Reserved: Special Place in Hell

I'm really on a rant today.

Last night, a man and his newly-wed wife returned to their Grahamstown home to find their maid (a "domestic" is what happens in Kempton Park between a man, a woman and a case of beer: the word's "maid") stabbed to death.

The perpetrator was still in the house.

A chase ensued and led to the subsequent killing and multiple stabbing of husband and wife (respectively). A security company arrested the 21-year-old offender as he tried to steal the couple's car.

That's right: 21 years old.

Shouldn't you be out spreading the HI Virus or something, you prick? Making more babies to drain our already burgeoned social system?

I've lived in Grahamstown. I've walked the streets of Joza. I've been to Makana's Kop. I've even been out to the sewage plant outside town. I've seen the abject poverty. As a journalist, I've covered several stories of the seemingly hopeless situation there; documented abuses within family structures and the dangers of the drugs that are so readily available.

But let me tell you a thing or two, my friend.

I know people who've been raped by family members; people from backgrounds as squalid and possibly more sordid than you've seen in your worst nightmares.

I myself have been hard up for cash, reduced to selling off my possessions or offering highly-skilled work for peanuts just to keep my head above water.

I commisserate with you and your circumstances.

But guess what, dickhole. Not everyone's so fucking rudimentary that they throw their arms open wide to the atavistic recourses of thorough violence.

You've had a hard time? Diddums. Steal a loaf of bread. Empty the kitchen cupboards. You can't eat a car, dildo. And you can't bring those people back, can you?

What you've done is the sort of thing that feeds horror fiction - because that's where such atrocities should be. In fiction.

In a just world, there'd be a few grams of lead wedged between your skull and the folds of your brain right now. Unfortunately, though, you're getting off lucky.

For now.

But we all have a debt to pay. And I believe that Satan's probably wringing his hands in pleasure right now, dishing out the chores for the next seventy-year roster.

There's a special place reserved for you, pratt.

Hey, at least it's warm.