In the dusty outskirts of Seminole, Texas - just past the cotton fields and under the relentless spring sun - Peter Hildebrand stands outside a gas station, his eyes rimmed red and voice cracking.
There should be someone assigned to follow these stupid sacks of shit around through every waking moment. Any time they try to express an opinion, their minder can slap them into oblivion and remind anyone nearby that these assholes killed their own kid. No tip-toeing around and giving them space to craft their own narrative about what happened, just a perpetual rain of palms on faces until the message sinks in.
“How could the liberals have done this to me?”
There should be someone assigned to follow these stupid sacks of shit around through every waking moment. Any time they try to express an opinion, their minder can slap them into oblivion and remind anyone nearby that these assholes killed their own kid. No tip-toeing around and giving them space to craft their own narrative about what happened, just a perpetual rain of palms on faces until the message sinks in.