The Las Vegas Massacre: Just the Facts (and 'Facts')
Oct 10, 2017 5:38:01 GMT -8
3D and willie with tan lines like this
Post by acptulsa on Oct 10, 2017 5:38:01 GMT -8
Well, we've all been studiously avoiding talking about this. But it has been a week now, and I don't see anyone else--anywhere, ever--compiling the officially released information and known facts from other sources into one cogent narrative. And I think it's time someone did...
Well now, it has been a week. So, what do we know now?
On September 11, a mysterious post shows up on 4chan warning people to avoid large crowds in Las Vegas. A little while later, the same source says that body scanner manufacturers are determined to increase their sales. Over the next few weeks, several MGM/Mandalay Bay executives sell enough stock in the company to shove its price down significantly, and stocks of at least two major gun manufacturers are in sufficient deman for their prices to go up appreciably.
A man is an auditor for the Department of Defense in the Reagan/Bush I era, and somehow comes into enough money to buy several Las Vegas properties. As a landlord, he makes enough money to buy an airplane and get in the habit of being a professional-grade gambler, dropping up to five digits at the casinos without batting an eye. He's a teetotaler who is photographed with a drink in his hand and falls down in public from time to time.
He develops a hobby of hunting which he indulges in only rarely. He buys a modestly-sized, late-model house in a ritzy desert retirement community, and moves in with two or three guns. He hooks up with a kinky little Phillipino who he treats rudely, and he becomes obsessed with her ex-husband, a rampant liberal, in a manner which suggests he is severely controlling. He goes to Utah and checks into a hotel overlooking a music festival, and does nothing. Despite being insecure and controlling, he packs his woman off to see relatives in the Phillipines, then wires her a hundred grand, which anyone could invest halfway well in dividend-paying securities and then live on reasonably comfortably in that part of the world. He checks into a hotel using one of her credit cards, which she did not take on the trip. He then loads the room with nearly two dozen long guns, untold amounts of ammunition, and a small sledgehammer, which he keeps hidden from the housekeeping staff (or manages to keep the housekeeping staff at bay for days on end). He also packs about fifty pounds of low-yield explosives, maybe enough to destroy a car, and leaves them in his car.
One night some unnamed person has a dance party on more or less the tenth floor of the hotel, with the lights off in the room, and a strobe up against the window pointed out, and operating intermittently. A woman at the concert below raises a stink in the crowd, shouting that there are a number of gunmen in positions around the crowd. He barricades the stairwells, but leaves the elevators running, sets up several cameras in the room and in the hallway, managing to find some in 2017 which don't record, barricades the doors to his suite, breaks out one window in the living area and one in one bedroom, and goes off. He calculates bullet fall at some point, either using pen and paper or writing the calculations down, presumably using muzzle velocity so he knows how high to aim, and nonetheless ignorant of the fact that it's nearly impossible for anything but tracer ammunition (which he does not have) to torch off a tank of kerosene, he fires on--and manages to hit--jet fuel tanks about half a mile away and more than three hundred feet below. He then fires from (according to the audio of the cabbie's video, for lack of a better explanation of the sudden change in volume of the gunfire) the bedroom, and from the living room a second later--a remarkable display of speed and agility for a 64 year old man.
He steadily rains hot lead from a Surefire hundred round magazine on a music festival over a quarter of a mile away and over three hundred feet below for ten seconds or so, indicating that his bump stock is netting him a rate of fire of ten rounds per second, from an assault rifle with a small bipod but no flash suppressor, without showing a visible muzzle flash or blinding himself in a dark room. He has an endtable at his disposal, but apparently balances his bipod(s) on the soft back of a chair, as that is what is under the broken window. There is then a pregnant pause of nearly a minute, despite the fact that he has nearly two dozen weapons at his disposal, while he presumably changes magazines and apparently sweeps up spent shell casings. He then rinses and repeats. Another pregnant pause follows, allowing his pool of victims below to come to their senses and begin to scatter. He then does the same a few more times, and during one of the pauses, takes a moment to shoot an unarmed security guard through the locked door (or did that happen six minutes before he broke the windows?).
At least two of the people in the concert ground, a quarter of a mile away and three hundred feet down, take three shots to the torso, a remarkably tight grouping for bump-stock firing from over a quarter of a mile away by any standard.
The Las Vegas Municipal Police Department initially reports multiple shooters on the ground (an assessment with which civilian eyewitnesses agree). They then spot the strobe light in the unlit dance party room and report the shooter is in the hotel. The singer is hustled offstage, but no announcement is made to the crowd over the sound system, and all the lights come on. Some officers are in the concert venue, and at least one of them pulls what is purported to be a flashlight with a long tail that looks like a machine pistol magazine, crouches, and shines his light on someone in the crowd for a second before putting the thing in his hand away and walking around looking officious. The guest in the room below his reports the gunfire over his head, and the cops assemble on the 31st floor where they begin the hour-long process of preparing and mounting their assault. While they are doing it, the man with 23 guns gets one so hot he burns his hand, and puts a black sock on his left hand. Ten minutes after starting, he stops shooting, even though he does have at least a little ammunition left. He sweeps up most, but not all of his spent shell casings, neatly stacks his presumably empty magazines next to a column, leaves the sock on his left hand, and at some point during the next hour sticks one of the guns in his mouth and pulls the trigger.
