It was an events weekly. It was called The case. His existence was long and infinite addicts to his blood chronicles. I do not know if the responsible ones came up with the glorious motto that the history of a country is written because of its crimes, or if it was coined by a sociologist specializing in truculence. In any case, they knew the quantity (not quality) of audience that from ancestral times has the morbid of murders, threats, tortures, kidnappings, abnormality, psychopathy, sordidness.
It must be comforting to feel walled in your home or in your home (it is not the same, there are more and more temples of solitude, more houses, many of them shared with a dog, fewer homes) attending through television to tragedies that they happen to the neighbor. Shuddering, amazed, sympathetic, but safe from evil in your castle, while the wolves howl outside and the dragons spit fire.
And the audimeters impose the merchandise. They speak to me in the news and in the morning magazines of the man with the amputated penis, the nurse who acted as the angel of death charging himself to I do not know how many patients, the massacres that their authors filmed in a school in Brazil and in a mosque in Nueva Zeeland, the last image in a supermarket of the raped and murdered Laura Luelmo, the quacker of her holy mother, the multiple murderer who ingested Trankimazin before her slaughter, the blackmailer letter that he writes from prison The King of the Cachopo to the mother of his alleged victim, the sexual predator of Seville against whom the CIA prevents, the two children who were murdered by their parents ..., and so on to infinity.
I imagine that programmers every time they notice a certain faintness in their audience inject this hard drug with immediate effects. The publicity will thank you, the accounts will come out, the big business continues.