When he was a boy, he said his father would read the paper at night, read the news of a Protestant killed by Catholics or a Catholic killed by Protestants and he would take a long drag on his cigarette and he would say to my friend, "Somebody'll pay for that."

"And that's the way it was," my friend said. "One of ours. One of theirs. Two of ours. Two of theirs.

"And you knew," my friend said. "You knew there were people keepin' score."

That struck me as a lousy way for a 6 year old to live.

My friend immigrated to America, where he became a restaurant manager. The waitresses thought his accent was "adorable."

And it was, though he kept his secrets tight.

Two black suspects get killed and two cops get killed. And there are protests and the fine, high feel of revenge in the air.

Just like Belfast in the 1960s, or Iraq now or anyplace where the national sport is murder and the score is written in blood.

And this is what we want. Ever since the fat prosperity of 1960s union-card, pension job America left us, we've been edging nearer and nearer to it, to the "freedom" of finally being able to yell, "kill the bastards," and by that we mean blacks, cops, foreigners, Muslims, single mothers, welfare recipients, everybody in Iraq, everybody, everybody, everybody.

Everybody dead until those welfare-snorting black sex machines get the message, until those damn cracker cops stop doling out the white man's justice.

One of theirs. One of ours. Two of theirs. Two of ours.

Keep it going. Keep it spinning. Write a rap song about it. Drool and snarl that how anyone who resists arrest, "has it coming."

Does it really matter who is dead as long as somebody dies, as long as the most simple-minded solution is applied to the most complex of problems over and over and over again?

Bomb 'em. Kill 'em. Choke 'em. Put wings on pigs. If you touch a cop, he oughta be able to punch your ticket. Screw Iraq. Screw North Korea. Send in the SEALS. They can kill anybody. Deathdeathdeathdeath.

Put 'em all in jail. Choke off the welfare. Demolish the projects. Lay off some cops. Fat bastards make $50,000 a year for sitting in a car.

Love death. Eat death. Sing death. Kiss death. Buy a big gun. Talk like a cop. Talk like a gangster. Watch a sniper movie. Listen to some death rap.

We're five years from martial law and 10 years from civil war, and it's gonna be everyone's fault for loving death too much.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com