my boy, not yours

“WRONG DOESN’T BEGIN TO DESCRIBE IT!” bellowed Kevin Kilroy, before he threw down his smart phone. Anger overwhelmed the features of his face, which sat below his medium-length brown hair and beneath three days’ growth of stubble. It seemed as if his face had become twenty percent larger than normal due to the intensity of his expressions! His rage was heavily focused in his eyes, but it was also recognizable in the angry twist of his lips and the cardinal-red coloring of his cheeks; a slightly less-intense shade of red covered the rest of his face and there were a few splotches of fury on his forehead.

Kevin Kilroy stormed out the door, making sure that he had his wallet and his truck key in his pocket. At first, he was going to leave his smart-phone behind; he started walking toward the front door to leave, but reversed course, took two steps back, and grabbed his phone, stuffing it in his back pocket.

Originally from Kingwood, Texas, Kevin worked as a welder for a small rigging outfit in Houston. In light of everything — his lengthy divorce and a difficult, ongoing battle with a couple of harmful addictions (he hadn’t touched alcohol or oxycodone in almost three months)— Kevin was managing his life just fine. He was getting along. He was feeling better about his role as a single dad. His nine-year old son — Justin Kilroy — was doing well. A happy kid! Kevin had custody of Justin every other weekend, plus a day and-a-half during the week. Justin, a rough and tumble American boy, loved baseball, toy trucks, wrestling with dad, adventure stories involving battles between knights and dragons — and the little tyke was a natural on the little guitar that Kevin and his ex-wife, Lynnette, had bought for Justin’s sixth birthday. Normal stuff, wonderfully normal!

Kevin’s white Chevy Silverado raced off as he smashed the gas pedal. Footprints, by Lamb of God, blared out of his stereo. He turned the volume up even more. He made two stops. First, the hardware store, where he purchased three five-gallon gasoline canisters. The second stop was the gas station. He inserted his credit card, and when the machine beeped in approval, he filled all three canisters with regular gasoline. Back in his truck, he smashed the gas pedal again and made his way down the road at a rapid pace. He was going twenty-five miles an hour over the speed limit, veering in and out of traffic — his destination: the Houston Public Library.

He arrived and parked. Before walking in, he grabbed the three gas canisters out of the truck bed, holding two in his right hand and one in his left. He was still in his welding company uniform (pocket patch: Joe’s Welding Co.). He looked like a maintenance worker, so no one took much notice of him or his activity. Kevin forced himself to walk slowly so as to not look agitated or suspicious. He calmed himself as much as he could. He breathed in, then out. He walked directly to the Houston Public Library elevator and went to the basement level. He found a back corner that was poorly lit and stashed the gas canisters there.

He explored some more, walking to a back utility room, which was unlocked, and he located the valve that allowed water to flow into the building — to the bathrooms, the drinking faucets, and, of course, the automatic fire-retardation sprinklers. He made a note of the location of the valve, but didn’t adjust its positioning. The utility room had a closed outer door, which he unbolted from the inside. He opened it and looked out. There was a small, sub-terrainian terrace with stairs leading up to ground level. Satisfied, Kevin returned to the elevator, and pressed the “up” button, then operated the machine to get back to the main floor. The elevator did its thing, and soon he was walking methodically through the Houston Public Library lobby and over to the reception and information desk.

“How may I help you?” asked the attendant, a woman with glasses, dyed-purple hair and an obvious, unrestrained love for carbohydrates. She barely looked up from her phone as she spoke.

“I’m Kevin Kilroy. I’m a parent of a student from Weston Grade School. I was told by a friend of mine that there were some dudes dressed up as women reading to kids here today. Who was responsible for arranging that?”

“Excuse you! Those were Trans-gender women, not ‘dudes!’ Drag reading hour, it’s a thing,” replied the purple-haired carb enthusiast.

“Um, it don’t matter what you call it. Who set it up? I’ve got some questions.”

“Rachel Zukerman, third floor,” said the woman, dismissively. She returned her full attention to her phone.

Kevin walked back to the elevator and took a ride to the third floor, he walked out and looked around. A few yards down the hall, he spotted a ‘Rachel Zukerman’ name plate on the wall outside of an office. Her office! Without knocking, he opened the door.

Rachel, a thin-lipped, curly-haired single woman of about fifty, looked up from her desk, which was covered in cat-related decor. Rachel’s expression was normal, at first, and then it morphed into clear discomfort, noticeable uneasiness as she zeroed in on Kevin’s face.

“They said you were responsible for them fuckin’ dudes dressed up as women reading to my boy. He’s nine years old, I don’t need him seein’ that kind of shit. What in the hell is going on in this place? I just wanted to say — fuck you. I’m gonna do something about it. Trash!”

The veins in Kevin’s neck bulged as he yelled at Rachel Zukerman. Hearing his words — processing them — Rachel’s face twisted into a look that, only at first, shifted her uneasiness all the way over to fear. After the fear showed itself, something happened. Her face shifted, once again — away from fear. A reptilian sneer — Kevin saw it as a Satanic look of superiority and control — replaced the fear that had shown on her face for a few moments.

“Obviously, you can’t unders-ssstand the gender fluidity of childhood and of humanity. I wouldn’t expect you to. That’s why your child — whoever he issss — issss our child now — not yours. We decide what he does and doesn’t think, and we’re going to give him glamorous, queer and transss role models,” she said, as she looked Kevin Kilroy, the welder, up and down. “Plea-ssse leave my offic-ccce,” she added. Her tone was snide and condescending. She hissed angrily and flicked her tongue.

