Charlie Kirk once stood in front of an audience and calmly declared that “some gun deaths” were an unfortunate but acceptable price for the Second Amendment. Not a slip of the tongue, not a phrase dragged from him in a heated row. No, this was his settled view, offered as if he were an actuary weighing up risks on a balance sheet. You die, but liberty lives on.
The trouble with treating lives as chips in a casino is that the wheel keeps spinning and sooner or later the ball lands on you. Kirk, in his unshakable belief that the freedom to own an arsenal is worth more than the freedom to stay alive, has joined the very ranks of the “unfortunate” dead he once waved away. The irony is so sharp you could cut yourself on it.
Of course, his supporters will say he died a martyr to the cause, struck down in a political assassination. But strip away the grandstanding and you’re left with the brutal fact that he was killed by the thing he defended to the hilt. He insisted gun laws should be as loose as possible, that the state must never meddle with the sacred right to bear arms, and that the odd corpse along the way was an acceptable cost. Well, here’s the bill, and his name is printed in bold at the top.
It is not just tragic. It is grotesque. To have dismissed other people’s lives as expendable in service of a political fetish, only to end up a sacrifice to the very idol you polished, is the bleakest form of poetic justice. His words have turned into his epitaph.
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