Despite Father’s admonishment, corporeal punishment, my urges remained. The desire to burn. To watch things burn.
The urge grew stronger, even, and I would dream of fires more vividly, and I planned and plotted to when I would be able to set fires again.
And often I would ideate padlocking Father in his office, gasoline to the double wooden doors and lighting his office on fire, thinking of him behind his colossal desk, his coughing and cavorting and his ivory dentures falling from his mouth.
His silk pants and his snakeskin belt and his golf clubs all aglow, smoldering, and me in a toga, running wildly through the halls of our house with a blowtorch, burning the Belgian millwork, burning the sculptures and French paintings he had bought at auctions, and shooting a fire hose filled with jet fuel along the exterior of the dwelling and burning the whole fucking house down, me watching it in flames from outside the front gates, then flogging myself with a fire hose to pat myself on the back...
I would think of burning alive anyone I hated. Teachers. Classmates. Janitors and school security guards most of all. Sitting in class, I would visualize how wonderful it would be if I could turn my pen into a flamethrower and incinerate everyone in the classroom. I would piss in a school bathroom’s urinal and wish my dick were a flamethrower and that I could use it to piss fire and torch my whole school down to the ground.
The only classes I liked were math and science, especially science, because of the experiments and Bunsen burners...
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Come high school, I grew to detest my classmates even more than the security guards and janitors. I hated the jocks and cool kids most. Particularly I started hating the cool kids’ cigarette smoking, the scent it made. The way the smoke looked, and the way smokers looked.
It was so stupid, smoking. Smoke was so inferior. Its corpus simply an excreted byproduct of fire. The waste of fire. The shit of fire. And anyone I ever saw smoking cigarettes, like those cool kids who would sneak off behind school to suck cancer dicks, I would think of letting loose a flamethrower at them, cackling at the superiority of my flames over their smoke…
By the time I got my license to drive, Father was sleeping in his office at his firm’s headquarters, and Mother was always off skiing wherever it was winter. Of an age to be left largely to my own devices and with the freedom of movement, at last, I had the freedom to play fire games again.