Kevin had snapped when he first heard that some man, dressed as a woman, had been reading to his boy. He knew, intuitively, that this was child abuse, even if the man hadn’t been able to openly molest any of the children this time around. Pure evil! He wouldn’t let it happen to his boy, ever again. And now… well, after Rachel’s little rant, Kevin Kilroy snapped once more. He thought about knocking Rachel Zukerman out with a punch, but instead he took two steps over to the wall, yanked a framed photograph of a cat off its hook and smashed it on the floor.

“You ain’t gonna do nothin’ like that, lady,” said Kevin, leaving the room.

Kevin walked out of the office and back to the elevator. He was satisfied with his first wave of attack. He had confronted the aggressors — the woman who enabled the child abuse — in person, and it felt good. He walked steadily out of the office and made his way down to the ground floor where security, which had obviously been called by Rachel Zukerman, was waiting for him outside the elevator.

“You need to leave the building, immediately, or we will call the police,” said the security guard who was standing in front of the elevator. The security guard looked quite unsure of himself — the only action he usually encountered at the library was choosing between donuts and donut-holes, sprinkles or no sprinkles. He had no confidence and was relieved when it became clear that Kevin Kilroy had no issue with him and was not violent or antagonistic.

“You won’t have to ask me twice, I’m out of here,” replied Kevin, raising a hand to show that he was calm. Saying no more, he walked out the front exit of the Houston Public Library.

Kevin Kilroy didn’t know anything about the social forces that had created the “Tranny Reading Hour” to which his son Justin had been subjected, by the forceful mandate of the state via his school. He was a welder, a recovering addict, a divorcee, a single-dad. He had no time to study the link between the monetary interests of the pharmaceutical companies, the woke “charitable” foundations and their main benefactors— typically, old, white billionaires, some of them even trannies themselves — these people and corporations had slowly, then more aggressively, pushed this strange breed of filth onto a distracted and unsuspecting populace. They attacked good people who resisted their movement by tagging them with accusations of -phobias. They even publicly hounded people out of their jobs if they were too vocal in their opposition to their social agenda. The entire time, the foot-soldiers in the movement were gas-lighting the same people on pronouns, normal bathroom usage and women’s sports. Kevin didn’t really pay attention to the sad cases where males were allowed to dominate women’s sports by pretending to be women. Track, rugby, wrestling, handball, weightlifting and on and on. Why would Kevin know anything about that stuff? He didn’t have time for all of that — he was just trying to get by, to build a decent life for himself and for his boy.

None of those things crossed his mind as he made a left hand turn after walking out of the Houston Public Library. He didn’t know about any of them. The only thing he was thinking about was the incredible arrogance Rachel Zukerman showed after pushing this degeneracy on his innocent little boy. Kevin Kilroy made his way around the back of the building and down the stairs toward the little terrace he had previously scoped out. The one behind the utility room. He walked down the stairs and entered through the back door he had un-bolted earlier. Kevin shut the water valve off, completely — the bathrooms, faucets, and emergency sprinklers would have no water supply. Striding with a determination and certainty in his walk, Kevin Kilroy walked to the back corner where he had stashed the gas canisters when he first arrived.

“We’re gonna need a cleansing fire,” Kevin said to himself, softly but firmly.

He grabbed the canisters and walked out to the main area of the basement. Books, needing to be sorted, were strewn around the entire area — but no workers had entered the space. Kevin nodded his head as he emptied the three canisters around the area. He took his lighter, a black Zippo with a drawing of a skeleton smoking a cigarette on the front, flipped it open and lit the outer part of the gasoline trail aflame. He had kicked the alcohol and the oxycodone — but using the lighter reminded him that he still had to break his Marlboro habit. That was for later, he thought, and he lit a cigarette before putting his lighter back in his pocket.

As he turned around the corner toward the front of the building, he could hear the piercing screech of the building’s fire alarm. There would be no water flowing through the emergency fire-suppression sprinklers. “That’s right, Rachel,” he thought. People were chattering loudly as they streamed out of the building, through the front door — their escape was fine with Kevin, even preferred — he wanted to burn the library down but wasn’t looking to cause any human casualties. For a moment, he crossed his arms, puffing on his cigarette, with the late afternoon sun shining down, pleasantly, on his face. He smiled, ever so slightly.

By the time the fire engines arrived, only a few minutes had passed, but the Houston Public Library was heavily engulfed in flames. Nothing had suppressed the fire, and books, with a gasoline accelerator … well, they burn easily. The building was going to be lost, completely.

Kevin Kilroy had one last thing on his mind. He wanted to see Rachel Zukerman, one last time. He had a few words to share with her. He scanned the crowd, searching, looking, trying to find the woman he had confronted just about twenty minutes earlier. Suddenly, she made it easy on him, since he saw the curly-headed woman standing out in front of the crowd — crying and shrieking at the top of her lungs, “Nooooo! Nooooo! My library!”

He walked over to her and passed her without breaking stride, heading for his truck. When he was closest, he leaned in, just a little bit, and smiled. In a firm, loud tone, he said: “Never forget this, lady: He’s my boy, not yours.”

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