How Thorpe went from being a member of the Nightmare Queers motorcycle gang to a suburbanite with a respectable carpentry business is beyond me.
Back when we were committing arson once or twice a week, he always threw the first Molotov, and boy did his eagerness for destruction win my heart. After one arson in Cincinnati, we fled the scene, climbed to a nearby rooftop, and went to town on each other while the Hobby Lobby below burned—one of six Hobby Lobbies we'd torched that month alone. Watching the cops scramble to find us and fail only furthered our pleasure.
“They're dumb as shit,” Thorpe groaned, his Gimli beard buried in my ass. “Thank Satan for that.”
After a couple of sweaty, sexy hours, we fell asleep on the rooftop. Reckless, I know, but waking up to a sunrise hazy with craft supply smoke was magical. Shivering in our leather jackets, we held each other and shared a cigarette. Perfect beauty and calm enveloped us. I would've loved for the moment to last forever, but you rarely get to savor things when you're wanted in seventeen states.
Before the morning rush hour, we were off to the next Hobby Lobby. Not another in Ohio—we weren't stupid—but one a few hundred miles off, the stores growing fewer and farther between. Gang leader Ripley greeted our arrival with eyes narrowed and tattooed arms crossed. She gave us shit for spending the night so close to the crime scene, but I didn't care. And from the way she smirked, it seemed neither did she. It was impossible to resent such a goddamn cute couple.
Still, there were limits to our love. When the gang broke up five years back, I refused to settle in the suburbs with Thorpe among the golfers, HOA shitheads, and Quiverfull families next door. Loaded with cash from years of robberies and inexplicably good financial planning, Thorpe sought stability after his homeless teenage years and his on-the-run twenties. My wanderlust hadn't yet been satisfied, though. I left to bike around the country alone, doing odd jobs and keeping a low profile, but it wasn't the same without him. Even in the company of other men—at truck stops and campsites, in bathhouses and porta potties—I thought of Thorpe constantly. I often flipped through pictures I'd taken on the road and imagined he was in them: standing among Yellowstone bison with casual fearlessness, slamming back rotgut shots in a San Francisco gay bar, and gazing at the stars through a tent's mesh roof. The two of us together, inseparable.
It was only after the gang realized our Satanic work wasn't done that I saw him again. Like a heist movie, he came out of retirement for one last job. Maybe because he remembered what made us so good together, or maybe because suburbia bored him. Guess I'll never know. I missed my chance to ask.
* * *
Ripley's prophecy promised literal Hell on Earth after we burned down 666 Hobby Lobbies, but somehow we fucked up the count. It's true what they say about queers and math. Ripley's partner Xena miscounted, so we thought our work was done, which meant Hell didn't come to Earth, causing Ripley's prophecy to lose credibility and the gang to split up. Kinda funny in retrospect. I stayed gang-loyal longer than Thorpe and most of the others, but at some point it got awkward. It was only Ripley and Xena, plus me third-wheeling it, and you know how a biker feels about anything with more than two wheels. I bounced.
Thing is, Xena did an arson recount five years later. Why, you're wondering? For her goddamn scrapbook. Every Hobby Lobby arson news clipping got its own page, and when she glued the final article to page 665, she must have thought, Huh, I done fucked up. Sure did, Warrior Princess.
After that, Ripley informed the gang of the situation through an encrypted group text, though there were fewer of us now: Nox had died in a knife fight with some Sturgis Nazis, Kip had died in a knife fight with herself, and Dozer had fucked off to DJ at a queer nightclub in Berlin. Those who remained—minus a stubbornly silent Thorpe—hopped on a video conference call like real corporate ghouls, but instead of suits and ties, we each had face tats and septum piercings and crooked scheming smiles. We shot the shit and plotted for hours. I left the call fucking buzzing, thinking if everything went smoothly, Hell really would come to Earth. It'd be a 24/7 paradise for queers and anarchists and the best sorts of criminals.
Hobby Lobby still hadn't recovered from the Nightmare Queers' campaign of terror, but they'd dared to open one new location in Omaha, Nebraska. The corporation had waited a good three years after our spree ended to build it, and there it had stood ever since with the store sign glowing orange like a beacon for crafty evangelist assholes. Ripley and Xena scouted the place ahead of time. There was a security camera at the store's southeast corner and a blindspot on the northwest side of the parking lot. We'd taken on much harder jobs, so this one should've been cake, right?
The morning before our final arson, after too many unreturned voicemails, I drove to Thorpe's suburban hellscape to plead my case. His lawn was perfect, and by perfect, I mean perfectly fucking boring: mowed and watered and monoculture as all hell. A wooden welcome sign hung from the door. It looked like one you'd find at Hobby Lobby, but as I found out later that day, he'd made it himself. Arsonist, ass-eater, and carpenter—Thorpe was a triple threat.
When I knocked, he answered with a shaved face and his shirt tucked into his pants. The shirt thing threw me off. What kind of person tucked their shirt in while lazing around at home? Didn't seem like the Thorpe I'd known. Still, he was willing to hear me out on this one last job, and I was willing to open my heart again, carefully, like opening a door during a hailstorm.
