The Terror[blist]

by C. Sean McGee

  “No” shouted Gavin, squirming away from his mother’s pecking hands. “Stop it. God, do you have to be so embarrassing?”

  “Embarrassing? Is that what I am? Oh Jesus…I’m sorry then. Sorry for being an embarrassment” she said, her hand pulling up over her mouth and tears streaming from her eyes. “If that’s how you feel then so be it.”

  Her voice cackled.

  “I’m just trying to do what’s right for you. It’s not easy you know, being a mother. It’s all, mum I want this and mum I need that and mum drop me here and mum take me there and only when it bloody suits you. The rest of the time I’m a bloody embarrassment.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that mum it’s just.”

  “No, it’s ok son. The damage is done. You’re right, I am. I mean, what kind of fool would take all this shite for so long and still wake up early every morning to crisp your y-fronts in the dryer for fifteen minutes so you’re little fella can be all warm when you get up. I am the idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot.”

  “Who’s not an idiot?”

  His father came stamping out of his bedroom. His feet slapped against the wooden boards like drunken farmer’s open palm on a stubborn mule’s ass.

  “Nobody” said The Mother.

  “Dinner ready yet?”

  He was picking his underwear from his buttocks with one hand while the other fished up his right nostril.

  “I was just getting started.”

  “Well then, don’t dilly daddle all bloody day. I’m starvin. Now, what’s this I hear about you getting fired?” The Father said.

  All of a sudden, the vest seemed so heavy and his mother was right, the arms of the jacket seemed so absurdly long. He felt like he was shrinking into himself and the sound of his father’s snorting whistle from his nose as he breathed, etched away the image of greatness in his mind.

  “Well? What the fuck did you do this time?”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “No, it’s never you. It’s always somebody else fault. You’re the fucking angel in all of this. Out there doin the world a fucking favour. So what are you gonna do now? Huh?”

  Gavin hated this. His father’s word were like axe splitting into his reason and not cutting it in half entirely, just cutting and ripping threads from his confidence, splinter by splinter. And he knew it was coming. It always did. And here is was.

  “How long do I have to support you? Huh? While you treat life like some kind of vacation, moving between this and moving between that. You know when I was your age, I was already married to your mum, I had a house and we were about to have your brother. What have you got to show for yourself? What have you done that’s special? You just sit around her moping all day long. Watching television. Reading your stupid books. I’m paying for this you know. This extravagant life of doing jack shit. It’s on my back. Where’s my fucking thank you, huh? What are you gonna do now?” he said.

  Gavin pressed his hand against his heart. Though it might have looked as if he were pained by some thread in his being or some sting in his soul, he was in fact, clasping at the buttons on the control which was tucked into the left breast of his black suicide vest.

  What was he going to do?

  “You’ll see” said Gavin.

  “What does that mean? I’ll see? I’ll see my arse. You’ll see. You’ll see the back of my fucking hand if you don’t get out there and find another job. There’ll be no horsin around this time. I’ll give you two weeks to find a job. If you don’t, you’re out on your arse. I’m tired of carrying you and your dreams. You need to grow up and earn a pair. You can’t have your mum heating up your bloody underwear all your fucking life. You gotta be a man at some time.”

  “I’ve got something planned ok.”

  “Something, what?”

  “I can’t say. Not yet. It’s something big though. Bigger than selling friggin mobiles plans.”

  “And what’s wrong with selling mobile plans?”

  And then in walked the good son.

  “Seriously. You were good at your job. But you had to go bloody crazy. Now I have management on my bum asking me why my brother had to flip the lid under my command. You know, they’re thinking of implementing an action plan for this? Because of you?”

  “Oh hunny, an action plan, is that serious?

  “It’s an action plan, of course it’s serious. It’s not a procrastination plan.”

  The Brother laughed out loud. He held one hand over his stomach to assume maybe that his laughter was an inch from bursting from his stomach and he held one hand over his mouth so as not to show his teeth when he smiled. His laughter sounded like an old man’s dying cough.

  “You are such a devil” said The Mother.

  “It is serious though mother” he said, ironing out the crease in his humour. “An action plan is not to be taken lightly and this could greatly affect my chance of being promoted to upper lower middle management.”

  “Oohh, that sounds important.”

  “It is mother. It’s very important. At least someone in this family takes responsibility seriously.”

  “That’s exactly what I said. He needs to grow up and stop acting like a child.”

  “You need to stop treating him like a child.”

  “I’ve given him two weeks.”

  The Brother looked at Gavin. He wore the same disapproving look that he wore his whole life. It seemed that he disapproved of everything. It seemed more so that he disapproved of himself.

  “That is a wonderful suit” said The Mother.

  “It’s striking” said The Father.

  “It is beautiful isn’t it” said The Brother. “I bought it yesterday. I paid one thousand.”

  “One thousand. On a suit? Would you ever?”

  “It’s the price of success mother. One must look as if he has earned his riches and he must spend those riches so that he knows their weight when he calls for them back.”

