You can see why Trump raced to paint Stephen Paddock as a whack-job. Like the billionaire thrill-killer Robert Durst, Paddock was someone Trump could relate to: he was a millionaire, a landlord, a habitué of casinos, and a man who enjoyed the company of foreign-born women. Trump would rather not confront one of the most pressing questions of the Vegas massacre: what happens when the one-percenters snap and go full-auto on crowds of middle class white people? Somewhere along the line Paddock had done a Colonel Kurtz in the American outback, holing up in a planned retirement community in the Nevada desert, adjacent to Bunkerville, the Masada of the gun-obsessed property rights fanatics. Will Carl Ichan be the next one to crack?
Perhaps Stephen Paddock is, in fact, a kind of new normal in late-capitalist America, where once anonymous men harboring long simmering fantasies of white-male impotence burst out of their quiet cul-de-sacs to settle their grievances with bump-stocked military-style assault weapons.
- - - Jeffrey St. Clair
the-resident-evil
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