I started to write this after Julie nudged me like eight months ago, and didn't post it until now
He looked like a million other people. His gut hung over his belt, with the fabric of his rebel flag t-shirt stretched thin over his stomach and tucked tight into his pants. Then there was the camouflage. His boots. His hat. His pants. All were designed to blend him in with the trees and leaves that he must have been disappointed to find did not exist in the Wal-Mart he was shopping in.
I looked over my shoulder to Walter, who was watching this man as intently as I was, and gave him a nod. Walter's face tensed up as he pretended to asses different varieties of golf balls with his glance subtley fixed on the nearby hunting section. With Walter's face so stiff and his eyes so narrowed, anyone else might have thought he looked angry, but I knew that he was nervous. But I also knew how much he wanted this.
The object of our interest seemed to have selectd one of the orange safety vests that he had been assessing over the last ten minutes. Walter's face tensed even more. The man could either move on to another section, and giving us more time to prepare ourselves, or make a purchase right there at the counter in the sporting goods section and leave for his car, which would make Walter's anxieties spike, although I can't imagine his face could express them anymore than they already were. The man confirmed our immediate fates by quickly grabbing a couple boxes of ammo and walking over to the check out counter. Walter's focus intensified.
Walter was having a hard time playing it cool as we followed the man from a safe distance as he made his way down the center aisle towards the exit. I had been over it with Walter a hundred times: just look like you're supposed to be there. Walk with confidence. But he was thinking about other things. I knew he wouldn't fuck this up though because no one was paying attention to us anyway, and with this being the first time, the difficulties he was experiencing at that point were sure to dissipate with further outings.
His car was parked towards the edge of parking lot, which is why we picked him. Well, one of the reasons. He looked like a million other people who all lived right around where we were. He looked perfect. As he crossed the parking lot traffic, we stepped up our speed and walked past him. Our car was parked his, tucked in between a couple gas guzzlers so he wouldn't be able to see us getting ready. We put on some heavy jackets and Walter tied a bandanna around his face. I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and pulled a ski cap down around my ears.
Walter wasn't using anything, but I had my bat. It was this little wooden baseball bat that my parents had bought me when I was a kid. It was lightweight and handled like a small club. I could walk towards the guy and tuck it close to my leg and he wouldn't be able to see what I was holding. Once we were ready, we headed to his car. We timed it perfectly, he noticed us walking towards him before he had started to dig in his pocket for his keys. Then he saw us.
Immediately, his chest puffed up. He was perfect. Like a million other people. With Walter so nervous I had been anticipating doing all the talking, but Walter led in.
"FAGGOT!"
The guy's fists were raised but Walter took him out at the knee with a swift kick. My baseball bat slammed into the middle of the guy's face. His nose caved in and his lips bulged up around the wood. I hadn't done too much damage, enough to where he couldn't fight back but not too much so that he wouldn't understand what was happening. He could hear what Walter was saying to him. The blood was sticky. It was like paste. It was perfect. Beaten up and bloody, he looked like a thousand other people.
I'm glad I didn't have to do the talking. Honestly, it was the only part I had been dreading. I wasn't sure I could. But Walter could. Walter told him how disgusting he was. He told him he was going to hell. Walter pushed the man's face into the pavement and told him that he would no longer be allowed to recruit innocent children into his lifestyle. Walter didn't mean a word of it, but he was playing his part well. Walter told him that he could spot him from a mile away and it made him sick. He told him to get out of our town. Cocksucker. Faggot. Walter said it over and over.
I took out a camera and snapped the man's picture while he was bleeding on the ground. I hope he was confused. I hope he would sit up at night while his wife was alseep and wonder why we thought he was gay. We didn't. He wasn't. We made sure, it was very important that he wasn't. That's why we picked him. He looked just like what people would picture us as looking like when they would think of the attack.
When the man's wounds would start to heal, he'd start to see the fliers posted up around his neighborhood. I had to take his picture a couple of times. The blood was thick, and it was getting the way. I had to make sure his neighbors would be able to recognize him when they saw the fliers. But I still wanted them to see the blood. And they did. In the final print, his mouth was hanging open, the blood was plastered to his cheeks, and "HOMO" was emblazoned boldly just above his snapshot in big letters.
After enough time had past, we had asked around about him to see if anyone had heard, and they had. Everyone blamed him, and everyone believed what the fliers told them. Except for maybe his family, no one in the whole damn town was sympathetic. He deserved it, that fucking faggot, they'd say. We'd hear some loud bitch decrying him while she waited tables in a diner and our ears would perk up. Our first selection was random, based on pure stereotype, but every time we'd hear some loudmouth praise our efforts we would go after them. Sometimes we would mix it up and go after their father, or their brother.
We weren't sure what would happen. At first, I thought maybe I could make people second guess themselves and rethink all of their bullshit, but thought better of it. Then I imagined these people lost and scared and paranoid, second guessing everybody else. I pictured them spending the rest of their lives trying to compensate for qualities that they thought they had but didn't. They'd be scared and alone, just like a million other people. I thought of a million fat southern men dressed in camo becoming the new gay stereotype. I pictured that and smiled.
When we started, I never wanted to stop, and for awhile we didn't. We must have done it hundreds of times over the years. Most people in town were fans of what they thought we did, and it was a long time before we met any opposition, but eventually some people who weren't exactly fans of ours came out of the woodwork and started trying to anticipate our movements. Luckily by that time we were starting to get bored anyway, so we started bouncing around some ideas for a new gig. The one we eventually settled on was the one that really pissed people off.
