As I am having my morning coffee in one of my favorite cafés, I am not paying any attention to the music that comes from the loudspeakers. But then I hear a female voice that repeats the same lines over and over again in an unmistakable American accent. “Bang, bang,” she sings, “he shot me down.” I cannot be sure, but she sounds like a black woman. “Bang, bang,” she continues, “I hit the ground.” She could be either black or white, I realize after a while. “Bang, bang,” she sings, “that awful sound.” I could not agree more. “Bang, bang,” she concludes, “my baby shot me down.” So, she was either shot by her boyfriend or her son. Well, it could be her brother, too. One way or another, it smacks of America. The land of the free. And free to shoot anyone around. “Bang, bang,” I mumble to myself. In no time, I hear myself crooning along with the woman, whose voice gives me the creeps. “Bang, bang,” I sing to myself, “my baby shot me down.” I am celebrating the land of the free with a smirk on my face.