homo homini lupus

Listening on the way to work to a report on a soldier dead in Iraq, a male in his early twenties. Killed by an IED. They profiled him, his family in grief. The older brother recalling fondly his sibling's first deer kill: how he crouched, quiet and still, in the blind, how finally a buck came close enough, how he shot, how the deer flopped, how the boy of sixteen ran whooping across the field to tag his prize.

Picturing the insurgent in ambush. Waiting, waiting for the patrol, adrenaline surging, breath in gasps. Then, as the trucks rumble by, setting off the bomb, the thud and roar of the explosion, the smoke, the fire, the wreck, the screams of the wounded. The exhilaration of the insurgent, his pleasure in mere slaughter.

I snap off the radio in disgust. What abject creatures we are.