Word: looted
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Rant & Sigh. Haranguing the crowd, Brown then advised them that "if you are gonna loot, brother, loot a gun store. Don't be running around here looting no liquor, 'cause liquor's just for celebrating. We ain't got nothing to celebrate about. You better get yourselves some guns, baby." While Brown ranted, Kirk sighed. "Nobody wants to hear me talk. It's a shame. I can give dandy speeches at the drop...
...have seen my city, the fifth largest in the U.S., reduced by one-sixth its original size. Not by a tornado or flood, or any other act of nature or God, but because of people who somehow seemed to lose every bit of their sanity and proceeded to loot, burn and murder innocent citizens. Why? I don't know, maybe someone does, but all we who do not know see is smoldering rubble, homeless people, and the corpses of those who were the sniper's prey. There is nothing more frightening than seeing what appeared...
...precursor and model for the race riots of 1967. In the sunny, sullen ghetto on Los Angeles' southeast side, all the elements of racial violence were present: rat-ridden housing, usurious white shopkeepers, broken black families, humiliating welfare-office routines, tough cops, kids with a yen to loot and lash out, and the random spark of a clumsy arrest. In this meticulously researched reconstruction, Robert Conot, 38, a Los Angeles newspaperman and novelist, shows how all those elements combined to produce six days of madness...
Back to Normal. In Detroit, despite continuing sniper fire, the rampage began subsiding about the time that the depleted stores ran out of items to loot. On the fifth day, Commissioner Girardin's patrol car was picking its way through downtown traffic, which finally began returning to its normal state-impossible. Suddenly the police dispatcher's voice crackled over the radio and Girardin instinctively tensed. "Watch out for stolen car," the dispatcher advised. Girardin's well-wrinkled face was wreathed in a smile. "We are just about back to normal," he said. "All we need...
...whose visits are years apart, makes a call and secretes a wrapped bundle in a closet. Then he flees, into the arms of the bobbies, and the package lies mouldering in a closet until the old lady comes upon it and rips it open. The sight of the stolen loot drives her nearly mad with joy; in her mind it becomes the nonexistent legacy, testimony to her tale of vanished elegance...