Once upon a time people couldn’t stand one another. Every place they went they saw others they despised. It was the differences, you see. The range of opinions. The radical viewpoints (we perceived) were everything that was wrong with the world. People hated each other, and such loathing had very little to do with the outside world. Everything that offended people came from inside, from presumption and false conclusions, and no one really wanted to hear opposing points of view. That was what the internet was for–cell phones, and the like. We could read something stupid and then make a few nasty comments without bothering to wait for a response. It was easier that way, easier for people to know their own minds. It was what the world had become.
Arthur Comstack was an angry white man. Raised in the midwest, south of Chicago, Arthur had been mediocre at everything he ever tired to do with his life. He was a cornerback on his high school football team the year they lost every game. He could have been a great baseball player if those assholes hadn’t been so worried about his grades. Those in power had always taken away his opportunities and he hated them for it.
He had been married for thirteen years and had only cheated on his wife twice, having been rejected more times than that when he’d drunkenly approached women in a bar after work. Fucking dykes, he told himself. All of them fucking dykes.
His wife had lost her looks. All she did was yell at him, shrieking about money, screaming about how much of a mess their house was. She would tell Arthur that he was a terrible husband. She mumbled insincerely about wanting a divorce. Arthur could not stand her.
He hated his children too, one of them fifteen, another twelve, and a seven year old he had never wanted, conceived in an effort to save the marriage. They were a boy (probably queer), a girl (bitch), and another boy (definitely a faggot, this one), and all they did was drain his bank account and his energy, and they whined and cried and demanded and it wouldn’t be long before he hauled off and hit one of them (probably the baby), and oh how he wished for just a moment of silence!
Even Sundays were chaos any longer. Why couldn’t a man just sit around with his high school buddy, drinking beer, watching football and yelling at the players, the coaches, and the commentators on TV like he did back during the year and a half of community college when they lived together in a one bedroom apartment–the best years of their lives?
The children seemed to have all entered those obnoxious years of teenage and pre-teen anxiety at the same time, where their infantile self-absorption took on more urgent, hormonal significance, and Arthur could never be sure if when one or the other or the other one threatened to kill themselves, they were serious. On some days–particularly after a hard day at work, Arthur wished that they were.
Arthur hated his job too. He worked as an ‘industrial loader,’ a position that he knew someday soon would be replaced by a robot. After all, he was little more than a machine operator as it was. How long before they cut out the middleman?
But it was hard work, exhausting. His bosses were assholes too–that black motherfucker Clarence, his immediate superior, stupid as shit and a bully to boot; and that bitch in the head office telling all the men what to do. When did she ever work anyway, with her fancy business degree from Northwestern, and her rich daddy giving her the job she was clearly not qualified for? It was a disgrace. America was becoming a disgrace.
Arthur had voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 election, and he was still proud of his choice. Oh, sure, he agreed that the man was probably a little rough around the edges, but we lived in a time when being good wasn’t an option if we were gonna fight off all the niggers and chinks and faggots and spics that were pushing their socialist agendas on white America. You might not want to sit down and chat over a beer with Donald Trump (he didn’t drink either, did he?), but the man sure could get things done. He spoke his mind. He was one of us, despite his billions of dollars, and his privileged upbringing where he never wanted for anything. Shit, the man had even had three hot-as-shit wives, trading each of them in for a new one when they got too old. The man lived the sort of life anyone could admire, and what was wrong with all these pussy-assed liberals trying to take him down?
Arthur knew that Trump was a liar, but so were the Democrats! So was Hillary! And she was even more corrupt than Donald Trump! She . . . she . . . Bengazi! E-mails! She belonged in jail for whatever she did with those! And all these crimes they claimed Trump was guilty of–Trump was the only one telling the truth about anything! The Fake news, lyin’ main stream media. All of them liars. Communists. Nazis! Trying to frame a great patriot like Donald Trump for their own crimes!
As the investigations into the Trump administration grew increasingly tense, and the smug voices on the left increasingly shrill, Arthur decided he had had enough. He was sick of these fucking assholes trying to drag America down. He was angry with the left-wing propagandists on CNN and with . . . with . . . Nancy Pelosi . . . and George Soros and all of those other Illuminati psychopaths trying to destroy America. Them in their deep state, with their dark money, and Jewish influence–maybe Hitler was right after all? But you couldn’t kill people, right? Killing people was wrong . . .
One day Arthur was out hunting with his friend, looking to sate his ever growing rage with the head of a giant buck stuck up on the wall of his man cave. Fuck it, he wasn’t even gonna clean the thing! Let the blood of the liberal faggots trying to take his gun away from him stain the walls, and let everyone know how much of a real man and patriot he was!
As Arthur was stalking the buck he heard a high-pitched voice. He saw a small group of people–an interracial gang of children ranging from about sixteen years old, to the youngest who couldn’t have been older than five. These brats were walking right out onto the field. They had tiny, little drums dangling from their necks. When the buck came into view, and Arthur tensed up, aiming his rifle, the children started banging on their gongs and shouting. They shouted “Meat is murder!” and “Hunting is for savages,” and crazy things like “Gun Control!” and “Gun control!” Those bastards were finally coming to do it! They were using children to take away their guns.
Arthur looked back at his friend, who had a confused look on his face. He was scratching his head and had his gun by his side, pointing at the sky. Arthur thought about his life, about how meaningless all of his childhood dreams had become. He was a wholly anonymous person who would never be remembered. He wasn’t even a good conservative. He contributed nothing. What could Donald Trump possibly think of him?
Arthur aimed his gun at the bitch who appeared to be the leader. His friend put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Art, no.” Arthur shrugged him off. He pulled the trigger. There were shouts and screams and the buck took off. All of the children were running, except the one. Arthur’s friend dashed back to the Charger and started it up, leaving him there in the field with a literal smoking gun.
Arthur slowly walked up to the child convulsing in the grass. She was not yet dead. He had hit her in the chest. She was staring up at him with terror in her eyes and when she tried to say something all that seeped out was a bubble of blood.
“There won’t be no new world order, you fucking cunt,” Arthur said. And then he pulled the trigger again. He reloaded and fired again. And again.
When the police finally came for him, they shot him down when he wouldn’t give up his gun (“pry it from my cold, dead hands, you liberal assholes!”) in a matter of seconds.
The story hardly made the national news, merely a footnote about an increasingly unraveling and violent society. Arthur Comstack’s name was not mentioned once on TV, although it appeared twice in a newspaper nobody read any longer. The political motives behind his killing went unknown. It was considered the senseless crime of a deranged individual.
Arthur’s friend told the cops and journalists over his fifteen minutes of fame that he was never really close to Arthur, and that the man seemed to have been losing his mind over the past few months. Then he talked about Donald Trump, himself still a supporter, and wound up blaming ‘the Democrats,’ for what happened to Arthur.
No one repeated any of these words in public. Arthur’s wife remarried, and the middle child overdosed on fentanyl two years later. The youngest boy decided he was meant to be a girl at the age of eleven. The oldest child grew increasingly angry and fanatical. He considered his father a hero. He wished his father could see him today and tell him how proud he was of the man he would one day become.