He knew long before he pulled the trigger that he’d be starring today on your News Feed, that he’d be a Wikipedia page, that he’d have the singsong voices of Morning Edition drilling his name into infamy during your commute and all the housewives wringing their bejeweled hands. He knew he’d get an emergency press conference shoehorned into the President’s agenda, that he would prompt national conversations about whatever it is he’d scrawled into the margins of his Algebra notes, that he would take the starring role and his victims would be nameless extras in his production.
He did a damn good job, didn’t he? When he stared cold into the gallery of camera lenses as he was escorted by police into the next act of his suddenly meaningful existence? When his name, over the course of a single day, was branded into dialogues on things we’re conveniently already mad as hell about, but had forgotten to tisk-tisk until today? Do you think he’d intended to put a bullet through his own skull but decided at the last minute that he’d rather include the part where his trial and execution were also dissected, filmed, and lauded by critics everywhere?
There’s a sequel. There always is. There’s a little boy with knobby knees and plaquey teeth and a sticky keyboard who is feeling inspired tonight, imagining his own name catapulted onto the illuminated marquee of your consciousness.
Don’t utter his name. Every time you say his name, you’re creating the next one. Every time you watch the grainy footage of his boyhood and of his rise to fame, you are applauding his showmanship. Every time you use him as the anti-hero in your self-righteous soliloquies, you’re giving credence to the motives of the next.
Let them scream in silence. Let their little Mein Kampfs rot in the dampness of their mothers’ basements. Leave all the carpets white.