  “That’s right,” said the Father, “I told you before. You gotta look the part. That’s all that’s important. If you look the part then all the other pieces will just line up for ya. Now you look at the get up of this one here” he said, hinting at Gavin.

  “Where did you get that god awful jacket?” asked The Brother.

  Gavin squeezed his hand on the control. He could feel the button pressing in. He wanted so much to press it all the way, for the bombs to explode, to ignite everyone in the room. He couldn’t do that though. This was not how it would end.

  If he were just to kill his family. It would be reported as a tragedy. The media, they would focus on his depression and they would interview his doctor and all the people of whom had never seen him smile and they would all grieve over the innocent death and waste of life, but they would label him as poor and weak and sad and disheveled and his name would be embroiled in fickle sympathy and it would be forgotten.

  No.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  Not this way.

  His death would be great. It would be translated into a thousand tongues and he would be spoken about in both disgust and reverie but unto the course of existence and mankind, his life and his death would enact some great change and therefore his death would bring about purpose and outcome. And his family would feel less than empowered as the world looked for some kindly genetic to blame.

  “Seriously though Gavin. You could be something if you just applied yourself.”

  “Listen to him. He knows what he’s talking about” said The Father.

  “Look at me. I am about to be promoted to upper lower middle management. I have a great one bedroom apartment not far from the city. I have my own car and I have a beautiful wife.”

  “Yeah, but your job is shit, your apartment’s a joke, your car’s a piece of crap and well…. You’re gay. You get that don’t you? You are gay.”

  “What? That’s absurd.”

  “Shut your mouth Gavin. What a disgusting thing to say. Your brother
is not gay. He is married to a beautiful woman, right?” shouted The Father looking to The Brother and The Mother.

  “That’s right” said The Mother. “He’s not gay. This is… this is not the kind of talk you have in a household. Please. Can we talk about something else? Who wants sausages?”

  “He does’ said Gavin, hinting at his brother.

  “I am not gay” shouted The Brother. “In fact, Fernanda is pregnant. So there. If I was gay, then how would you explain that?”

  “Fern is A-Sexual.”

  “Mother, I’m not gay. I’m not. That’s just stupid. That’s like so disgusting to even think of. Another man. I like vaginas.”

  “Son please” shouted The Mother.

  “You see? He’s not gay. He likes vaginas. I like vaginas too” said The Father.

  “Boys please” pleaded The Mother.

  “Oh look at her. I’d bang her in a heartbeat” said The Father.

  The news had started. Gavin’s favourite newsreader was talking about an explosion downtown. It was the terrorists he had met today; they had done their act, now they would be glorified in infamy.

  “Would you do her?” asked The Father.

  The Brother looked uneasy, as if he were mouthing words in a tongue he had neither heard nor spoken before. It looked as if his manhood were a leather that he had not worn in and of which; he found no comfort in wearing.

  “Yes. I would do her very good” he said.

  “Shhh” said Gavin.

  The Newsreader crossed to a reporter on the scene who was walking around the destruction and she was approaching witnesses that were reaching across yellow tape with their hands outstretched, begging to be on television.

  “What did you see?” asked The Reporter.

  “There were two of them and they looked really funny. They had on pink tutus and they had fluffy pink slippers and they were dancing together in circles and I think they even kissed, you know, before they, went bang” said The Witness.

  “And this seems to be the crux of the information we are recieivng that in fact there were two Terror{blists} involved in this dance and in accordance with other acts of Terror{blism} around the world in the past two days, they have been coordinated in their dress and feminine behavior, of such the world has not seen before. Both men were said to be dressed from head to toe in pink garments. We have received reports that they were wearing some kind of ballet apparel but not men’s ballet; it seems they were dressed in women’s leotards and women’s pink tutus. We are not sure what this is supposed to signify but needless to say this appears to be some kind of feminine tribal dance. We are receiving confirmation of similar effeminate displays worldwide from Fallujah, to Palestine, Istanbul and even in Spain.”

  “So we can confirm that this was another Terror{blist} incident?” asked The Newsreader.

  “Yes. This seems to be the case. Witnesses said they danced compassionately and tenderly together before the explosion and they had never seen before, in bearded men, such feminine grace. I only wish I could have been there to experience it myself.”

  “Tell me, were there any wounded by the shrapnel?” asked The Newsreader.

  “No. There were no casualties and no wounded” said The reporter, even though behind her, men worked quickly and tirelessly courting large plastic bags in groups of two and three from beneath the rubble and into awaiting vans.

  “Yes there were no wounded. The only injuries here were the masculine pride of these two men. Tell me,” The reporter said, pointing the microphone at a witness, “were you scared?”

  “Oh not at all. It was wonderful. Really fantastic. The bit at the end, when they kissed, just before the explosion, my god!! It was pure emotion. Amazing, really. I loved it, every bit of it.”

  “So there you have it. Another case of Terror{blism} where the art of dance and man on man romanticism unravels like a patchwork of extravagance and extraordinaire. Back to you in the studio.”

