The crowd was entertained. Some reveled in the death of others. They weren't dying, so what did they care? They just wanted to enjoy a good show.
If this was last week's column, I would have been referring to those in the arena cheering the slaughter of men, women, and children in Nero's Circus, in first-century Rome.
Being a billionaire has its perks. With a private jet you don't have to deal with long airport security lines, and a chauffeur will be at your beck and call all the time. You have assistants for everything from walking the dog to walking you into a doctor's appointment.
People fawn over you, women half your age want to date you, and after a while you've convinced yourself it's all due to your good looks and charm, even though you're pushing 70.
