Bury Your Gays

by Chuck Tingle

Ray eventually pulls onward in his six-figure sportscar, this lime-green vehicle acting as yet another billboard for his decades-deep midlife crisis.

Throwing out observations of heavy or dark seems like such an absurd way to interact with these stories, our commentary falling flat no matter how valiantly we struggle to honor the lives lost.

I can’t help wondering if the world around us is really as peculiar as it seems. Are bizarre consequences actually falling into place like some grand puzzle, culminating in the fulfillment of an intricate hidden agenda? Are there dots to connect and conclusions to draw, spelling out a secret meaning that’s right under my nose? Or will a simple explanation reveal itself in the morning when I’m not so fucking drunk?

I didn’t sleep much last night, and the pain that radiates through my body is starting to spread. I can feel it behind my eyes, a tense awareness that things are falling apart.

“The same goes for fear, though. You don’t wanna feel that way all the time, but it’s a muscle that needs to be exercised. There are scary things in the world, that’s just a fact, and if you pretend they’re not all around us then you’re in for a rude awakening. Horror offers a chance to recognize this truth, to explore dark places in a safe way.”

Night of the Living Dead isn’t really about zombies, it’s about racism. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is littered with pro-vegetarian subtext, and They Live is more about rampant consumerism than aliens.” “But ghosts aren’t real,” Seth argues. “He wasn’t actually in danger.” “Zombies, Leatherface, and space invaders aren’t real, either,” I counter. “But racism, factory farming, and unchecked corporate greed are.”

“This is how scary stories work, how horror works. We’re all still here, safe and alive. We’ve had that primal rush and exercised those muscles to remind us death is eventually coming for everyone, but not today.”

Maybe they did let me know and I just can’t remember it. Stories like to churn and mutate over time, grinding themselves down to a state of linear purity. This often takes precedence over the truth.

“I’ll do plenty tomorrow night,” The Smoker croaks. “Great! See you then, you certified-rotten straight-to-streaming fuck!” I hang up the phone, stricken by the sudden urge to throw it through my front windshield.

“It’s not just about telling queer stories,” I continue, louder now as I find my footing. “It’s about telling all kinds of queer stories. Yes, there can be tragedy and death and darkness, there’s an important place for that, but don’t forget about queer beauty and queer catharsis and queer joy! Every gay character doesn’t need to die in the first scene, or in a third-act blaze of glory to save everyone else. Support queer heroes, not just onscreen, but offscreen too!”