Word: killingly
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...life, and too often nowadays it seems that man's dreams of Utopia have become nightmares of dirt and despair. The atmosphere stifles rather than sustains; water poisons rather than refreshes; machinery and appliances invented for service and comfort fail to function and sometimes even maim and kill. What has anyone done about it? Until fairly recently, not a great deal. This week TIME'S cover tells the story of Ralph Nader, one man who felt that something had to be done-and set out to do it himself. Nader has spearheaded many of the gains...
...civilians inside the village." The orders he gave his men before the assault, he said, were those he had received from Lieut. Colonel Frank A. Barker Jr., commander of the task force under which Charlie Company was operating. They were, Medina explained, "instructions to destroy the village, to kill the livestock and to engage the 48th V.C. Battalion. I did not give any orders to massacre or shoot any women and children...
Whether or not there is a concerted police campaign, the ranks of Panther leadership have been decimated in the past two years. Bobby Hutton, national treasurer, was killed in a battle with Oakland police in April 1968. Huey Newton, minister of defense, is in prison, as is Panther Chairman Bobby Seale. Eldridge Cleaver is a fugitive overseas. Last week David Hilliard, party chief of staff, was arrested on charges of threatening the life of President Nixon. Hilliard had delivered an inflammatory and obscene speech during San Francisco's Mobilization Day rally last month, and at one point had said...
...soon as a civilian gets a gun and joins a liberation unit, we call him a VC and try to kill him. But he is the same man he was before. So logically, the only reason to kill him (which we didn't want to do before he armed himself) would be self-defense, as he plans to shoot...
...DRIVING the car that's going to kill me. It's long and sharp, an American car, a much-traveled F-85 Cutlass. I prowl down the road, sweep down the side streets, zoom out of the curves. I glide noiselessly through the long December shadows of the trees on the Arborway. I pass you on the expressway, the streetlights bleeding away on the bend in my windshield. Have you heard about the midnight rambler? Have you heard about the Boston. . . strangler...