COVID-19 Considerate Mass Shooter Mows Down Innocent People From Home

DES MOINES, IA – Deranged sociopath and local hero Kyle Glasier, 34, announced his plans to unleash his unbridled rage onto the world in a manner that will both inflict the same perceived cruelty he’s suffered his entire life and follow safety precautions of the COVID-19 pandemic.

In his 218 page manifesto, Glasier describes that if he were to finally snap before the pandemic he would have, “…probably opened fire at a Soulja Boy show at the Southridge Mall with an AR-15, shot myself, and called it day. You can’t be too careful these days, though. I would hate to pass along the virus to someone from a hot full-metal jacket entering their chest. It is a respiratory virus, you know? Not only that but Soulja Boy cancelled last minute.”

The part-time busboy and full-time moderator of several incel forums went on to describe how others can follow his lead in being a socially-conscious mass murderer.

“First of all: no pistols or shotguns. I get that they’re fun to use on your delusional projections of that girl that rejected you in college but they’re only effective at short range. There is no way that you could get a clean kill on a mother of three children without breaking the six feet social distancing protocol. The same thing goes for small and medium-sized automatic firearms. If you want to do this right and keep your victims and yourself free from the COVID-19 virus you’re gonna want to use a good, old-fashioned hunting rifle.”

Glasier, who was found pointing his .243 Winchester onto a busy intersection out of his bachelor suite explained that he has been following Stay at Home protocol orders by picking off pedestrians for the past 33 hours. He also assured us that a clean shot was always made as his rifle is resting on his enormous collection of hardcore pornography depicting torture, sexual assault, and humiliation with bodily fluids.

“Look, I’d love to barge in to a female-only campus, movie theatre or a church as much as the next regular entitled, frustrated Joe but that’s just not reality right now. We are living in a crisis and need to make sacrifices for our nation.”

“Now is not the time to be selfish,” Glasier said as he wrote another twisted page in his manifesto describing how he would slaughter all of the ‘Staceys’ that refused to have sex with him and would get off at the sight of their crimson blood flooding the summer Iowa concrete.

At press time, Crawford was found respecting front-line workers by wiping down his ammunition with Clorox wipes and washing his hands before opening fire on police officers and his parole-appointed psychiatric therapist.

Hidden

A surprise you will never find
is a discarded cigarette pack with one left inside,
nor the last swallow
of a suffering man’s bottle.

Always on the defence, building a wall.
Always on the fence, to love or to maul?
Parrying and fencing, the dance must abide.
Parrying and fencing the questions, the love, the attacks!

An “I’m Ok” reprised,
another empty promise compromised.
Love drowns.
Clawing, gnashing, thrashing
desperately through the ice.
It does not sink silently into a frozen goodnight.
Echoes escape, corroded and hoarse.
Love battles through unfathomable fathoms
through a sunken, bloated corpse.

Monkey on the back, something on the chest.
Cackling black hounds tear flesh asunder.
Tears too precious to fall, the damned dam them under.
No life, no rest.

Guilt-ridden, heavy becomes light as feathers.
Bottled, trapped like rats, as thieves hidden.

Modern knights awake all night, safe as houses.
Baring teeth bore in armour.
Invulnerable, impregnable.
Safe and sound in steel, brick and leather.
Yet clinging to the sword and the shield.
They live as statues, slower and sleepy.
Invulnerable, and unable to see past the mask they wear,
unable to strip the heavy armour they bear.

Silent screams swallowed.
Bottled battles are eaten as broken glass.
Scars, scorn, frozen disdain.
Once a rich vessel, now a shell husked and hollow.
Fire, ice, water and the serpent clash.
Black hounds lick their lips, gnash teeth.
The soundtrack of sleepless nights
becomes a cacophony of their perverted laughs.

Parrying and fencing the questions, the love, the attacks!
The body gives, cold steel cleaves the back.
One hand outstretched, a finger seeks who is to blame.
The other clutches his hilt, unaware of where the blade resides.
Like an impatient Damocles, the knight chooses not to see, chooses pain.
Invulnerable, hidden.
Struck. Stuck.
Not by the dagger in the back.
Not by the questions, the love, the attacks!
Imagined enemies draw closer, they fester and seethe.
As his own sword remains in his foot, he is frozen and bleeds.
Here the blade resides, black hounds cackle and chide.
Frozen and bleeding, yet the dance must abide.