So, I’m not really involved in this whole gun control thing. I don’t have a horse in this race, so I don’t care that much. But I saw a clip of that town hall thing, and thought that would be a good chance for a civilian to kill Trump, then thought that, maybe, if someone was twisted enough, they might not just take that opportunity, but create it.
I shouldn’t need to do this, but to clarify, I’m not on any side of politics. I think they’re all pieces of shit. This story isn’t to “say” anything, it’s just a little situation I came up with. Chill the fuck out.
Not really sure how I discovered this album, and I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I know I fucking love it.
I think the original idea came when we watched that town hall thing, where the parents of the victims of one of the school shootings were in a room with Trump, shook his hand, and whatnot.
Like many people, I detested the man. I didn’t know much about his policies or anything but I just hated him as a person – he was that spoiled brat that thought he could get away with anything. And now he was in the highest position in America, or possibly the earth – at least, the highest public position. I have no doubt that, say, the CEO of Disney or something like that had more worldwide power. Or the illuminati. Or freemasons.
But some sacrifices must be made to accomplish anything lasting. I have always been obsessed with duality. The balance of good and evil, of cost and benefit. I knew something had to happen, and I would be prepared to sacrifice anything to accomplish my goal.
My son went to a pretty big high school. He was a junior. Eventually I garnered from him the identity of the kid that was most on the fringes of the school. The outcast, the kid who spoke to no one and everyone left alone. The kid that had nothing to lose, because he was bullied and his dad had left and his stepfather was a piece of shit, and he wasn’t doing well in school. I arranged a meeting for us. Before the meeting, I had some shopping to do.
I wasn’t allowed to legally buy guns, any more. I had lost that privilege, which everyone called a right, in my twenties. But I knew a guy, who knew a guy. You know how it goes. I retrieved a Walther P99, three cartridges, with enough rounds to fill them. I gave them to this kid, along with $10,000 and instructions. Three weeks from now – enough time to live it up with that cash, a few high-class hookers, as much drugs and parties as he wanted – in the time between classes, when most students were in the halls, he would start shooting. It didn’t matter, for the most part, whom he shot. The kids who bullied him the most, whatever. Don’t worry about what abuse they suffer at their house, what stories you two must have in common about your stepfathers, just revenge, simple revenge. But the important thing was to kill T___ R______, my son. Of course, I didn’t tell him that I was his father. He didn’t know who I was, and I intended it to stay that way. Context just messed things up. I’ve decided that the true importance in any given event is in what happens in the event itself, not what led up to it. I vastly prefer the destination over the journey.
But light those halls up, kill my son, then – of course – kill himself. Experience anything he wanted in those three weeks, then end it all. It was a win-win solution.
Of course, I didn’t tell my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to handle it. She didn’t have the same resolve, the same fortitude, that I had. She would’ve broken down, she would’ve admitted something to somebody, and it would have all been for naught.
I remember the morning of that day. I didn’t even say goodbye to my son. I smiled, I waved, but I didn’t say anything. To be honest, I didn’t quite trust myself. I was concerned that, if I said anything to him, I might say something that would warn him, somehow, of what was going to happen. But he was my son, and he had to die as a sacrifice for the greater good. Like Jesus. God let him die for the greater good.
Everything went to plan, mostly. He was tackled by one of the kids, this senior that was in football and probably thought that he’d get some girls if he was the “self-sacrificial” one to take out the shooter. That little prick didn’t know anything about sacrifice, until the moment the gun was pointed at him. He was dead, my son was dead, and the shooter was dead.
I’ll admit, I felt paranoid here and there. But I had the “taboo protection”. If anyone suspected me of providing the shooter with weapons, there’s no way they could suggest it without being torn apart by the press and public. Survivors and parents of victims are immune to all criticism. I knew this, sure, but I was still paranoid every now and then.
My wife was upset, as expected. I played the part of a supportive husband quite well, if I do say so myself. Because the part was natural. I cared about my wife, I cared about my son. I just cared about killing Trump even more. Why can’t a man do both?
I hadn’t anticipated all the reporters and interviewers and all. I had kind of expected that we’d just be invited over to the white house or some shit. But, again, I played the part of a grieving parent well because, again, it was natural. Just a matter of switching modes.
I cried, my voice choked, I swore at the lawmakers and politicians and NRA and anything else I could grab onto long enough to tear to shreds.
Eventually, it was enough. I had sacrificed enough of my time and tears that we were able to pull together another town hall thing. I wasn’t quite sure about the security. I figured I probably wouldn’t be able to sneak a gun in there, but I remembered that movie with those two guys from Freaks and Geeks. They were going to kill Rocket Man (or his dad, not sure which, I was pretty drunk when I saw it) and they had the little strip they would put on their hands that would administer the poison transdermally. I could probably get something like that from that guy who knew that guy or, worst case, make something like it myself.
I don’t really know what Trump said during that meeting. I didn’t have to know what he said. All I had to do was agree with it, to show my support, to get a photo of he and I shaking hands. Which is what I did.
I don’t know how the other parents of victims took what he said. I didn’t really consider them in any of this, so there was no use in starting to care about them now. As I walked up to that podium, that fat yellow man before me, my hand extended, and I hesitated, for just a moment, was this real, was this happening, had I actually won? Had my little idea succeeded?
I smiled, I thanked him, I shook hands. I told him, I actually told him, to his face, that I was glad that someone was making a change. I just didn’t specify who that person was.