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Text messages pinged in and phones blared, angering Mateen. He told the many victims huddling under the barrel of his rifle that he “didn’t have a problem with black people,” as Carter would later tell reporters. In the bathrooms, Mateen paced, cursed, laughed and rambled in Arabic between bursts of gunfire. The ensuing three hours were a slow-motion terror. Forty-nine of his fellow Pulse patrons didn’t. In the Adonis Room, the smaller of Pulse’s two rooms, Luis Burdano fell to the floor, pulling his best friend and a stranger down with him. Amanda Alvear, 25, recorded her last few moments on a Snapchat video, perplexity blooming into panic as the realization set in. The music cut out, bodies were flying everywhere, in fear or out of injury. Men and men, women and women, about 300 in total, all together for a proper and altogether normal Saturday night smash at Pulse.
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Strobe lights were at full tilt, shot boys were dispensing liquid relief, the DJ commanded the crowd to get its hands up.
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Early that Sunday morning, moments before last call, the Pulse nightclub was a sweaty, Latin-themed riposte to Florida’s air-conditioned reality. For a fraction of a second, the noise of Omar Mateen’s assault rifle sounded like the big, loud, fuzzed-out bass coming from the stacks of the Pulse nightclub. That’s how Patience Carter, 20, of Philadelphia remembers it. Mourners comfort each other at a vigil in Orlando on June 13th, 2016.