A man in my neighborhood died today. It was kinda ironic really; I had just finished watching Kill Bill 2. As the last credits scrolled across the screen I noticed the lights of an emergency vehicle reflecting through my porch window.

There was only one fire truck at first, but it was soon followed by an Ambulance, and then another. I watched as each person came out to perch on their small suburban porch watching as the scene unfolded below them. A paramedic with a spine board and cot entered the building, and another with a defibrillator and oxygen followed. These were not good signs, and I wondered how many of the onlookers knew it.

There was nothing for a long time and I was staring to get cold; once or twice I even considered going back inside, but found myself fascinated by the scene. Finally the oxygen bottles returned to the Ambulance, and the cot followed moments later; empty. A woman ran from the house howling, and threw herself into my neighbor’s arms. The two men held her and whispered to her. I felt almost embarrassed to be watching. Why were we all out here anyways? Huddled on our tiny porches. What had we been expecting? Blood? Guts? Someone screaming out for help as they were hauled into the back of a car? It was a strange unsettling sort of epiphany. In one night I had watched entertainment become violent, and violence become entertainment.

The Fire Truck and Ambulances are gone now, in there wake sits a long black car. No one watches this time as the man is carried from his home. No one dares to watch, as he is loaded into the back of the truck, and no one will be there when that truck drives away. And in years to come no one will tell this man’s story, no one will talk about how he died one night in his home, and was silently taken away in the middle of the night; but I’ll bet you they will remember Quentin Tarantino and I’ll bet they will talk about his tale of revenge. And you can bet they will remember when Beatrix Kiddo kills Bill.

Kind of pathetic…isn’t it?