Congratulations Gayest Meth Dealers in Omaha!

Yesterday you were just a couple of kids cooking and counting pay offs in a condemned house. Then you got your sweet new double-wide up and running and life really started looking up for the two of you. It was a beautiful change, one that gave you both the stability you craved and the love nest that you were denied for so many years while living in your respective parents houses.

But now you’re an independent couple of gay meth dealers, living on the outskirts of Omaha near a drainage ditch which has been optimistically named a river, and you’re going to endure your first real hardship since moving to the Jewel of Nebraska. You’re going to deal with a bunch of white supremacists trying to force you out of your lab.

“C’mon out faggots,” they’ll shout at you from outside of the meth lab. “We know you’re in there.”

You’ll be cowering under the fold out bed in the sealed off, meth free compartment of the trailer (you’re pushers, not users) with your partner, wanting to cry but worried that crying will give your location away and lead to your death under a hail of generally intolerant bullets.

You’ll have been there for thirty minutes, wondering if and when the white supremacists will leave, when your boyfriend will finally lose his patience.

“Damnit,” he’ll say, picking up the old double barrel shotgun you use to menace people when they refuse to pay and checking the chamber. It’ll have two shells in there, unspent, their telltale gold backings unmarred by the antique weapon’s hammer. “There’s only one way it ends.”

He’ll step up to the front door and open it, sticking his head out for just a moment. Then he’ll step out in front of it and fire the barrels one at a time. A man will scream and you’ll hear two bodies hitting dirt.

Quaking, you’ll run over to the twin bed you share and grab the revolver you keep under your pillow. Shaking, you’ll load it round by round while the white supremecists outside shout at you and your boyfriend to come out and fight like men.

One voice will come louder than the others. It’ll come closer and closer, as it it was walking towards you all the while, and it’ll come from a man you recognize: Old Racist Tom, your grand pappy.

You’re not much for family, nor are you much for tradition, but it’s not hard to say that Old Racist Tom would kill you outright if he had the chance for being a homo and cutting it on his business. And here he’d see himself as within his rights to do it. So when you aim that pistol out the window and squeeze the trigger real carefully, you’re not going to feel a whit of regret as Old Racist Tom falls down on his back, coughing and choking and his boys run off and leave him there.

You’re not going to feel bad when you and your boyfriend go outside after you’re sure they’re all gone and shoot the other two dying men in the head. And you’re certainly not going to feel bad when you cover Old Racist Tom in gasoline and light him on fire.

He’ll scream some, but it won’t last. He won’t have much to him in the end. And when it’s all over, more than anything else, you’ll just feel proud that you became your own man that night.

Congratulations Gayest Meth Dealers in Omaha!