After the event, a host of YouTube vids come out about the event. Most are just noise adding to the confusion, but one or two make the convincing case that the audio captured small-caliber three-round bursts being heard from close range even as the long-range gunfire continues steadily and unabated. Many vids are deleted nearly as soon as they appear.
Well now, it has been a week. So, what do we know now?
On September 11, a mysterious post shows up on 4chan warning people to avoid large crowds in Las Vegas. A little while later, the same source says that body scanner manufacturers are determined to increase their sales. Over the next few weeks, several MGM/Mandalay Bay executives sell enough stock in the company to shove its price down significantly, and stocks of at least two major gun manufacturers are in sufficient deman for their prices to go up appreciably.
A man is an auditor for the Department of Defense in the Reagan/Bush I era, and somehow comes into enough money to buy several Las Vegas properties. As a landlord, he makes enough money to buy an airplane and get in the habit of being a professional-grade gambler, dropping up to five digits at the casinos without batting an eye. He's a teetotaler who is photographed with a drink in his hand and falls down in public from time to time.
He develops a hobby of hunting which he indulges in only rarely. He buys a modestly-sized, late-model house in a ritzy desert retirement community, and moves in with two or three guns. He hooks up with a kinky little Phillipino who he treats rudely, and he becomes obsessed with her ex-husband, a rampant liberal, in a manner which suggests he is severely controlling. He goes to Utah and checks into a hotel overlooking a music festival, and does nothing. Despite being insecure and controlling, he packs his woman off to see relatives in the Phillipines, then wires her a hundred grand, which anyone could invest halfway well in dividend-paying securities and then live on reasonably comfortably in that part of the world. He checks into a hotel using one of her credit cards, which she did not take on the trip. He then loads the room with nearly two dozen long guns, untold amounts of ammunition, and a small sledgehammer, which he keeps hidden from the housekeeping staff (or manages to keep the housekeeping staff at bay for days on end). He also packs about fifty pounds of low-yield explosives, maybe enough to destroy a car, and leaves them in his car.
One night some unnamed person has a dance party on more or less the tenth floor of the hotel, with the lights off in the room, and a strobe up against the window pointed out, and operating intermittently. A woman at the concert below raises a stink in the crowd, shouting that there are a number of gunmen in positions around the crowd. He barricades the stairwells, but leaves the elevators running, sets up several cameras in the room and in the hallway, managing to find some in 2017 which don't record, barricades the doors to his suite, breaks out one window in the living area and one in one bedroom, and goes off. He calculates bullet fall at some point, either using pen and paper or writing the calculations down, presumably using muzzle velocity so he knows how high to aim, and nonetheless ignorant of the fact that it's nearly impossible for anything but tracer ammunition (which he does not have) to torch off a tank of kerosene, he fires on--and manages to hit--jet fuel tanks about half a mile away and more than three hundred feet below. He then fires from (according to the audio of the cabbie's video, for lack of a better explanation of the sudden change in volume of the gunfire) the bedroom, and from the living room a second later--a remarkable display of speed and agility for a 64 year old man.
He steadily rains hot lead from a Surefire hundred round magazine on a music festival over a quarter of a mile away and over three hundred feet below for ten seconds or so, indicating that his bump stock is netting him a rate of fire of ten rounds per second, from an assault rifle with a small bipod but no flash suppressor, without showing a visible muzzle flash or blinding himself in a dark room. He has an endtable at his disposal, but apparently balances his bipod(s) on the soft back of a chair, as that is what is under the broken window. There is then a pregnant pause of nearly a minute, despite the fact that he has nearly two dozen weapons at his disposal, while he presumably changes magazines and apparently sweeps up spent shell casings. He then rinses and repeats. Another pregnant pause follows, allowing his pool of victims below to come to their senses and begin to scatter. He then does the same a few more times, and during one of the pauses, takes a moment to shoot an unarmed security guard through the locked door (or did that happen six minutes before he broke the windows?).
At least two of the people in the concert ground, a quarter of a mile away and three hundred feet down, take three shots to the torso, a remarkably tight grouping for bump-stock firing from over a quarter of a mile away by any standard.
The Las Vegas Municipal Police Department initially reports multiple shooters on the ground (an assessment with which civilian eyewitnesses agree). They then spot the strobe light in the unlit dance party room and report the shooter is in the hotel. The singer is hustled offstage, but no announcement is made to the crowd over the sound system, and all the lights come on. Some officers are in the concert venue, and at least one of them pulls what is purported to be a flashlight with a long tail that looks like a machine pistol magazine, crouches, and shines his light on someone in the crowd for a second before putting the thing in his hand away and walking around looking officious. The guest in the room below his reports the gunfire over his head, and the cops assemble on the 31st floor where they begin the hour-long process of preparing and mounting their assault. While they are doing it, the man with 23 guns gets one so hot he burns his hand, and puts a black sock on his left hand. Ten minutes after starting, he stops shooting, even though he does have at least a little ammunition left. He sweeps up most, but not all of his spent shell casings, neatly stacks his presumably empty magazines next to a column, leaves the sock on his left hand, and at some point during the next hour sticks one of the guns in his mouth and pulls the trigger.
After the event, a host of YouTube vids come out about the event. Most are just noise adding to the confusion, but one or two make the convincing case that the audio captured small-caliber three-round bursts being heard from close range even as the long-range gunfire continues steadily and unabated. Many vids are deleted nearly as soon as they appear.
