10 years ago Seung-Hui Cho went into his college, Virginia Tech, armed with .22-caliber Walter P22 semi-automatic handgun and 9 mm semi-automatic Glock 19 handgun. He opened fire on his school taking the lives of 32 people, injuring 23 (17 by gunfire) and he eventually took his own life.
Today is a time to remember:
G. V. Loganathan
Daniel Perez Cueva
Matthew La Porte
Michael Pohle Jr.
Mary Karen Read
May they rest easy and have peace. Prayers go out to the victims, the victims’ family, those who were injured, their families and all the people who were there that day.
Zhenya’s got a glass of Perrier in front of him this time. He eyes the lime wedge floating in it balefully. Sidney deserves better than a hus- well, a someone who drops dead of liver failure by age fifty. Sidney’s son deserves better. And so Zhenya has poured several thousand dollars of expensive liqueur down his suite’s sink. He’s missing his whiskey especially at the moment though. The entire day has been nothing but headache-inducing phone calls.
He’s too practiced to jump when a heavy hand claps suddenly down on his shoulder, but it’s a near thing. Zhenya slides his hand back out from where it had closed automatically on his Glock and glowers at Sasha as he sprawls inelegantly in the seat opposite Zhenya. Sasha grins, gap-toothed and unrepentant.
<So, Zhenya. How are you? I’ve been hearing some funny little rumors about you. You know how the mafia puts gossipy old women to shame.>
Zhenya grunts and takes a swig of his damn sparkling water. <It’s really none of your fucking business, Sasha.>
Sasha loses his flippant grin, suddenly serious. <It’s alright you, you know. You’re allowed to retire. Start a new life. God knows I’d understand the impulse better than anyone.>
<Right. How are things with your Swedish policeman?> Zhenya asks him. Sasha smiles a little sadly into the middle distance.
<I might need to follow you, soon, if I don’t want to lose him. What we are, Zhenya, doesn’t mix well with the lives of the upstanding and the good.>
<He has a child,> Zhenya finds himself confessing. <A son. He’s sick, in the hospital. Has been in and out his entire life, Sid tells me.>
<Ah,> Sasha says, understandingly. <And you’ve always been such a damn fool for children.>
Sasha’s not wrong. Zhenya has long ago given up on his secret yearning for a full, bustling household. Children underfoot, perched on his shoulders, laughing. With the first prick of the needle inking the marks of his trade into his skin, he’d tried to let that idyllic vision spark out.
It’s stubbornly flaring back to life now, though. Fueled by Sid’s lovely eyes and his ridiculous laugh, and the way his thumb had caressed the edge of his battered phone case when he’d shown Zhenya the photo of his child. And Zhenya wants.
<Where did you go just now?> Sasha asks him, with surprising gentleness. Zhenya blinks the tawdry opulence of his surroundings back into focus.
<Somewhere better,> he says, and Sasha lifts his glass in acknowledgement.
<To love, then, god help us,> he says, and Zhenya clinks his glass to his.
Aftermath and Victims of the 2016 Pulse Nightclub Mass Shooting
Omar Mateen was a 29 year old married father who worked as a security guard when he carried out the mass shooting at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida.
Armed with a SIG Sauer MCX semi-automatic rifle and 9mm Glock semi-automatic pistol Mateen entered the nightclub shortly after 2 AM on June 12th, 2016. Mateen opened fire on patrons, killing 49 and injuring 58 before being shot dead by a member of the Orlando Police Department.
In a 911 call shortly before the shooting Mateen declared his motive as his seeking revenge for the killing of ISIS commander Abu Waheeb in a U.S. air strike the previous month. He also declared his support for the Islamic State and his support of its leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. During Mateen’s brief communications with a police negotiator during his stand off with police, he demanded that the United States cease its bombing missions against ISIS in Iraq and Syria.
A co-worker of Mateen also stated Mateen had spoke of his hatred for “gay or lesbian people”. After his death allegations were also made that Mateen was himself a closeted gay man, supposedly having patronised the nightclub himself previously although the FBI later said there was no evidence to substantiate these claims.
It was the deadliest terror attack in the United States since the September 11 attacks in 2001 and the deadliest mass shooting in United States history surpassing the Virginia Tech shooting in 2007 which left 33 people dead (including the perpetrator, Seung-Hui Cho). It has since been surpassed as the deadliest mass shooting in American history by the 2017 Las Vegas strip massacre which left 58 people dead (including the perpetrator, Stephen Paddock).
On March 6, 1998, Matthew Beck, a disgruntled accountant at Connecticut’s lottery headquarters, opened fire at his supervisors killing four people before ending his own life.
Beck, 35, had just returned from a four-month stress related medical leave. He succesfully filed a grievance report involving his demotion from accountant to data processor and was awaiting back pay. A day before the carnage he met with his union representative to complain about the change of his job classification.
