0 comments/ 25784 views/ 3 favorites A Matter of Pheromones By: Cal Y. Pygia If you read this diary, you'll know I'm dead, because there's no other way I'd share any of this shit with another living soul! August 2 "It comes down to chemicals," the old man said, his hand shaking as he lifted the crystal goblet to his withered lips. He sipped the blood-red wine. "It's all just a matter of pheromones." "Pheromones?" I repeated. The word sounded scientific. Therefore, it sounded boring as hell--and difficult. I didn't want to discuss anything like this, but I was a guest of a man who was not only connected but also highly respected. I had to pretend, at least, to give a shit. He set the goblet upon the burnished surface of the mahogany table. His watery eyes gazed at me, across the expanse of polished wood. "Like any other animal, we give off a chemical scent that attracts potential sex partners," he explained. "Pheromones comprise what we might call the sex scent." He sampled one of the cubes of cheese on the platter before him. "Apparently, homosexuals' pheromones are different than ours." Malcolm McDowd was an octogenarian. Although his flesh was no longer supple--in fact, was quite the worse for wear--and his eyes were rheumy, his motions jittery, and his voice reed-thin and shaky, he looked as if he might well do the impossible and live another eighty years. Despite his frail appearance, he had a commanding presence, an aristocratic mien. The fact that he was worth over a billion dollars, as the trappings of wealth within the palatial mansion in whose conference room I sat as he ate his noonday meal demonstrated, added to his imposing appearance and authoritative bearing. Mr. McDowd was a well-known--in some circles, a celebrated--homophobe. As a man of immense wealth, he also had connections, many legitimate, others questionable, and some indisputably criminal. I fit the last category. My family's consigliore, Guido, likes word play. Mentioning that "a rich old geezer's looking for someone to do a little freelancing," he'd had asked me whether I was "free to do a little freelancing." "If the boss doesn't object," I'd replied. "He's the one who recommended you to Mr. McDowd. They have a close relationship, and the boss wants to keep him happy. Mr. McDowd wants somebody who hates faggots. Naturally, your name came up." It was true that there was no love lost between me and queers. I've hated them ever since the first homo asked to suck my cock, back in the fifth grade. These pieces of subhuman shit have been after me all my life. It must be my good looks. They would never have gotten a piece of Joey the Chainsaw, though, if three of them hadn't trapped me in an alley when I was young and dumb enough to walk the streets without a piece, thinking my connection with the mob would keep me safe. They were new to town, and they hadn't learned who's who and what's what yet. I hunted them down, one by one, and evened the score, dispatching them with a fucking chainsaw. That got the boss' attention; my reputation was made. Unfortunately, the three assholes who'd gangbanged me at gunpoint in the alley had already bragged about their dirty deed. Of course, I'd denied it, said they'd been lying, trying to ruin my name; that's why I'd killed them. Still, I always wonder what the boys say behind my back. If I ever hear that any of them has impugned my manhood, he's a dead man, even if it's the godfather himself. Meanwhile, yeah, I guess you could say I'm homophobic. I'm a homicidal homophobe. I take my work personally. "I'm a teleologist, Mr. Donatello." He looked at me over the crystal goblet full of the red wine. The wizened old bastard looked like Dracula himself. "How about you? Do you believe that everything has a purpose, that all things tend toward a predetermined goal?" I shrugged. "I'm not much of a thinker, I'm afraid, Mr. McDowd." He sipped the wine. "Atheists claim that the argument from design is flawed. I find it convincing." He considered the cheese, decided to pass. "So did Einstein. He refused, he said, to believe that God plays dice with the universe, which is to say, that the cosmos is the result of a chance rather purposeful design." I felt uncomfortable. Big ideas always make me squirm. I'm a simple man who believes in simple things: food, sex, liquor, a bullet in the back of the head of one's enemy, a kill-or-be-killed approach to life. "I never thought much about it," I replied. "That's what made me wonder about homosexuals," my host confided. "They don't seem to fit the cosmic plan. What purpose do they have?" "None that I can see," I said. "Faggots should be exterminated like rats, like fucking cockroaches." My statement elicited a smile from the wealthy old man. "Once I'd acquired some measure of wealth, I decided to satisfy my curiosity as to why homosexuals evolved. If a purpose for them could be found, my faith in teleology--and, with it, not only meaning, value, and human dignity, but, perhaps, both God and eternal life as well--could be strengthened. Faith becomes more important the older one gets, Mr. Donatello." I didn't know anything about that, either, so I just