Page 74 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

There’s commotion behind us, and when I turn to look, there’s a protestor storming the stage. He’s got a large sign with a poorly painted depiction of . . . is that film and television’s Tracey Ullman? How? And why?

“It’s Adam and Steve, not Ethel and Eve!” he shouts, making no sense whatsoever. “The lord thy God will not be mocked.”

“You’re literally wearing a t-shirt with President Flump cheesing at the camera while being crucified,” Mayor Rivera’s young son, Beau, points out from his place on stage next to Phillip. “You’re mocking him right now.”

“He is a strong, virile man!” He points a judgy finger at Beau, and Mayor Rivera is staring at it like he wants to snap it in half. “The gay agenda has no place here.”

“Your receding hairline has no place here,” Beau retorts before looking up at his balding stepfather. “Sorry, Phillip.”

Phillip Firecracker scowls at him.

“Sorry,” someone from the crowd shouts. Making her way through, to my surprise, my mother aims a finger at the man. “Now, you get your behind back here, Dewayne. I warned you once, I won’t warn you again.” She marches up the steps leading onto the platform and grabs Brother McGoFuckYourself by the earlobe and walks him away from the microphone, pausing when she spots me. I know she wants to say something, but I also know she won’t. She’s giving me space, and she’s trying to prove herself.

Of all the congregants, my mother has changed the most. She’s no longer the baby-voice submissive wife she was eight months ago. While she hasn’t completely found her voice, it’s getting louder, and I’m proud of her. I’m not ready to forgive, and I’m certainly not ready to forget all the times she let Dad scream at me, or ignored all the times he tossed me around our home like a ragdoll, but I think I want to. If not for her, for me. I don’t want to hold space in my heart for anger. Not where it’s filled with love for Miles, and for my newly found family of murder daddies and their delulu boys. For Mal, even.

We’ll get there, I think. And I think she knows it too.

I lift my hand to give her a wave, and she’s looking at me like I just gave her the world. She gives me a decisive nod before dragging Brother McGoFuckYourself away from the square, spanking him along the way. A difficult feat, considering she has to use her right hand, as her left is still latched to the man’s ear.

“Hate has no place in Tallulah,” Mayor Rivera announces. “It did once, but those days are over. This is our town. Oursanctuary. And as a strong, powerful woman once said: we are not going back.”

Scotty untangles his legs from around Brody’s waist and pinches his arm, making the taller man wince, loosening the grip he has on him. Scotty kicks his legs a few times before he finally touches pavement again, and when he does, he makes his way toward us. I’m feeling a little nervous, because Scotty is unhinged, and he genuinely terrifies me.

“Darren,” he says, cocking his head to the side and eyeing me up and down like a piece of meat. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t disturb me, because it does. “You don’t really fit in here.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” I say, holding onto Daddy a little tighter.

“No.Here. In the agency. In this silly little game ofMurder Daddy. I don’t know you, and you hardly have any connection to the core four. But you’re cute, I guess. You have that unhinged-twink look in your eyes.” He chews his cheek, seemingly lost in contemplation. Eventually, as Mayor Rivera harps on about equality and inclusivity, Scotty nods. “I approve. Welcome to Murder Daddy.” Standing on his tiptoes, he places a kiss on my cheek, and I already know what’s coming. It’s written all over Brody’s face.

“You,” he growls, pointing right at me as he marches forward. “If my boy ever kisses you again, I’m cutting your goddamn lips off.”

I blink at him. “Why would you cut my lips off? Mine haven’t been anywhere near him.”

“Don’t matter. You got a kiss on the cheek from my boy. No one feels his lips but me.”

Miles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bottle of travel-size anointing oil, uncapping it with his thumb before flinging most of its contents directly into Brody’s face, making him hiss when it hits his eyes.

“Son of a God Da—”

Miles flings more at him, and this time it lands in Brody’s mouth. “I rebuke you in the name of the father, the son, and the twink in my arms.” He flings the bottle forward, hitting Brody in the middle of his forehead.

Scotty gasps dramatically, flinging his hands in the air like an absolute cliché as he shouts, “You killed him! You killed Daddy.” He flings his body over Brody’s and weeps. “I’ll keep your memory alive,” he sobs, though there are no tears falling. “I’ll carry you with me in my heart.”

“The fuck?” Brody asks, rubbing his aching head. “What are you talking about, Freakshow?”

Scotty presses their foreheads together. “Don’t worry about me, Daddy. I’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay. It’s alright to let go.”

“Ah, for God’s sake,” Brody groans. “Dammit, Scotty. I ain’t dead, he just smacked me on the head.” He pauses, chuckling at himself. “That was a cute rhyme.”

Scotty shakes his head, his voice cool and calm as he says, “Not as cute as you think it was.” Then the fake tears are back in full force as he wails, “Go into the light, Daddy. It’s okay.”

In one fluid motion, Brody stands, lifting Scotty onto his hip before pointing at me. “Keep your cheek away from his lips. I won’t say it again.”

Once they’re gone, Miles and I spend the next three hours celebrating with our closest friends. As the party dies down, he stares at me as I sit in his lap. “Are you ready to go home, baby?”

I nod, feeling a little sleepy, even though it’s only six in the evening. He carries me across the square, saying goodbye to all our friends and telling Mal we’ll see her and her new friend at home.

Once we make it past the alleyway, a long police barrier holds back at least one-hundred residents, all holding signs with various hatefully, hurtful words scribbled across. Just ahead,right in front of me I see the boy I spotted from earlier. He looks about thirteen or fourteen, and he’s wearing standard evangelical garb. Khakis. Tucked-in Polo shirt. A hideous woven belt. Shoes that sparkle like diamonds in the sun. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, and I can understand that. I lived it myself until I moved away. He’s got the same vacant expression I used to get when my father would drag me to protests. I know how much it hurts to hear your parents demonizing people just like you. As we walk past, I notice his father isn’t paying any attention, so I get Miles to pause and I look down at the kid, trying to force a smile.

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