foyer toward the front door I could hear her run toward me from behind...it sounded just like any number of scenarios in the video games I had played...and just as I had done hundreds of times in those games, I spun around aimed from the hip and without even thinking pulled the trigger. Mother recoiled like a shaken rag doll, then fell flat and lay motionless five feet away in an expanding pool of blood. It was just like the games but this wasn't an ordinary game and I knew I had done something that would not "reset." I bolted from the house and raced toward the car filled with determination to kill as many people as I could before "they" could stop me.
On the way to the target I mentally rehearsed what was going to happen. I was an expert at blowing my way through doors not to mention shooting anyone who got in the way. Once in the target area it came easy. I blew my way through the locked entrance door, and once inside targets fell exactly as I had practiced hundreds of times in my video games. But before I finished I felt a familiar emptiness. Maybe I should have used a suicide belt after all.
I was totally immersed in my "project" when I realized that there were sirens close by. The reality of what I was doing suddenly came into focus...no this wasn't a video game, there in front of me lay real children and adults. I knew that there would be no turning back and no escaping from what I had just done. One thing was certain...the sirens were there to stop me but I would deny them the satisfaction of putting me in handcuffs or a straight jacket and taking me to police headquarters, then a cell in a psycho ward...with the AR-15's muzzle under my chin and a single trigger-pull, I made sure of it.
I was too out of touch with the world to understand that my actions would stir a national fire-storm about limiting access to firearms, and to be frank I didn't care. But now, as I watch events from the "dark side," flames dancing all around, it angers me because what's missing in all the clamor is no real interest in me or why I did it. There's too much political theatre to be played; and a political agenda that scares even me. Those SOBs still don't care about me, but at least I got momentary vengeance. Even I know that in a sane world there would be vigorous pursuit of why I did it, but seemingly intelligent people are interested only in demonizing metal and plastic assembled to form a rifle that without me pulling the trigger would have remained nothing more than an inanimate object.
It really insults me that anyone would suggest that the weapon was responsible. Hell no! It wasn't the weapon...it was me, me, look at me!!! I was responsible, without me nothing would have happened that day...but have you listened to the idiots on MSNBC, CBS, ABC and CNN? If you believe them you might conclude that I was nothing more than the chauffeur for and porter of an AR-15 that on its own barged into Saney Looke where it performed its deadly work. If you believe them, I had little or nothing to do with it and that really pisses me off! But as angry as I am I can do nothing about it from this side of the "Force."
If Saney Looke had been guarded, if anyone had a weapon I probably would have been stopped at the first door as I blew my way through. As crazy as it is, there is a huge outcry against the kinds of weapon I used without regard to the fact that I could have done much more damage if I had used a suicide bomb. It raises the question about why their society is having so much trouble, and not only with violence. Maybe, just maybe, in my selfish rage I will have contributed toward finding a real solution. Now that I am here, I know the central problem is rooted in their pervasive and unsatisfactory relationship with God...and yes, there is God.
Maybe I should have used a suicide belt, the explosion would have killed and maimed a lot more people, damaged a lot more property and made me really famous! But if I did it that way I would not have had the satisfaction of witnessing the mayhem I caused before I shattered my head and splattered blood and brains on the ceiling. It was the watching, while exacting vengeance against a world that hardly knew or cared that I existed, was what it was all about. All the noise and clamor about guns is rubbish, It was me, I did it! Tell them!
Semper Fidelis
Copyright © April 14th, 2013 by Robert L. Pappas. With proper attribution, this essay may be quoted and redistributed, except it may not be used in conjunction with any advertisement without the author’s expressed written permission.
Until December 2012 I was Bin Berry Hussein. Until then I lived in Connecticut with my Mom where I played and lived for violent video games. They were games of violence and involved a wide array of scenarios. Some were very expensive and most could be downloaded from the internet, so I didn't have to leave the house. Whenever I felt like it I would download any game I wanted for free because in addition to being really hip on video games, I loved porn and was an expert hacker...I could hack just about anything.
Some people thought I was weird, in fact my Mom had expressed concern about my mental health to my face and it made me furious. But I just sulked away to my "dungeon" in the basement and played my games; that gave me some relief because I could blow away my enemies, both real and imagined. Mom recently told me that unless I began to get my act together she was would have me committed to The Center with Humane Treatment for evaluation. Well, I had news for her...that would never happen!
My Mom and Dad split up a number of years ago and I elected to stay with Mom because she was a lot easier to get along with than my hated Dad. She fed and otherwise cared for my needs and pretty much stayed out of my way. That was fine with me because I could go downstairs, turn off the lights then immerse myself for hours in violent video games that taught me how to fight using a wide array of martial arts weapons and firearms. I knew that someday I would use what I learned.
When a game was over, I just "reset" and played another scenario; the scenarios never repeated. Those who play video games know how absorbing they can be and the feeling of power when unleashing the fury of an all out attack. With headphones on and the volume turned up, it was awesome! The good part was, when it's over, I could hit "reset" and the program delivered another scenario. I did that for as long as I could remember...Mom would be apoplectic if she had known about the porn and masturbation marathons but she never came down...when meal time arrived she just yelled that it was ready.
I never saw her play a video game and suppose she didn't need to because she had a closet full of weapons and plenty of ammo to go with each one; and she knew how to use them. We had gone shooting together a number of times. She thought that Obama is going to destroy the country and wanted to be able to defend us and our home...I thought she was nuts, but as long as she left me alone I really didn't care about Obama or any other politician. Besides I knew what to do if they ever bothered me.
