Three children shot at school in Denver around noon. Before we elect to care, Charlie’s bleeding out his neck, dead. News comes in: 200 yards, a hunting rifle, an outdoor event. Tune in to folks I don’t trust, but tolerate, saying “Violence has no place in our Democracy.” They mean the political kind, not the kids. Only when blood sprays from their talking heads.

I didn’t know Charlie, nor him, me. Still, we did. From unkind words spoken proudly by podcast or television. “God damned them transgenders and their social contagion! We’ve got to save our kids!” Even as I write, Kirk’s allies, feigning pain, screech, “Did the shooter know one of those cross-dressing freaks? A friend? A partner? Dig far enough and we’ll find one to blame.”

Most those folks I told you about — the ones I tolerate with increasing hesitance — see his rhetoric as vile, not violence. Mere words with uncouth sentiments. As we’re framed, placed center in crimes we didn’t commit, they vote to honor this hate-filled propagandist.

I find myself surrounded by him, now. Enshrined by the States. Vigils everywhere I look, filled with his supporters and those I no longer tolerate, praising the good Christian values he preached. Endorsements of rhetoric demanding the elimination of my friends; my family; me.