There is something important in this story. About a million important things. At this time of night, I don’t have the insight to identify it or the faculties to express it once identified, but it’s there, for certain. Is it the finally-realized result of a decade and a half of terrorism? The strange condition of the human animal, wherein we behave worse in a fake crisis than a real one? Reading about this feels like reading about the Stanford Prison Experiment in real time and if it was an accident. It has the surreal quality of a Twilight Zone episode. Some post-9/11 Monsters Are Due on Maple Street, with a heaping dose of the bizarre banality and boredom of a Beckett play. I’m grasping at straws.