That night, I met my partner in crime, my confidant. Sharon had seen through my fakeness and called me to it. When we drank all her two six-packs of Guarana, she didn’t complain. When I French-kissed her, she blamed it on the alcohol.

“Then you will be court-martialled for dereliction of duty, breaking the rules of engagement, insubordination, and disobeying your CO’s lawful orders.”

“I see,” Ekuton nodded. “I don’t have a choice.”

“We both know how the court-martial works. You will be found, you are, guilty as charged. Termination of commission without benefits.”

In the rain of falling bombs, I crawled for cover beneath a body of a fallen brother, his blood the water I desperately needed.

“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The cries were more of a benediction than a declaration. The attackers were everywhere, killing the already dead who lay singly or in piles, pitiful fragments of humanity.

In the afternoon of this day, Elizabeth’s Buick and Val’s Honda were in the garage. I cursed the senseless fiend for invading our privacy. The front door was locked, so I used the back door. As I entered, two floral bikinis caught my eye on the sunbathing decks at the swimming pool. Soft music played in the house and I was immediately aroused.
Halfway up the stairs to the bedroom I heard low soft moans and whispers. The door was ajar.

I know the Gay Killer will never be caught. I pray for the killer daily to do it again and again. It’s time men got what’s coming to them.

I know the Gay Killer will never be caught because I am the Gay Killer.