By Kelly Stormcloud
The clouds grew cold and grey. Rain pours continually. A single woman watches as her eldest is laid to rest. Her other children are the only others in attendance. Gawker, a pretentious young dickish twat who terrorized New York City with his unquenchable thirst for dirt and gossip is dead. As the dirt covers his final resting place, I think of how an individual -particularly one as young as Gawker- could become a paragon of fear and hatred not just for a city, but an entire nation.
Seeing his crying mother, I am reminded that he was someone's child. Another child murdered in a hit and run; another casualty in the never ending street war. He had just begun recovering from serious wounds he suffered in a bar fight with a much larger man, when he stepped out of the hospital and was gunned down. The assailant(s) were long gone by the time the first responders showed up. He was pronounced dead on the scene.
Some witnesses claim the assailants screamed “rerererere” while others say the attackers yelled “¡Viva Vivian James!”, referring to the clandestine terrorist queen who had won loyalty of not just the most violent, racist street gang -GamerGate- but also the Aryan brotherhood, MS-13, and ISIS. Another onlooker rebuffed the claims and argued there was one assailant who calmly but clearly stated, “Peter Thiel sends his regards.” Whatever the truth, this is certain: Gawker had no shortage of enemies. Everyone in the city had a motive and half of them would've killed the bastard if given the chance.
Gawker is survived by his mother, and his siblings: Deadspin, Lifehacker, Gizmodo, Jalopnik, Jezebel, and Kotaku. Rumors have it his mother intends to marry a swarthy Mexican man with a large bank account. I watch them now from the window, raising my camera to take photos of them making love on her dead son's bed. Gawker would have it no other way...
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