CALL OF DUTY IN THE VIDEO BUNKER

1 7 2 Y C A L L O F D U T Y I N T H E V I D E O B U N K E R H E N R Y H A R T He hunched toward the screen his face a bruised moon luminous as gun posters taped to walls. If the sun wormed into his bunker he put on Ray-bans. If a mourning dove’s lament pierced his windows he clamped on headphones. Zombies with swastika arm-bands staggered from holes in his computer into a fusillade of bullets. He lived for kills sparking through wired fingers, for tallying neck hits and headshots. The dead were only numbers. They never touched him. The last time his mother touched him he stopped emailing her from the basement. At school he wanted to change his socks every hour, to be invisible as wind hustling dead leaves across asphalt. 1 7 3 R When he drove to Sandy Hook, black shirt camouflaging his mother’s blood, the sky was a blank screen. He was ready to shatter the glass door of record books, silence anyone who could touch him. ...