Donald Trump’s Homicidal Streak
Donald Trump has a homicidal streak. You can see the twinkle in his eye as he pushes hydroxychloroquine, as he struts around maskless — encouraging other Americans to do the same, but in much less controlled environments — and as he acts in the most negligent way possible toward climate change. Those who lack a heart, whose souls have withered and those who despise themselves fill this void only through the exercise of power. And there is no greater power than the power over life and death.
Death Trump enjoys. To provoke death. To prod death and cajole it. To push you toward it, stumbling. Ooops. Did you drop over the edge? he says, looking down at you. To the teetotaler Trump, death is like whiskey.
Leaning forward, his voice lowering to a snake hiss, the boxy, ungraceful arms opening and closing in front of him, he growls, “What do you got to lose? Take it (hydroxychloroquine).” And somehow, there is a chirp in his voice, a little pep. This he likes. A little danger, he thinks, is good for a boy. A little darkness… is good for a boy.