The evening of October 18th started like any other Monday. I made my way back from lab, locked my bike to the more expensive one next to it on the bike rack (fuck rich kids), and set my backpack down in my dorm room. Before I had even taken off my shoes I received the text. I had registered for the event just hours before and had been awaiting a confirmation text which would reveal the venue. Charlie Kirk’s Racism Tour was slated to take place on Church Street, but after finding out that there were homeless people there (clearly a symptom of communism NOT capitalism), he had to make a last minute reservation at whichever local venue was most okay with the potential of being set on fire. This landed Kirk at the DoubleTree, a hotel whose Latin namesake means “there were two trees in the parking lot, they both had to be cut down though”.
The text, arriving a mere four minutes before the conference was set to begin, read:
“870 Williston Rd, South Burlington, VT 05403. Come alone.”
This confused me at first, being that Chuck’s most sacred belief is that pleasure is a sin. How could he be giving me such a stern order to mastrubate before attending his conference? Realizing that the text instead meant I was not to arrive with anyone with me, I made my way to the DoubleTree, hoping my Prius wouldn’t give away that I was in fact, not a conservative. I pulled into the lot, surprised not to see any other cars.
Not giving it another thought, I found a parking spot and walked into the lobby. As I walked through the automatic caution doors, I saw a hooded figure sprint from behind the desk and down an unlit hallway. I didn’t think much of it, Burlington people are weird as fuck, and it made sense to keep the lights off at night (better for the environment). As I approached the desk and lifted my arm to ring the service bell, a cold, clammy hand with long fingernails stopped my hand from behind. I turned back, shocked by the first physical touch I had experienced since May of 2020, and was face to face with the hooded figure.
Before I could ask who they were, they lifted their other hand to their face and raised a finger, as if to shush me. The figure turned, still holding my hand, and began to guide me down the same dark hallway they had just appeared from. Truthfully, I was relieved to have someone guiding me straight to the conference room.
The figure, standing more than a foot taller than me, led me down the hall, clenching my hand so hard their nails began to draw blood. This was my first time ever at a conservative event, so I figured this is just how things go. We turned a corner and abruptly stopped at a deadend. There was only a door, dimly illuminated by the soft glow of a neon exit sign. Every letter but the T had burned out, and I whispered to myself “titties”.
The figure whipped their head down at me and for the first time I was able to see their eyes, or what should have been. Staring back at me were two gaping bloody sockets, no discernable nose, and a pencil thin frown. The lips parted and from them, in a harsh, breathless snipe, “I’m an ass guy”.
With their free hand, they turned the knob of the door in front of us and pushed it open, leading us into a dark room. The door slammed shut behind me, and just as quickly as the door was closed, the room was lit with a fluorescent bulb harnessing a near third of the sun’s energy. Tears streaming down my face, I tried to discern my surroundings. Shielding my eyes with my free hand, I was able to distinguish him. Sitting, legs crossed, in a $850 gaming chair, was Chuck Kirk. A pistol on his lap, Chuck looked up at me and sneered, “take off your mask”. I shook my head in defiance, and Kirk scolded the hooded figure behind me to, “take off her mask!” I shook my head again, dodging the hand as it reached around the back of my head, and said, “I actually use they/them pronouns”. No sooner had the bullet entered my chest than I had dropped to the ground. Chuck was right. Guns don’t kill people, pronouns kill people.
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Categories: around town, b.s., oct. 26, vol 25