Beck, an eight-year lottery employee, came to work armed with a Glock semi-automatic handgun, a butcher knife and three clips containing at least 19 rounds each. Half an hour after reporting to work he left his office and headed for the executive suites where he pulled out his weapons and started wasting supervisors. Witnesses said he was a man on a mission: “He didn’t come in and just start blasting. He planned it. He was definitely after the managers.”
Beck killed with a calculated coldness. First he walked into the office of Michael Logan, an information services manager who first denied his grievance, who he shot and stabbed with the butcher knife. He then walked into an adjacent area where chief financial officer and a former one-term mayor of New Britain Linda Mlynarczyk, 38, sat waiting to meet with him. Beck pointed his gun at Mlynarczyk, with whom he had recently discussed his new duties – said, “Bye, bye,” and shot her three times.
The third to go was Rick Rubelmann, 40, vice president of operations who he had once appealed to for help. Then he chased Otho Brown, the state’s lottery president, out to the parking lot. Brown, 54, stumbled, fell on his back, held up his arms, and started begging “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me,” to which Beck answered, “Aw, shut up,” and shot him. As police closed in on him, Beck shot himself in the right temple and fell just feet from his last victim. He died a short time later at Hartford Hospital.
Beck, a Florida Institute of Technology graduate who had worked for state government for eight years, contended he got a bad deal in July 1996 when supervisors shifted him from number-crunching at the lottery agency to testing computer software. He thought he should have been paid more for the computer job than his accountant’s salary.
Months before the rampage Beck, who had taken to shaving his head and wearing a goatee, complained to at least two newspapers that lottery players were being cheated. He claimed the Connecticut Lottery Corp. exaggerated potential winnings to spur ticket sales, and that store clerks were taking winning scratch tickets for themselves by cracking the computer system. He also complained to The Day of New London and The Hartford Courant about unfair treatment at work. The Courant described him as frothing at the mouth and said his eyes were “wild,” while the Day described him as “scruffy” in appearance.
Beck’s father, read a written statement from him and his wife apologizing to the victims’ families. “His murderous act was monstrous, but he was not a monster, as his friends and family can attest.” Not surprisingly, Beck was described by friends and co-workers as a quiet and diligent. “He was the all-American guy. He was Mr. Clean-cut,” a childhood friend told the press. And, like many other all-American guys in the Mass Murderer Hit List, Beck had a powerful cache of weapons, including three assault rifles and two large-caliber handguns stashed in his house.
His father said Matthew did not hint at what he was planning to do as he left to work the morning of the rampage. After waking up he fed his cat, greeted his father and headed out the door saying, “Well, I’m off.” The soon-to-be-rampager planned to see the blockbuster “Titanic” with a friend that night. “He looked perfectly normal. I had seen him when he was depressed, and he certainly wasn’t depressed.”
The father acknowledged that his son suffered from bouts with depression and attempted suicide several times. He once found Matthew nearly comatose from an overdose of medication. Donald sobbed as he recalled saving his son’s life. “That might have been a mistake,” he said, “That might have been a mistake.”
Being sent to kill Chris Argent, but things take a unexpected turn.
••• Requested by Anon •••
“I’ve never gotten this up close and personal with any of my contracts before, you know.” You grinned up at the man who had you caught between him and the wall, pressing your gun into his stomach.
“Does that make me special?” He asked, digging his own German made 10mm Glock automatic under your chin. His hot breath fanned your face and the grip he had on your wrist he had pinned above your head tightened.
“Maybe.” You said, darting forward to capture his lips with your own. He let out a disapproving grunt as your teeth grazed his bottom lip and with a rough push, he detached you from his mouth.
You let out a maniacal laugh and gazed at him through your lashes and he moved his gun away from your throat, only to replace it with his arm to make it difficult for you to breath.
“Who wants me dead?” He growled.
“You’re in no position to ask questions, Argent.” You wheezed, shoving the barrel of your gun against him. It didn’t take much for the hunter to knock it out of your hand, though. The weapon fell to the ground, out of reach and you suddenly found yourself in a far worse position than before.
You rolled your eyes. “My employer trusts me. You’re going to have to do a lot more than threaten me to get me to tell you their name.”
Chris Argent frowned. He had never seen such loyalty in a contract killer before. It was admirable.
Unexpectedly, his hand fell to your hip, releasing you from his grip. It settled there and pulled you closer. You inhaled sharply. You were against his warm chest, your hand splayed against him. “Is this how you treat everyone who wants you dead?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he lent down and covered your mouth with his in a hungry kiss.
when people are like “guns didn’t change society changed” like oh! i didn’t know ol madison had access to semi automatic glocks and some AK-47s when he wrote a vague ass amendment about arms phew what a relief that after all this time this 230 year old document truly had my best interests at heart let me jot this one down and pack it up folks