When he approached them last week, the father and his two little boys, they had no idea that suddenly they’d all be laying in coffins in Israel at the week’s end. They had no idea that he’d come at them at a gun, in front of the children’s school, and that a life and then a life and then a life would be terminated. Stopped. Ended. Yanked. And all the while the blood ran and ran and ran, the video tape ran and ran and ran. And all the same folks who chocked down their decaf while skimming that headline that morning and wondered what corner of the universe God was wandering around in, bought tickets for themselves and their children for a film about kids who ran knives through the backs of their peers and brought clubs on the temples of the weak. All in the name of entertainment for their daughters and sons, they let their own watch others’ obliterate each other. Of course it wasn’t real. And if the networks ever got a hold of the footage the gunman shot of the murders while he shot the boys and their father, it would be real. And would they watch? Would they?