nodded. "This is what the theory as to the purpose of their existence comes down to. Nature gave us homosexuals for the same reason it gave us disease, earthquakes, famine, fires, floods, tornadoes, and other natural catastrophes: to limit and control the population. Too many people means not enough resources, and, once diplomacy and wars fail, which they must, at some point, humanity is doomed. Homosexuals are the natural disaster that keeps human population under control." "Makes sense," I reasoned. Mr. McDowd chuckled. "The environmentalists did everything they could to prevent forest fires, and their attempt to outsmart Mother Nature backfired. Later, they discovered that forest fires maintain, not destroy, the balance between life and the limited resources that support it. You'd think politicians would learn not to play God, but they don't. They never do." Back in the fifth grade, my teacher, Miss Beth, had made a joke, of sorts, that's stayed with me. If there were such a creature as King Kong, she'd said, the fucking scientists wouldn't rest until they'd caught his ass and killed him to see what made him tick, except she didn't say "fucking." She also didn't say "ass." She was a very prim and proper lady, Miss Beth. "I know somebody else thinks the same way," I told Mr. McDowd. My host refilled his goblet. He raised the bottle of burgundy, as he'd done several times already, to signify that I was welcome to join him. Once more I declined. "There's a problem, though." I waited, certain he'd tell me what it was. After taking a sip of his wine, he did: "The number of homosexuals is getting out of control." I nodded my agreement. "There's a difference between a disease and a plague, Mr. Donatello," he said. "A fire need not be a conflagration." I nodded again. "Letting homosexuals exist quietly and unobtrusively, as they did before the so-called Stonewall Riots, was the appropriate and prudent approach to take. It's been a mistake to promote homosexuality. Gay rights, teaching children that it's okay to be gay, that homosexuality is just an alternative lifestyle, that it's fine to have two daddies or two mommies, legalizing marriages between same-sex partners, Hollywood's glamorization of lesbianism--it's all part of the same, huge mistake." Mr. McDowd would get no argument from me--except for the letting-homosexuals-exist-quietly-and-unobtrusively part. Were it up to me, I'd eradicate them all. "Balance needs to be restored," my host concluded, "and that's where you come in." He had a plan all worked out. He'd been working on it since shortly after the Stonewall Riots, back in the 60's. The discovery of pheromones had sped up the work. The final step was developing a serum which would enable its recipient to actually see homosexual pheromones--not the pheromones themselves, of course, but their peculiar colors. The serum would cause a mutation in the recipients' eyes that allowed him to see the pink and lavender hues that result when homosexual pheromones are emitted as a reaction to, or a signal of, same-sex attraction. According to Mr. McDowd, the colors could be seen for as long as an hour after the sexual attraction occurs. "The colors will identify your targets," the billionaire said. "You will receive ten thousand dollars for every confirmed kill you make. Are you willing to be injected with the serum?" "I'd be willing to do it for free," I answered, "My sister Mary's pregnant. She's due to pop any day now. I want the world to be a better place. But, of course, the money's a nice bonus." He smiled, extending his hand. We shook. His palm was cold and clammy, like the feel of death. August 12 I never knew how many faggots there are! Maybe Mr. McDowd's theory that their numbers are increasing thanks to society's promotion of the so-called gay lifestyle is true. All I know is that there's a queer everywhere I go. Last week alone, I earned half a million dollars. Thinning out the herd's going to make me a rich man! If other people could see what I see and knew how many faggots are out there already, maybe politicians wouldn't be pushing the homosexuals' agenda. Maybe society wouldn't be so quick to embrace "gay rights." There are millions of them; they don't need any help in encouraging others to exit the closet or to give in to "latent homosexual desires." August 20 I had a bad scare. It's the boss' birthday, and, like everybody else in the family, I went to his place, over in Westchester, for his party. A man's expected to pay his respects. His wife went all out, and it was a great party. Everybody had a good time, but, then, the boss' grandson, Carmine, arrives. No sooner does the little bastard shake hands with me than he starts turning fairy pink and faggot purple. I should have suspected the little punk is "gay." He's given off vibes ever since he was ten or twelve years old. He's one of the swishy, "flamboyant" kind, a real pansy. Frankly, I don't even see how a faggot would be attracted to someone as effeminate as he is. I guess being the boss' grandson's has always put his manhood beyond question. Of course, nobody else can see the colors, just the one who's been injected with