Oscar watches the faggots with their smartphone’s flashlights turned on, scanning their front yard, their neighbors’ yards, for what could only be their extra queer fluff-ball of a dog. Men have big dogs or nothing at all. They never have cats. Might as well be a woman if you have a cat, he thinks, rubbing the white beard growth covering his wrinkly chins. He can’t really hear what the gays are saying—I should call them gay, be polite at least for their sinning ways, he thinks—but sees their mouths moving, saying the same thing repeatedly. It’s got to be their dog’s name.
Moving away from the living room window, he goes and sits in the gaming chair his nephew bought him a year ago for his birthday. There’s no gaming console or even a television for that matter to watch, to occupy the hours of his retirement, just the gaming chair in the middle of the biggest room of his house. Magazines are stacked to the ceiling, as well as books of a wide assortment. The flapping of the flag outside the window catches his attention as he sits and makes him chuckle. Hope you gays get a good look at that, he snickers to himself. The flag has LET’S GO BRANDON in big white letters on it with a dark blue background, surrounded by white patriotic stars. He bets that couple—if they can even really be called such a thing—must get really pissed when they see it. No doubt Biden supporters. Ignorant. Damn baby killers the lot of them. Ruining this country with their socialist bullshit, always with their hands out. Probably on the dole, not bothering to work a damn day. Corrupting kids. They deserve what they got coming to them . . .
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His walls around him are empty.
Living alone, he reads. He orders magazines off the old beat-up smartphone which
he normally keeps for venturing onto Reddit feeds where he can share his
musings about Biden, the Demon Rats, and the ongoing ills of the world like his
faggoty neighbors who are probably disgusting drag queens to boot. Sorry,
gay neighbors. I’m not the problem. They are! He thinks with a warm feeling
of self-satisfaction.
There’s a quick series of rabbit-like
knocks on his door, fast and furious like a little horny Thumper. Grumbling, he
lifts himself out his chair—his back just beginning to relax—and answers it,
his face broadcasting displeasure. It’s the chubby cheeked fag. Er, gay.
“Lost your dog, have you?” Oscar says.
He’s wearing old pajama bottoms. His shirt is a new cotton-blend he ordered through
the mail, like his magazines, which he wants to get back to . . .
“Mr. Martinez! Yes, please . . . it’s
Pierre! He’s gotten out. I don’t know how. I’m so worried.”
“Huh,” Oscar says, scanning over the
chubby cheeked one’s shoulder. His manfriend continues to look upwards towards the
west end of Getty Street, near the entrance to the main road. “You should do
better at keeping him on a leash. Life ain’t free you know.”
“What?” The queer asks him. His hopeful
expression quickly flashing annoyance. “Just need to know if you’ve seen him .
. . little black dog, very fluffy, always happy.”
“Nope,” Oscar replies. “Ain’t seen
him.”
And slams the door in the so-called
man’s face.
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