Closing Arguments

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Graphic Content

The warning on my computer screen was ominous; “graphic content.”  I typically run from those admonitions, having seen plenty of graphic stuff in 42 years in law enforcement right at home in Marion County.  Murder victims whose heads had been at least partially removed by point blank range shotgun blasts; kids scattered like limp rags across the roadway following horrific car wrecks; a pharmacist lying dead, head shot, the result of a prescription hold up gone wrong.  Old men, alone and mistakenly thought by the punks to possess money, beaten—and dead—no longer even looking like people.  Then there was the infant hurled through the screen of the television set, delicate little body full of shrapnel, charred from the electric explosion triggered by the event—mercifully dead.


Sorry, my friends, but it was important—no, it was imperative—for me to set a stage for you, no matter how gruesome, graphic or nauseating, because yesterday, even given the array of horrors I have seen over the years, I witnessed something so raw, so horrific and so consummately barbaric that not even the sight of all those bloody dead that decades of homicide prosecutions have made me examine could prepare me.


A moment of background; Carlie Fiorina stated that she had viewed a scene in connection with the callous brutality of the Planned Parenthood videos.  She described it as the delivery of a late term baby—alive, not crushed—being handled by the abortionist and the organ harvesting ghoul as it kicked its legs, waived its tiny arms, and struggled to begin life outside the mother who had decided to permit this.  Many on the soulless Left immediately began to challenge her representations as false.  Never happened, Planned Parenthood not involved, etc.  But there it was.


With apologies, I recite one more incomprehensible scene.  The child first exits its mother, the close-up shot in color, taken of the genitals of a woman without scruple or a scintilla of concern for the child within her.  Now be clear here, that no abortionist had “crushed” (their graphic, brutal verb, not mine) the life out of the tiny infant; the obvious conclusion being that letting it escape its mother’s womb would ensure that all the important organs could be harvested from the body.  One of the staff, having first clamped off then cut the umbilical cord, unceremoniously plopped the tiny guy in a stainless steel bowl, roughly the size of the one you serve salad in to your family. 


It is obviously alive.  Arms and legs extending and contracting, even attempting to move its tiny head.  It quickly demonstrated that it was not ready for life outside its mother, attempting to breathe but not being mature enough (by only a few weeks) to take in earth’s life sustaining air.  The unseen technician begins to poke and prod the tiny one, scooting it around in the bowl, moving the head from side to side.  Might as well have been making sure a fish was dead before beginning to filet it for dinner. 


Then something beyond what the human eye, heart, soul, can take in (especially those who await the moment of cutting it up) was visible; there appeared a moment of attempted dignity from the little one.  Almost as if even now it could discern that, thanks to forces and evil intent it could in no way fathom, it had been abandoned to the clutches of death.  Crossing little arms and legs, head drooping to one side in the cruel bowl, he succumbed.  Oh, I say “he” because at one point when still moving it became clear that it was indeed a boy.  Then more prodding with the instruments, the person behind the hemostat cruelly poking, pressing.  Yes, cruel bastard, the child was dead. 


I could bear no more, so, fearing that the impending “harvest” might be next, I clicked the X and stopped the view of carnage.  So what did I see?  A presently viable baby murdered? No, not exactly.  Not that he wasn’t viable, just that he wasn’t quite viable yet.  For the hapless mother and the barbarians into whose murderous hands he had been delivered took his life before he was old enough to survive outside.  Apparently the four to five weeks needed for him to develop and mature himself with God’s help, were the ticking clock that would spell the end of their opportunities to tear him apart for his organs.  Of course we cannot but believe that these callous, inhuman butchers have no problem plying their skills on little ones old enough in gestation to be just fine—that is, without the intervention of such heartless organ merchants—and with the tender help of loving parents and skilled nurses. 


Now let’s be clear; these words are far less aimed at the whole abortion debate than they are focused on what we have wrought in the human heart as at least the indirect result.  It is one thing to abort, another thing to become so craven and heartless as to take the body of a nascent little one apart.  As for “medical science”, who can argue that the horrors of using baby parts in claimed furtherance of research is consistent with basic decency.  At least not by a people still possessed of a soul.

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