Free The Complete Lockpick Pornography by Joey Comeau Page B

unnatural to me. Different strokes, that’s all. Have you seen the news in the past few hours?”
    I shake my head, and she says, “They found the books at one of the schools, and they shut it down while people from the church searched the lockers and classrooms. It was the school you and Richard went to.”
    â€œI told you we should have broken into people’s houses,” I say, and she shakes her head.
    â€œNo, this is great,” she says. “I talked to Richard on the phone. He wants to call the newspapers, claiming responsibility for the books. He’s gonna go out of his way after work. Give them some details that nobody else could have, and say it was done by gay children’s icons everywhere.”
    â€œWe should go tonight,” I say, “and break into people’s houses. Put them on their shelves.”
    â€œWe got what we wanted,” Michelle says.
    â€œWe didn’t want publicity. This wasn’t just about getting on the news,” I say. “We wanted those kids to find the books and read them. We wanted to actually try and influence the youth of today, not just give their parents more ammunition.”
    Michelle stands up.
    â€œWell, I’m not breaking into anyone’s house,” she says.
    In her kitchen I call Richard at work. “Tonight,” I say. “We go and deliver more books. The same way we got that TV , you know?”
    â€œI’m not,” Richard says. “I’m going out dancing tonight, to celebrate. You should come.”
    â€œCelebrate what?” I say. “How many kids do you think actually saw those books?” But he has to go, and I hang up the phone in Michelle’s empty kitchen. She’s sitting in the living room, watching TV . “Do you have a knapsack I can borrow?” I ask her, and she nods.
    I pick up the phone book while she’s getting it, and I flip it open to Hubert, J. The address is right there, and I tear the page out. That whole neighbourhood is probably perfect. Anyway, Mr. Hubert won’t be home from work for a while, and it’s across town. Michelle brings me the knapsack, and I fill it with books.
    â€œYou’re drunk,” she reminds me, and I nod.
    â€œWish me luck,” I say.
    On the street I flag down a guy on a bike. He stops beside me and grins in his shiny glasses. “Are you heterosexual?” I ask him, and his grin gets wider.
    â€œFuckin’ eh,” he says, and I kick him in the dick. He topples over, and I snatch his bike up and I ride.
    I wonder for a moment whether he would still be heterosexual if his junk got all infected and they had to cut it off. Masculine, feminine, neuter. The toaster fuckers would love him.
    â€œThanks a lot!” I shout as I turn the corner. “I hope you don’t have to fuck toasters!”
    I ditch the bike a block from Mrs. Hubert’s, and I walk the rest of the way thinking what I have to say to her, about gender and construction and the futility of trying to unravel the nature of our ideas. Every new hidden layer can be deconstructed. I wonder if she’ll be the way I pictured her, skinny and Botoxed and my last hope of the straight world understanding.
    But when I get there, there are two cars in the driveway, and I can see a man standing in the living room. It makes me sort of ill to think that I want the understanding of the straight world, and I sit down on the curb. Well, understanding is better than hatred, isn’t it? It’s better than tolerance. Fuck. My knife is in my hands and open, and I’m standing now, walking toward the cars.
    I slit the tires and walk back to the bushes where I left the bike. I drive back toward the Hubert household, pumping the pedals as fast as I can, up onto their expansive green lawn and into the side of their car. There’s glass and blood and I’m falling.
    â€œAre you all right?” the man says, and I sit up. I’m in the