the serum, which is me, but I feel compelled to tell the boss about his grandson. It wouldn't be right to know Carmine's secret and just let it go. The boss, I figure, has the right to know. Then, he can decide what he wants me to do. After the party, before I went home, I gave the boss the news. He didn't take it very well. He felt ashamed. He was humiliated. I could see it in his eyes. I apologized. "I'm sorry, boss," I told him, "but I thought you should know." I told him no one else knew or would ever know, not from me. He authorized a hit on his own grandson. That had to be hard, but he did it. It makes me respect him even more. The boss has cajones, no doubt about it. August 31 You really can't tell a homo by how he looks, and the son-of-a-bitches are everywhere, in all walks of life. I even had to whack a goddamned priest! Can you imagine, a supposed man of God, fornicating with other men, sucking cock or taking it up the ass when he's not in the pulpit preaching the will of God? I went to see my sister's kid, Luigi, get baptized, and this faggot priest's the one sprinkling my nephew's head with his unholy water! Afterward, we're shaking hands with the bastard, and I see some pink spots. That doesn't make me any too happy, because I think maybe the padre has a skin condition or something, but then the lavender starts coming in, too, and I know the fucker's attracted to me! He's a faggot, the priest who's laid hands on my newborn nephew! I wasted that hypocritical son of a bitch the same night, after he performed the midnight Mass. September 12 I opened a Swiss bank account. As of today, my balance is $2,000,000, which means that there are 200 fewer queers walking God's green earth! If Mr. McDowd's right, and there's a purpose to everything, it looks to me like I've found mine. October 3 With the boss' blessing, I've taken a little time off and come to Rio. There are plenty of faggots here, too, believe me. Most of them would be recognizable even if I hadn't received the injection. They either swish and sashay, their wrists flipping and flopping like dying fish, or they act like Mr. Macho on steroids. I can't go anywhere without running into one of them. It's really disgusting. It's ruined my whole fucking vacation. I may go back to New York tomorrow, instead of next week. October 4 I decided to stay. Why should I let a bunch of pansies ruin my vacation? The whole fucking city--probably the whole damned continent--is crawling with the faggot vermin, but why the hell should I let them dictate where I go and what I do? I came here to sit on the beach, have a drink, and ogle topless women. If some homo shows his ass in a thong, along with the women, it's disgusting, but why let it get the best of me? October 5 I've decided to leave, after all. I can't stand seeing half-naked men showing their asses on the street. The fuckers even wear thongs to the shops along the boardwalk and the sidewalk cafes, and nobody bats an eye. No one dares to say a word. It's disgusting. What's really scary is that this might be a preview of the way the United States is going to be in another decade. I'm flying back to New York tomorrow afternoon. October 6 My hands won't stop shaking. I just killed another faggot, pumped three rounds into his belly while he was standing at a urinal, his cock hanging out of his fly. The son of a bitch propositioned me--in Spanish. I didn't know what the hell he'd said, until he showed me his prick and made thrusting movements toward me with his hips. He followed me into the restroom, pretending to have to piss, took his place at the urinal next to mine, and showed me his fucking cock! When he thrust it at me, I lost it, man, and I jacked three bullets into his guts, just like that: Blam! Blam! Blam! Then, when I turned, and I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sinks behind me, and my whole fucking face--my face and my hands--are faggot pink and pansy lavender. My God! I still can't fucking believe it! It's not true, I tell myself. It can't fucking be true! But chemistry doesn't lie, does it? I was sexually attracted to the bastard at the urinal. I was sending out pheromones--faggot pheromones--that he detected. In response, he emitted his own, as he came onto me. He was signaling me because I'd been signaling him! Maybe I was sending out same-sex pheromones to Carmine, too, and to the priest who christened Luigi, and to all of the others. One thing's clear. I can't deny it: I'm a fucking faggot myself! All these years, ever since I was raped in that alley, I must have been repressing my own latent homosexuality. What the faggots say is true; it's not just their attempt to turn the tables on the ones who hate and despise them. Homophobia really is a sign of the homophone's own latent homosexuality. As I lift the gun toward my temple, it feels heavy. For the first time, it feels really, really heavy. . . . Note to the reader: These diary entries were published at the request of the family of the deceased, Joseph Donatello, who hope that they may be a reminder, to all who read them, both that "God is love" and that one should "judge not, lest ye be judged."