  “Well that just looked wonderful. And I must say, it is sad that we are seeing less and less Terror{blism}. It seems as if the past days, the fad or fashion of killing oneself to choreographed dancing and impassioned gay spring has waned. It is a terrible thing indeed. One can only hope for more.”

  “What the hell was that?” asked Gavin.

  “Terror{blism}. Don’t you know?” said The Brother.

  “It’s like a play of words or something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They started this thing in Ireland and it kind of spread everywhere overnight. The media, they’re not reporting violence anymore. And stuff like terrorism, they changed the names and they don’t talk about what happened, they only make fun of it and say that the people who blew themselves up were doing all sorts of weird stuff. It’s hilarious.”

  “But what about the people who died?”

  “Well, reporting them won’t bring them back to life now will it?” said The Father.

  “But that’s the point of the news. They have to report what happens. The people deserve the right to be informed.”

  “It was this weird philosopher writer guy, had this daft idea of changing the wording or something related to violence in the news. I mean, he had a point. By reading the paper and seeing all those bad things, it didn’t make them any better. I mean does staring at a video of a starving kid in Africa make him any less hungry? No. It just fools me into feeling guilty when I eat my burger. Now, I’m sure that given a stay in our country, he would have eaten that burger. So you know, instead of thinking about people in worse conditions, the media is encouraging us to enjoy and make the most of our own situation or well planes predicaments and well… live. It would be horrible you know, being hungry and seeing someone with a burger and instead of watching that burger being eaten and living vicariously through fantasy and dreaming, having to see that burger spoil as that person lowers their window and gazes at you in some repellant empathy. You know, if it was me I’d say eat the fuckin burger.”

  “Suicide bombings have dropped over two thousand percent in two days. It’s amazing the effect it had. Who would have thought?”

  Gavin’s hand was still clenched on the control but now his heart was beating rampantly. He tried to focus his mind on the image of himself inspired by the might of his action. But when he stepped inside his head, when he listened to The Newsreader in his thoughts, he saw himself being plastered on an imaginary television dressed, not head to toe in indomitable black with a razor like stare and a manly sexual demeanour. Instead, he saw himself with a black vest and a look of shame dressed his face as he crouched over his sunken body with his hands clasping his exposed, small and oddly shaped testicles, as a cold breeze dimpled his skin and picked up and swiveled the pink tutu that was draped around his waist.

  And when she mouthed the word Terror{blist}, she had to do so around a manic grin that even her professionalism could not bucker to restrain.

  His heart pounded.

  His breath shortened.

  It was cold and stabbing.

  His hand let go of the control.

  This had to be a mistake.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Honey, are you ok?” asked The Mother.

  Gavin said nothing.

  “I must be the depression” she whispered to The Father.

  “Change the channel” shouted Gavin.

  “I will do no such thing” The Father said.

  Gavin lurched forwards and ripped the remote from his father’s hands, flicking through channel after channel, from station to station and from newsreader to newsreader and on every channel, he was greeted with the same image; two men dressed from head to toe in pink apparel being branded as Terror{blists}.

  What did that even mean?

  “It makes sense though you know,” said The Brother. “You spend that much time with other men in close quarters; you’re bound to develop feelings. Uh, that’s what I heard.”

  “Swinging on monkey bars, crawling through sand. Pretty
gay if you ask me.”

  “It’s not gay. It’s a brotherhood and it’s pronounced Terror. They’re saying it all wrong. They weren’t wearing pink. I saw them. They had black pants and black boots and black shirts. They looked mean and tough and manly. They were nothing like they’re saying here.”

  “What? You’re saying the news is wrong now?”

  “No, I’m not saying the news is wrong I’m just saying, that’s not what happened.”

  “Well, it’s on every channel. You know what they’re calling it?” asked The Father, looking over at The Brother.

  “Terror{blism}” said The Brother.

  “Yeah I know that, but the uprising, the, you know, the explosion of new romantics.”

  “What?”

  “The Sissy Fountain.”

  ‘That’s poignant.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  Gavin threw the remote on the ground. The back flung off and slid along the floor and the batteries exploded from their jacket and scattered underneath the sofa. The control itself burst into a hundred pieces, each one shattering into a hundred more. The Brother looked at Gavin with his famed disapproving stare. The Father too, turned in displacement.

  “That was kind of gay” he said.

  “Fuck this” shouted Gavin, storming out of the house.

  As he passed his brother’s car, he remembered the key. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to enter the building. He quietly opened the car door and slipped his hand into his brother’s man purse. There were so many useless things that he kept inside; what he called ‘just-in-casers’. He found the key card and slipped it into his pocket and then he was off.

  As he stormed down the road, he didn’t notice the canisters on his chest roughly banging against one another. He didn’t at all care. His mind was on fire his eyes were like two placating suns and on any other day, he might have looked like a raging inferno, trouble on legs and people would part like the splitting of hairs in a heavy wind. And they would bury their heads and they would anchor their eyes until his stampeding feet had long since left them behind and only then would they let go of their baited breaths and lift their sights once more to the greets of other gentle passersby.