“How would you feel about fucking up one last craft store?” I asked, going in for a kiss.
Thorpe lurched back and whispered, “Not so loud. Come in.”'
Whether he was afraid of getting busted for criminal activity or getting outed as a homo in Trump country, I couldn't tell, but I followed him inside. He shut the door, then gave me a quick peck on the corner of my mouth. A totally unromantic reunion kiss, but it had also been five-fucking-years of radio silence, so who could blame him?
Thorpe had a black pleather sectional couch without a single cracked cushion, a big-ass TV covering half the wall, and a spinning rack of home improvement magazines.
“Nice house,” I said through a grimace. “Please say you've got an altar room somewhere. A little Satan in the suburbs.”
“I don't worship much of anything these days,” Thorpe said, scratching his shaved neck. Not even a shadow of stubble remained.
“Maybe that'll change tonight,” I said. “We've got the count right this time, so big things could happen.”
Thorpe nodded and gave a polite Midwestern smile, but didn't make eye contact. Silence took hold, filled by the soft hum of air conditioning. Not even a window unit—this was bougie-ass central cooling.
“Listen, I know this is awkward and you don't really want to deal with gang shit anymore, but…” I cleared my throat, “do you at least wanna have sex? For old time's sake.”
“Sure,” he said. “That would be nice.”
* * *
A good cum broke the ice. Thorpe and I laid in his Tempur-Pedic bed (could've gotten used to that bed, holy shit), cuddling naked and drinking whiskey and catching up on half a decade of lost love. He braided my hair just like he used to, which made me cry a few boozy tears. When I stopped crying, it was his turn.
“I hate myself most of the time,” he sniffled. “I needed safety and security, and...and I sold out for it. This life—it's comfortable and it's nice and it's so goddamn boring. The neighborhood dads invited me to join an Eagles cover band. The Eagles, for Satan's sake!”
“Satan, you say?”
He smiled, then kissed me. It was wet and tonguey and way fucking hotter than our kiss at the door.
Pulling away abruptly, he asked, “Do you hate me?”
I almost laughed at the audacity of that question.
“Thorpe, you have to understand,” I said, “two years back, I biked through this town that had a custom body pillow shop—no lie—and I seriously fucking considered getting one printed with a picture of you. I was pathetic and lonely and totally head over heels for this bitch right in front of me. So, no, I could never hate you.”
Thorpe's smile lasted only a moment before he sobbed into my armpit and whispered “thank you, I love you” over and over and over. I cradled his head and inhaled him. He was already starting to smell more like the man I remembered. Maybe there'd be a future for us after all. I wondered if I could persuade him to burn down this house (but not the bed!) and collect the insurance money. We'd ride off together and enjoy a lifelong road trip through Hell on Earth. But I was getting ahead of myself. I'd wait to ask until after the Hobby Lobby burned.
* * *
Thorpe and I pulled into Omaha late, just like old times. He hadn't ridden his Kawasaki in ages, so we had to do some last-minute maintenance. I felt like a dad yelling at his son to hurry up and get dressed for church, your mom's already in the goddamn car. Still, with a little extra speed on the interstate (and boy, did that feel good), we arrived just ten minutes past midnight. Seven other Nightmare Queers were already there, quietly chatting and smoking under an awning. They waved at us and whisper-shouted an enthusiastic greeting. Standing a ways off, Ripley glared when we pulled into the dark corner of the parking lot, but she grinned at the sight of Thorpe's shaved face.
“I've seen twinks become bears, but never the other way around,” she said, hugging him tight. “Good to have you back.”
“Glad to be back,” Thorpe said, but his voice trembled. Maybe he'd been a suburbanite for so long that returning to crime scared him, light years distant as he was from his roots and values.
I nudged his ribs and whispered, “It's going to be great.”
He gave a brief, lippy smile. Before I could give further reassurance, Ripley pushed a Molotov into my hands.
“Still got a good throwing arm?” she asked.
“Hard to miss a fifty-thousand square foot building,” I said.
Thorpe snorted and looked down. He kicked over someone's discarded Monster energy can and watched its remnants pool at his feet. Ripley approached him with a second Molotov.
“You spilled my drink,” she said.
Thorpe's head snapped up and his eyes went wide.
“Fucking with you, man. I don't drink that shit,” Ripley said. She rested a hand on Thorpe's leather jacket, which he probably hadn't worn in years. “You okay?”
Thorpe nodded. “Yeah. I really missed everyone. Things haven't been easy and I...I'm sorry I haven't been around. I really should've—”
“No reason to apologize. The past is the past, and the future is Hell on Earth. Let's torch this craft store and grab a fucking beer.”
Thorpe puffed his cheeks out, then hopped up and down like an antsy gay football player on the sidelines. Ripley's pep talk reminded me of why we'd followed her for so many years, and I was grateful she could inspire Thorpe in ways I couldn't.
Ripley called to the others: “Finish your smokes and come here. Don't want cops arriving before we get this party started.”
Everyone walked over, hugged me and Thorpe, and then huddled around Ripley. The gang looked different after five years away: Xena had gray hair, Merk had “DADDY” knuckle tats, and Corsica had a half-sagging face from her stroke. Despite the changes, it still felt like old times. I couldn't stop smiling.
