5 Tragedies That Douches Took Advantage Of

Fortunately, commenters soon stepped in to "remind" Sun of how using the death of a major celebrity to hawk his shitty make-believe money was a bad look, the best of which was a simple "Have you no shame?" And judging from the fact that Sun has a weird habit of advertising himself as being in partnerships with people who it later turns out, have no fucking idea who he is -- including Steve Wozniak, Liverpool FC, Baidu, and Warren Buffett -- we're going to venture a guess at the answer.

No.

It's not any better out of Asia, either. It's also been reported in the U.K., UAE, and USA, where price-gouging pharmacists have tenfold, tenfold, and treblefold (respectively) increased prices on face masks, while Amazon has now issued a warning to retailers to quit that bullshit on its platform. The only people who are allowed to use Amazon for evil are Amazon, dammit!

The kicker? According to the CDC, the best way of fighting Coronavirus lies in just washing your hands -- and as for the effectiveness of face masks, you're better off doing literally anything else because they flat-out don't really work.

Depressed? That was just the fucking PROLOGUE.

Today, there are fifty-one sites in the Mississippi Delta associated with Emmett Till -- including the riverside spot where Till's body was dumped. Despite being at the center of the crime, however, the market where it (read: nothing, because she made it up) happened is a dusty, derelict, overgrown ruin, but not for want of trying by the local community who'd very much like to turn it into a civil rights museum.

The owners of the building very much want this to happen, too -- just as long as they get four million dollars in return.

When locals first asked the building's owners to sell in 2006, they responded with an asking price of FORTY MILLION, but after being told (very politely) to go fuck themselves, they bartered themselves down to four million. That's against a government valuation of $20,00, by the way, because it turns out that when you let a building disintegrate into a vine-strangled, mold-covered disaster site that's haunted by a country's racist past, it knocks a few bucks off-of its market value.

If this was merely a case of someone trying to make a buck off of history, that'd be gross but not unsurprising. What elevates this story to obscene, however, is that the building is owned by the children of Ray Tribble, one of the twelve jurors who voted to acquit Till's killers in 1955. It's not even a case that they can't afford the upkeep on the building. In the 2000's, the Tribbles were awarded a grant to restore a building next to the marketplace, but while there are similar grants they could apply for to restore the marketplace, they aren't interested because, according to one local historian, they'd rather the building die than "be turned into a monument complicity of their patriarch in letting Till's killers walk free."

Of course, the family could always donate the property to the community and right their family's wrongs and provide "some measure of redemption" (in the words of Alvin Sykes, whose work forced the government to reopen Till's case in 2004). As it stands, though, Tribbles seem more than happy to just let it slowly turn to dust.

For the longest while, it seemed like the Ripper was a ghost. That is, until a major breakthrough happened in June 1979, when the Ripper contacted the police with a letter and a recorded message, for no other reason than to be a gigantic asshole.

Except, the idiot had forgotten to disguise his voice and soon enough, police had narrowed his dialect down to Wearside, an area of North-East England that police had only previously shown a minor interest in. The police buried Wearside in posters and leaflets containing samples of the Ripper's handwriting, as well as giving out a phone line where they could hear a sample of his message, all in the hopes that someone, anyone could identify him. But it wasn't to be. Soon enough, the police realized they'd been hoaxed and resumed their search 100 miles south of Wearside, in the industrial city of Sheffield -- where they found Sutcliffe driving around in a car with dodgy license plates, which between that and the fucking murder kit in his trunk, suggested that they'd finally gotten their man.

With the Ripper behind bars, the question begged: Who the fuck was "Wearside Jack," as he was now known. In 2006, we got our answer in the form of John Humble, an unemployed laborer who decided to exploit the investigation for his own needs. Fame? Money? His prison fetish? No, he wanted revenge against the police for having the audacity to arrest him for, um, punching a police officer. Imagine if your cokehead cousin decided to fuck with the BTK case because the cops impounded his shitty Camaro, and you're pretty much there.

Humble's shenanigans would've been fine if he was tampering with an investigation into, we don't know, apple scrumping or whatever weird low-key crimes happen in Britain, but thanks to his bizarre need for revenge, he distracted the police enough from Sutcliffe for long enough that Sutcliffe was able to kill three more women.

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