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It's a beautiful noon in Utah, and Charlie Kirk is thinking about how much he would love to be in Israel right now— after all, nothing could be more American.
He's excited, slightly less ideal location aside, the same way he always is to debate students far smarter than him at their place of education.
It's hot, and he heads under one of the canopies set up on the campus, wondering if the space will be private enough for a gooning session to his President before his event starts.
Unfortunately, the questions start, but he finds himself smiling as he answers question after question about the declining state of the country, lying through his teeth as he knows in his heart that he will have a balcony seat to watch from.
It's as he's thinking about this, in fact, as a student asks a question about shootings— an unfortunate, he thinks, an unfortunate but nessecary price to pay for the second amendment to be protected.
"Counting or not counting gang violence?" he asks, smiling his toothy, gummy smile, enjoying the debate he's sure he can win if only through deflection.
"Counting or not counting gang violence?" he asks, and as he smiles he hears it and his smile drops— a single gunshot ringing out and as kids begin to scatter he realizes—
It's for him. The shot is coming for him.
He feels, numbly, up to his neck, and he feels the warm blood gushing even as he loses all other sensation, all other sensation sans the burning, the burning and even as he's only dimly aware of what's happening to him, what's going to happen to him, he wonders if there's a way he can tie this into abortion legality.
He's aware, still aware as his private security team rushes to take him to the hospital, and he wonders if Heaven will be nice even as the worm in his head warns he won't be there.
He wonders if Donald Trump will miss him.