When does horror become sadness? When does sadness become anger? I don’t know; I wish I did. ‘Cause I’m sitting here, half a world away, wondering why “atrocity” is such a lame word for the latest terrorist attack in London. The truth is I’m no longer interested in the aftermath of evil or the words that try to describe it. I don’t care who those murdering bastards were. I don’t want to know their names or anything else about their twisted little lives. I don’t care where they were born, and I certainly don’t give a damn about how, when or why they became murdering bastards. I have developed a malignant indifference to their very existence because, for the life of me, I can’t think of a single place where our humanities touch. People who believe they have a righteous obligation to kill helpless, harmless men, women and children for the sin of living in an enlightened, fairly permissive, largely benevolent society, are beyond any words I can find to portray them. And I don’t care what the pundits, the politicians or the various apologists say: terrorists are just pumped-up, pimped-out bullies, and I do not feel any emotion for them except anger — and cold-blooded defiance.