What did bug me was her constant picking at me about getting my life together, and that "those video games" were having an adverse effect on my disposition. I told her to butt out, to which she would say that she loved me and was advising me for my own good. Bullshit! It still pisses me off; I know what's good for me...although it is uncomfortably hot here. Whenever she did it I yell at her and she would back off. But in recent weeks I exploded when she became too insistent on my doing something about my mental health. In fact the last time she said that she was planning to have me evaluated, I screamed that if she brought it up again I would blow her away...and I was surprised that I meant it. I would rather die than be put in some mental institution...hum...I began to give that eventuality serious thought.
In the meantime I would fall asleep while playing, then when I woke up I would continue the same game I was playing when I fell asleep. Once awake and after playing half a dozen scenarios I would go upstairs and make myself something to eat. By then Mom would be gone to her daily events, some of which included volunteering at a local grade school, Saney Looke.
I played so many games that eventually a sense of boredom and worthlessness set in. Even in my addicted and crazed state I realized it was all empty and meaningless. But I couldn't break the cycle...nor did I really want to. Recently I began to wonder what it would be like to blow away real people. The debate with myself was short and although I knew there would be consequences I didn't care. I wanted to find out but would have to give some thought about who, how and when. If I was going to kill a bunch of people I could head to the Mall, a ballgame, church, or a movie theatre like the one in Aurora, Colorado. But my chances to kill a lot of people would be improved if I went somewhere that I knew has no defenses, a place where I knew there would be no police and where firearms were prohibited. It didn't take long to for me to decide.
I could make and use a suicide belt, that would be easy enough. Finding the "how to" on the internet and buying required ingredients to make the explosive wouldn't prove to be much of a challenge. Making a detonator would be no sweat...I had done that a dozen times in various game scenarios. But...if I used a suicide belt it would all be over the moment I actuated the detonator... not nearly as satisfying as feeling the recoil of a high powered weapon as I repeatedly pulled the trigger. So....
Mom asked me this morning what I was doing when she saw me with her AR-15 and clips of ammo stuck in my belt. I told her I was going "hunting" and she blew up, yelling at me that I must be out of my mind, that I had no business with her gun and to put it back where I found it, immediately! But it was too late, I had my mind made up and screamed at her that there was nothing she could do to stop me. She reminded me that she was my mother to which I screamed back that I could care f___ing less! As I turned and started to walk down the wide foyer toward the front door I could hear her run toward me from behind...it sounded just like any number of scenarios in the video games I had played...and just as I had done hundreds of times in those games, I spun around aimed from the hip and without even thinking pulled the trigger. Mother recoiled like a shaken rag doll, then fell flat and lay motionless five feet away in an expanding pool of blood. It was just like the games but this wasn't an ordinary game and I knew I had done something that would not "reset." I bolted from the house and raced toward the car filled with determination to kill as many people as I could before "they" could stop me.
On the way to the target I mentally rehearsed what was going to happen. I was an expert at blowing my way through doors not to mention shooting anyone who got in the way. Once in the target area it came easy. I blew my way through the locked entrance door, and once inside targets fell exactly as I had practiced hundreds of times in my video games. But before I finished I felt a familiar emptiness. Maybe I should have used a suicide belt after all.
I was totally immersed in my "project" when I realized that there were sirens close by. The reality of what I was doing suddenly came into focus...no this wasn't a video game, there in front of me lay real children and adults. I knew that there would be no turning back and no escaping from what I had just done. One thing was certain...the sirens were there to stop me but I would deny them the satisfaction of putting me in handcuffs or a straight jacket and taking me to police headquarters, then a cell in a psycho ward...with the AR-15's muzzle under my chin and a single trigger-pull, I made sure of it.
I was too out of touch with the world to understand that my actions would stir a national fire-storm about limiting access to firearms, and to be frank I didn't care. But now, as I watch events from the "dark side," flames dancing all around, it angers me because what's missing in all the clamor is no real interest in me or why I did it. There's too much political theatre to be played; and a political agenda that scares even me. Those SOBs still don't care about me, but at least I got momentary vengeance. Even I know that in a sane world there would be vigorous pursuit of why I did it, but seemingly intelligent people are interested only in demonizing metal and plastic assembled to form a rifle that without me pulling the trigger would have remained nothing more than an inanimate object.
It really insults me that anyone would suggest that the weapon was responsible. Hell no! It wasn't the weapon...it was me, me, look at me!!! I was responsible, without me nothing would have happened that day...but have you listened to the idiots on MSNBC, CBS, ABC and CNN? If you believe them you might conclude that I was nothing more than the chauffeur for and porter of an AR-15 that on its own barged into Saney Looke where it performed its deadly work. If you believe them, I had little or nothing to do with it and that really pisses me off! But as angry as I am I can do nothing about it from this side of the "Force."
If Saney Looke had been guarded, if anyone had a weapon I probably would have been stopped at the first door as I blew my way through. As crazy as it is, there is a huge outcry against the kinds of weapon I used without regard to the fact that I could have done much more damage if I had used a suicide bomb. It raises the question about why their society is having so much trouble, and not only with violence. Maybe, just maybe, in my selfish rage I will have contributed toward finding a real solution. Now that I am here, I know the central problem is rooted in their pervasive and unsatisfactory relationship with God...and yes, there is God.
Maybe I should have used a suicide belt, the explosion would have killed and maimed a lot more people, damaged a lot more property and made me really famous! But if I did it that way I would not have had the satisfaction of witnessing the mayhem I caused before I shattered my head and splattered blood and brains on the ceiling. It was the watching, while exacting vengeance against a world that hardly knew or cared that I existed, was what it was all about. All the noise and clamor about guns is rubbish, It was me, I did it! Tell them!
Semper Fidelis
Copyright © April 14th, 2013 by Robert L. Pappas. With proper attribution, this essay may be quoted and redistributed, except it may not be used in conjunction with any advertisement without the author’s expressed written permission.