“After the building burns, the ground will start shaking. Don't panic,” Ripley said. “That's supposed to happen. It means He's coming.”
“Hail Satan,” Xena said.
Everyone repeated after her, even Thorpe. I grinned as if I were witnessing his Satanic confirmation. Thorpe could still get right with the Dark Lord.
Ripley pushed a Molotov into Thorpe's hands.
“Will you do the honors,” she said, but it wasn't really a question. Thorpe throwing first was all part of the ritual. He was our good luck charm, the reason the cops never caught us. At least that's what Ripley told us.
Thorpe nodded, half-smiled, and then blushed. He cleared his throat.
“Does someone have a lighter?” he asked. “I know I should have brought one, but I quit smoking and—”
“Oh, good for you, man,” Ripley said, then handed him a Bic that looked like it'd been a dog's chew toy.
Blinking quickly, Thorpe mumbled a “thank you” before lighting the cloth.
That's when the red and blue lights of two cop cars lit up the parking lot like a fascist disco. Thorpe jumped at the siren's WHOOP and dropped the lit Molotov. It shattered at his feet, and flames consumed him head to toe. I smelled the musk of burning leather, the sharpness of melting hair. Thorpe's high-pitched scream pierced the night. Everyone else's screams followed.
“Shit! Roll, Thorpe, roll!” I said. It felt ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but what else was there to say?
A cop barked through a crackling megaphone: “All of you, hands where I can see them!”
More flame than man, Thorpe made a shrieking sprint toward the Hobby Lobby and dove head-first through the glass door. The pane shattered, and there he lay motionless. Somewhere behind me, Ripley whipped out her gun and fired at the cops. I was frozen with horror, knowing Thorpe and I would never bike a desert highway, get piss-drunk and whisper sweet everythings under the blanket of glittering constellations. We'd never raise a toast to the King of Hell, never party with winged imps in black latex suits, never see the fruits of our Satanic labors.
More shots, and not the celebratory kind. I was out in the fucking open, the rest of the gang ducking behind their bikes and pulling out their pieces. I could only tilt my head toward Thorpe, lifeless and flaming in the Hobby Lobby entrance, his body the accelerant in one final, beautiful act of arson. But something was different about this fire. It spread through the store impossibly fast, Thorpe's accidental sacrifice channeling Satanic magic and feeding the flame's hunger. Firefighters would never put this one out.
A dozen deafening shots. Bullets pinged off of the cop cars and bikes. A cop yelled at me to get the fuck down, then pulled the trigger not a second later. I was lucky he had shit aim because I was still paralyzed watching Thorpe turn to ash fifty feet away.
Another cruiser pulled into the lot with lights spinning. Ripley screamed “fuck, fuck, fuck” and emptied the rest of her clip toward the backup. But the red and blue lights paled in comparison to the Hobby Lobby, shining bright as the Morning Star. A bullet clipped my ear, and I only realized it when hot blood tickled my cheek. Everything was ringing. More shots, then a gut-wrenching scream from Ripley. I couldn't see her, but I knew she'd been hit. Xena shouted to Ripley, her panic-shredded voice repeatedly promising everything would be okay.
And then the earth shook with ecstatic violence. All gunfire stopped. I fell to the ground, which would've made that fucking cop happy had he not been worried about the cracking concrete beneath him. Now he and his boys were screaming and Ripley was laughing and I was crying and Thorpe was burning and dying and rebirthing the world.
Flames spouted, not from the Hobby Lobby, but from the splitting concrete. A screaming cop straddled the scorching crack, but the gap widened and the flames licked the hair off his balls. He fell into the engines of Hell, fuel for Satan's chariot. His car followed, then another car, pulling the second cop down with its open driver's side door. When the last cop tried running—bless his cold, wife-beating heart—a blackened claw thick as a redwood reached up from the quaking crack and gripped his ankle. One tug and he was gone, soul not claimed but rather immolated out of existence. Hell didn't want him, I'm sure of that.
When the claw extended back into the burning night, it stretched endlessly, towering over the Hobby Lobby, the city, the world. Glowing magma hissed through its veins and shards of volcanic glass fell from its fingers, clinking to the ground.
Ever the dumbass, I didn't register what the beast was at first, but I'd just lost my lover and my one good ear, so cut me some fucking slack. Ripley, on the other hand, giggled and rejoiced through labored breath: “Hail Satan, come at last!”
My attention strayed to the Hobby Lobby entrance where not even one of Thorpe's briny balls remained. At least his death meant something. I sobbed and screamed and thanked him and praised Satan and yearned to fill the emptiness inside me. I'd never get to know this reborn world with the man I loved, the man who'd made it possible.
Concrete splintered as the colossal beast's head surfaced, leaving half the parking lot a sinkhole to Hell. Smoke rising from its horns, it turned toward me. That's when I realized I'd given up hope too soon. Meeting my gaze from a mile above, the beast grinned with stalactite fangs hanging over a Gimli beard—the beard I'd longed to feel against my face for so long. A great warmth filled me.
Love and Hell would reign together for eternity.