Timothy Rove always believed in fighting fire with fire. That's why, when his girlfriend Jessica threw a Molotov cocktail at a shelf of books in the Houston public library, he threw another one to put it out. Knowledge is power, she had told him, and libraries are one of the few places where power is unprotected. In fact, security was so low that the two of them managed to walk in the front door, each toting a hockey bag filled with their favorite toys.
The place was crawling with the intellectually oppressed, their heads saturated with bullshit from dead foreigners and whining elitists. Of course, when the explosions started, everyone scattered, screaming, not knowing of course that this was for their own good.
The classics were the first to go. Then public records. A special section on "Poetry for Peace" was a pile of ashes within minutes. A full wall dedicated to Native American children's literature lit up and danced in long, wavy strokes of orange. It was beautiful.
In a trance, at one with God, Timothy twirled in circles down the now-empty halls. Jessica strutted with purpose through the aisles, to country music in her head. She held a lighter fluid container in each hand, squeezing liquid justice on the stained paper of the nonbelievers. The tentacles of the growing inferno followed playfully behind her. When she reached him they kissed, and he held her like a movie star with the heat to his back. She pranced to the door, tossing the empty hockey bag in to a nearby wall of flame. He started to follow, when he stopped, light-headed, and leaned against a wooden table that was being consumed at the far end.
What does fire feel like? Did the first man to create it stick his hand in to find out?
There in the library, Timothy did. He couldn't help it. He had to know. It fucking hurt.
Jessica laughed from the door.
"You're cooking yourself honey. I bet you'll taste good."
Timothy smiled through his pain. He wanted to taste good.
Some would say that a third degree burn requires medical treatment. Timothy knew better. As soon as they got home, he used his Visa card to grind up his Dexedrine and Zoloft into the usual powder cocktail. After sniffing it through a one-dollar bill with his good hand, he used duct tape to bandage his burnt hand. He had a lot of duct tape. Who knows when duct tape might come in handy?
After that he didn't feel much better, but no pain, no gain, right? Jessica suggested that they buy some coke. He never took coke, he told her. Only crystal meth, because it's always good to buy American. Instead, they got drunk on Budweiser and watched Fox News, naked, until they passed out at 4:20 AM.
Upon waking, they dutifully dressed for another day of saving the country's soul. They strapped on their leather and donned their wool. They ate their Kraft Dinner, drank their Pepsi, smoked their Marlboros and then set off in his Dodge Jeep. Their first stop was the financial district, where they ate their Happy Meals and people-watched while planning more preemptive strikes. He peeled the duct tape from his hand, because it was getting soggy and starting to smell bad. He quickly replaced it with fresh duct tape.
Next they filled up his tank at a Shell station in a rundown neighborhood because the gas was cheaper. They ignored the mentally ill homeless man who tried to make conversation for about a minute before giving up and stumbling away. Timothy wondered how many homeless people they could kill before anyone noticed. Hundreds, maybe, if they were efficient. Maybe if they used ovens. But no more distractions, he told himself, they had work to do. That night, the work would be done at the municipal zoo.
The zoo was home to several endangered species, including a gorilla, two pandas and a Siberian tiger. They had enough firepower to take down an elephant, but unfortunately, the elephants at the zoo were not yet endangered. His M-16 was his pride and joy, and he would often clean it for hours on nights when Jessica wasn't around. She was content with her revolver because it made her feel like a cowgirl.
Security at the zoo was a little tighter than at the library. However, they had the cover of darkness and the power of denim. A Levi jean jacket does wonders to protect your hands from barbed wire, and Timothy briefly considered writing to inform them of his satisfaction with their product. Maybe he would end up in one of their commercials.
Once over the fence, things were pretty simple. They used the "You Are Here" map to get directions to each cage, and they went their separate ways. The Siberian tiger was the first to go. Although the cage appeared empty, Timothy knew that the enemy was always present in the dark. He squeezed the M-16 and it came alive in his hands, spitting flashing glory. The zoo exploded with noise. Birds, monkeys, and other shrieking shadows shook the cages around him. The white flash of the terrified cat appeared immediately, and he sprayed the cage again. The white soon became red and was still. He paused for a second to savor his victory. A low whine spiraled up from beneath the shrieks, and the red twitched before him. He fired a few short bursts, and the red menace was slain. The pain in his hand was momentarily forgotten.
The pandas were easier. They huddled together, as if looking to each other for protection, as he carved them up from a dozen feet away. The endless shrieking drowned out their cries of pain. Their huge, sad teddy bear faces looked to the ground as they shuddered with each bullet. Finally, they collapsed into a single pile of black, white and red.
Of course, they never knew what was happening to them, Timothy told himself as his gun went silent. They didn't know they were being shot. They didn't run or hide because they didn't know what to run or hide from. Oblivious, they just kept being pandas until they couldn't be pandas anymore. He envied that level of blissful ignorance.
On his way to join Jessica, he shot a camel. He didn't know if it was endangered or not, he just hated camels. As he passed the shrieking monkey cage, he basked in the sheer ferocity of their motions and expressions. They wanted blood. Monkey see, monkey do.
He found Jessica in a cage, staring down the gorilla. Her gun was sticking out of her belt. She had her fists out, and she was starting a brawl.
"Whaddya think honey?" she yelled, "can I take him?"
The gorilla turned away from her, so she stood on her tip-toes and punched it in the head. It whirled around and she snarled.
"You can do it babe," Timothy called down, "I have faith in you."
A massive hairy arm swooped at her, and she nimbly ducked under it, delivering a quick jab to the ribs. Timothy shouted more encouragement, before a sharp crack punctured the shrieks from behind him. He turned. Shadows flickered all around him. A glaring spotlight struck him and he nearly lost his balance. A mechanical-sounding voice told him he was surrounded by the police. Blinded, he smiled. They had come to help with the cause. They had come to reward him for his services. He raised his gun and pumped his fist.
"Bring it on," he shouted, before discharging at heaven. The night was suddenly a rapidly blinking constellation all around him. He twitched, then twitched again. He held his duct-taped hand out in front of him, and watched it come apart before his eyes. His whole body separated from itself, as if in slow motion, and he fell away in pieces with a blissful smile on his face. Were they taking pictures? Was he going to be in commercials? The gun fell from him, and as he lay all over the ground, he was Timothy until he couldn't be Timothy anymore.
Jay Heisler is a 19-year-old student from Nova Scotia, Canada. He writes mostly about what interests him, so he writes mostly about love, drugs and politics.