It Was a Point Blank Execution

Hi,

"A man was shot, that's all I can tell you," says a cop standing a block from the scene. I ask if the man is alive or dead.

"I don't know, I just arrived," he tells me.

So had I.

Walking on, a local pulls out his phone. He isn't wearing gloves; he lives nearby. He brings up a video showing ICE agents piling on top of a human just around the corner from where we're standing, near a place near Glam Doll Donuts.

I watch as mask goons beat the living shit out of a man who's buried underneath them. I brace myself for what I was about to see – ICE showed us what they did to Renee Good – and then I saw it: A point black execution.

Multiple shots. A body lay prone. The Minneapolis Police Chief has just confirmed the man is dead. How couldn't he be, I thought.

The man holding the phone tells me he's lived here his whole life – through George Floyd; through all of it. "With all the anxiety and anger built up, and two people have been killed, this is different."

"Some bad things are going to happen. Five shots bro. You don't do that. There is no justification for letting that many bullets go. That's messed up, That is no regard for life at all."

I'm here not long after the death. I was just getting ready to leave my downtown hotel to go on patrol with some locals, before a message arrived to my Signal: "They've shot another person."

I bolted down there immediately. Leaving my car parked a few blocks away, I heard shouts and screams, finding a large assortment of ICE and police, all masked and ready for war.

It's strange, looking at these people there to "protect and serve" – purely there now to kill and protect the killers. Batons, guns, zip ties, gas. All masks; never any faces.

The crowd is growing, and people begin to realise the man is dead. People start to grab nearby items to protect themselves.

At this point, the familiar pops of tear gas being deployed takes over the morning's soundtrack. Many of those civilians are prepared with masks, but plenty aren't. A lot of them are just residents who never intended to be dealing with this today.

They are coughing and spluttering, and while most of the businesses are shut on this Saturday morning, a restaurant that is open welcomes us in. A few diners sit inside, perplexed. Staff start handing out water. Carefully placed napkins are used to wipe snot and tears from people's faces.

Outside it's now just a cloud of gas.

Returning to the street, it's clear from the cops and ICE that we're not welcome anymore. A new line of officers has arrived. They crouch as their leader spits in instructions, saying things are "escalating."

It's hard to tell how things can escalate further after an execution, but here we are.

Behind the frog marching officers, I note that residents are building more lines of defence for whatever's coming. They use whatever they have on hand.

Garbage to defend against garbage.

I get in my car to write these words. If another block is closed, I'll be stuck in here.

There's more gas.

I look back down the street as I write, zooming in to take a photo.

A plane flies overhead as more people keep arriving. This might be speculation on my part, but they're walking with righteous fierceness. They're pissed.

"We just built this place back up," a man had told me earlier he switched on his GoPro. He told me to be careful. "Choose your level of engagement," he says, before pressing on.

I write this, I throw in some images. I'm about to hit send, I don't have time to check the copy.

Afterwards I'll get back out, and choose my level of engagement. It's an important question to ponder; The United States has demonstrated that if you make the wrong choice, they shoot you in the head.

David.