I looked over my shoulder to Walter, who was watching this man as intently as I was, and gave him a nod. Walter's face tensed up as he pretended to asses different varieties of golf balls with his glance subtley fixed on the nearby hunting section. With Walter's face so stiff and his eyes so narrowed, anyone else might have thought he looked angry, but I knew that he was nervous. But I also knew how much he wanted this.
The object of our interest seemed to have selectd one of the orange safety vests that he had been assessing over the last ten minutes. Walter's face tensed even more. The man could either move on to another section, and giving us more time to prepare ourselves, or make a purchase right there at the counter in the sporting goods section and leave for his car, which would make Walter's anxieties spike, although I can't imagine his face could express them anymore than they already were. The man confirmed our immediate fates by quickly grabbing a couple boxes of ammo and walking over to the check out counter. Walter's focus intensified.
Walter was having a hard time playing it cool as we followed the man from a safe distance as he made his way down the center aisle towards the exit. I had been over it with Walter a hundred times: just look like you're supposed to be there. Walk with confidence. But he was thinking about other things. I knew he wouldn't fuck this up though because no one was paying attention to us anyway, and with this being the first time, the difficulties he was experiencing at that point were sure to dissipate with further outings.
His car was parked towards the edge of parking lot, which is why we picked him. Well, one of the reasons. He looked like a million other people who all lived right around where we were. He looked perfect. As he crossed the parking lot traffic, we stepped up our speed and walked past him. Our car was parked his, tucked in between a couple gas guzzlers so he wouldn't be able to see us getting ready. We put on some heavy jackets and Walter tied a bandanna around his face. I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and pulled a ski cap down around my ears.
Walter wasn't using anything, but I had my bat. It was this little wooden baseball bat that my parents had bought me when I was a kid. It was lightweight and handled like a small club. I could walk towards the guy and tuck it close to my leg and he wouldn't be able to see what I was holding. Once we were ready, we headed to his car. We timed it perfectly, he noticed us walking towards him before he had started to dig in his pocket for his keys. Then he saw us.
Immediately, his chest puffed up. He was perfect. Like a million other people. With Walter so nervous I had been anticipating doing all the talking, but Walter led in.
"FAGGOT!"
The guy's fists were raised but Walter took him out at the knee with a swift kick. My baseball bat slammed into the middle of the guy's face. His nose caved in and his lips bulged up around the wood. I hadn't done too much damage, enough to where he couldn't fight back but not too much so that he wouldn't understand what was happening. He could hear what Walter was saying to him. The blood was sticky. It was like paste. It was perfect. Beaten up and bloody, he looked like a thousand other people.
I'm glad I didn't have to do the talking. Honestly, it was the only part I had been dreading. I wasn't sure I could. But Walter could. Walter told him how disgusting he was. He told him he was going to hell. Walter pushed the man's face into the pavement and told him that he would no longer be allowed to recruit innocent children into his lifestyle. Walter didn't mean a word of it, but he was playing his part well. Walter told him that he could spot him from a mile away and it made him sick. He told him to get out of our town. Cocksucker. Faggot. Walter said it over and over.
I took out a camera and snapped the man's picture while he was bleeding on the ground. I hope he was confused. I hope he would sit up at night while his wife was alseep and wonder why we thought he was gay. We didn't. He wasn't. We made sure, it was very important that he wasn't. That's why we picked him. He looked just like what people would picture us as looking like when they would think of the attack.
When the man's wounds would start to heal, he'd start to see the fliers posted up around his neighborhood. I had to take his picture a couple of times. The blood was thick, and it was getting the way. I had to make sure his neighbors would be able to recognize him when they saw the fliers. But I still wanted them to see the blood. And they did. In the final print, his mouth was hanging open, the blood was plastered to his cheeks, and "HOMO" was emblazoned boldly just above his snapshot in big letters.
After enough time had past, we had asked around about him to see if anyone had heard, and they had. Everyone blamed him, and everyone believed what the fliers told them. Except for maybe his family, no one in the whole damn town was sympathetic. He deserved it, that fucking faggot, they'd say. We'd hear some loud bitch decrying him while she waited tables in a diner and our ears would perk up. Our first selection was random, based on pure stereotype, but every time we'd hear some loudmouth praise our efforts we would go after them. Sometimes we would mix it up and go after their father, or their brother.
We weren't sure what would happen. At first, I thought maybe I could make people second guess themselves and rethink all of their bullshit, but thought better of it. Then I imagined these people lost and scared and paranoid, second guessing everybody else. I pictured them spending the rest of their lives trying to compensate for qualities that they thought they had but didn't. They'd be scared and alone, just like a million other people. I thought of a million fat southern men dressed in camo becoming the new gay stereotype. I pictured that and smiled.
When we started, I never wanted to stop, and for awhile we didn't. We must have done it hundreds of times over the years. Most people in town were fans of what they thought we did, and it was a long time before we met any opposition, but eventually some people who weren't exactly fans of ours came out of the woodwork and started trying to anticipate our movements. Luckily by that time we were starting to get bored anyway, so we started bouncing around some ideas for a new gig. The one we eventually settled on was the one that really pissed people off.