Here’s a joke: three guys go to see this world famous doctor, who says he can cure anyone of anything. He just looks at you, knows what’s wrong, and then he fixes you: magic! Doctor calls the first guy in: “What seems to be the trouble?” Guy says: “I’m sad all the time and I want to kill myself.” Doctor says, “Aha! You’re depressed. Take some Zoloft, see a therapist, get over yourself. Next!” Next guy comes in limping. Doc: “What seems to be the trouble?” Guy says: “I cut my leg and now it’s turning colors and I can’t feel nothing.” Doctor looks at the leg, which is black from the knee down: pus, goo, blood, real nasty stuff. “Aha!” says the doc, “You’ve got gangrene. That leg’s gonna have to come off.” Final guy comes in; doc asks what’s the trouble. Guy says, “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I’m bleeding from my ears and every orifice.” Doctor looks at the blood trickling out the guys ears, says “Aha! You have Ebola!” Then he prepares a syringe of green liquid — something weird, looks like jello or something — shoots it into the guy’s leg and sends him off: “You’re cured!” The guy wobbles out, still bleeding. Doctor’s nurse hears this and says: “Doctor, what are you doing? There’s no cure for Ebola.” Doctor: “Sure, there is.” Nurse: “What is it?” Doc says, “Death. Call the coroner, would you? I just injected that man with cyanide and he should be dropping over any second now.”
I didn’t say it was a funny joke.
I just keep thinking about it. I’m not a doctor but I feel like I’m fighting a disease. I know: calling crime a disease sounds like I’m in one of those old-time radio shows where the cops are serious all the time and never swear. But still, that’s what it feels like. I just used to think you could treat this shit. Help these douche-clowns see the error of their ways and turn back from sacks of feces into low-level human beings. Get control of the thing. Barring that, cut off the leg. You got someone on drugs, and you can’t get ’em clean?Lock that asshole up, because it’s only a matter of time before he gets it in his head to rape some kid or rob some grandma. There’s no way to know when, so you just take the scalpel and cut the rot out.
You see where I’m going with this. Ebola. Incurable. Fatal. That’s the situation on the ground. Don’t believe me? I saw ten men killed today. Ten bodies, back to back, dead in ways you don’t want to think about. Mostly stabbed and bled out. You ever see a man that’s been burned alive? Yeah, I hadn’t either. It’s disgusting, man. Bloodier than you’d probably think. Pus and skin and a lot of fluid. It’s not all black char and skeleton. It doesn’t look like Luke’s Aunt and Uncle in Star Wars. And the smell: burnt hair and a stale stink like old pork rinds. That’s the fat, I guess, when it liquefies. Sticks in your nose. I hadda wash it out, use one of those saline snot-pots, no lie. Foul, foul stuff. I don’t care that they were shitbirds of the first order. I don’t care. You see something like that and you know: this isn’t a disease that has a cure. These aren’t patients any more we’re talking about. Calling them animals isn’t fair to animals. They’re not criminals, or drug-dealers, or even people. They’re monsters. Plain and simple. All you can do with a monster is all you can do with a guy with Ebola. Put him down.
But first, you’ve gotta find him.Read More