Edited for clarity :

He did it. He knows it, you know it, and so do I. And he’ll do it again. Now, isn’t that a sight to behold? Just wait until you see that swagger—like some triumphant peacock, tail feathers flared, ready to crush what’s left of a grieving family’s hope. Not a flicker of remorse in those eyes, no tremor in his voice. He’s the monster about to stride into the spotlight, and we—God help us—are the ones nailing the boards into the stage, handing him the microphone, and dressing it all up as “due process.”

Let’s stop pretending. This is about to be a carnival, and we’ll be its barkers, whipping the crowd into a frenzy while insisting we’re nothing close to a mob. You think it ends with one murdered CEO? Please. Killing the man once did nothing to mend our crumbling healthcare system, and hauling his corpse back into court won’t make any other CEOs quake in their boots. Instead, it’ll just hand Luigi Mangione all the limelight he craves—like a Z-list Batman in a bargain-bin cape, spewing monologues about who really holds the power. And we’ll eat it up, telling ourselves we’re standing up for “fairness” while all we’re really doing is feeding a monster’s ego.

Let me drop a line that rings in my head like distant gunfire:

“41 shots… 41 shots… you can get killed just for living…”

Educate yourself. I’m not here to cushion the blow or explain its origin. But once it sinks in, maybe you’ll finally see how perilously thin the boundary is between righteousness and savagery—between law-abiding citizens and a torch-bearing crowd. The tragedy is, Luigi has become that line—and so have we.

Oh, I used to think I was a hero, riding in to protect the powerless. But the moment Luigi struts into that courtroom, it’ll morph into his personal arena. I won’t just be some neutral onlooker, either; I’ll be enthralled by his audacity, drawn in by the way he slices our ideals to ribbons and parades them around like a trophy. That makes me complicit—because I’m one of the people who keeps shining the spotlight on him.

And there’s the rub: I’m not above all this. Every word I type, every self-righteous flourish, is another cue for Luigi to step into the limelight. Let’s face it: I’m giving him exactly what he wants. My so-called exposure of his villainy is just another rung on the ladder he’s climbing. I’m feeding the beast with each sentence I craft.

Maybe it’s the allure of the story—it’s too damn irresistible to look away from the wreckage. I can pretend I’m only documenting events, but the truth is, I’m building Luigi’s mythology. Every condemnation, every shocking detail, only tightens his grip on our collective imagination. After all, outrage is a commodity that always sells.

Don’t mistake Luigi for some champion of the underdog, either. He’ll scratch his own commandments into stone, wage war on every principle we pretend to value, and dub himself judge, jury, and executioner. He won’t waste a breath on the grieving family left in his wake, because acknowledging their pain might crack the shell of his own god complex. Meanwhile, we’ll be hovering at the edges of the ring, swearing fealty to a system that’s rotting from within—acting like we’re somehow above the baying crowd, when in reality, we’re the ones stirring it up.

Soon enough, we’ll call this trial a glowing example of modern civilization. But let’s not kid ourselves: it’s another sadistic spectacle with Luigi Mangione’s face plastered on every screen. The marquee will read “Starring Luigi Mangione,” and the rest of us—judges, lawyers, the wounded family—are just the supporting cast in his grotesque production. We’ll proclaim “justice,” but the corpse is still dead and the healthcare crisis remains unsolved. In fact, all we’re doing is fueling Luigi’s star power, giving him the oxygen he needs to keep his flame burning high.

And I’m right in the thick of it—typing away like a fiend, weaving the narrative that holds everyone’s attention. I can slap a moral label on it, claim I’m shining a light into the darkness, but we both know I’m simply generating heat. Outrage, after all, keeps readers hooked. And each time the crowd gasps, Luigi grows stronger, dancing in the glow of our collective fascination.

If we try to paint him as a champion for some grand cause, we’re kidding ourselves. We’re nothing but poor advocates for the values we say we stand for—carnival barkers hawking tickets to the next act of the blood-soaked show. Because once the curtain falls, we’ll have done absolutely nothing to fix what’s broken. The family is still shattered, the CEO still dead, healthcare’s still a nightmare, and Luigi is off somewhere preparing his next act. And me? I’ll be right here, pen at the ready, preparing to chronicle his encore like a dutiful scribe who just can’t resist the spectacle.

That’s the sad truth: we built the stage, we rigged the lights, and now we’re complaining that the monster found his spotlight. In the end, it’s a brutal pageant where nobody truly wins but Luigi, grinning as he basks in the applause—even if it’s the applause of horror. When all is said and done, we’ll still be chanting about “justice,” puffing ourselves up as the good guys, conveniently forgetting we were the ones who handed him the mic in the first place. And that haunting refrain—those 41 shots—hangs in the background.