Logical Conclusions

Tyler was a man. A real man. An alpha man. He wasn’t one of those Beta fish, sucker men clinging to the glass eating scraps and feces. Tyler was an American hero. He just needed to find a way to prove it. That’s why he organized the rally. A big rally. The biggest. He wasn’t going to sit back and watch his city become infested with spineless jellyfish, all these urchins and leeches begging for sympathy and handouts, he was going to stomp their whiny voices into the ground with his brigade. A sea of red hot triumph. Victory.

That is, until he awoke on the morning of his planned greatest achievement.

“What is this?” he shouted, leaping from his race car bed.

“No. No, no, no, no, no, no... how can this be?!”

He flung himself at his dresser mirror only to find the face of a very attractive woman staring back at him.

“Lies!” he shouted at the mirror, running towards the bathroom. He rummaged through the drawers bellow the sink until he found it.

“Where are the ingredients?” he shouted, scanning the back of a bottle reading “Super Male Vitality”.

Tyler sighed. He dropped the bottle and allowed himself to look into the mirror. He was clearly a full grown woman. He examined his new body in a calm, and eerily quiet way, attempting to maintain a neutral and rational perspective.

His body ached. His hips were sore. His head was throbbing. He was dizzy with logical conclusions.

This is Alex Jones’ fault, he thought, looking at the pills. Or those gay neighbors, the ones who keep trying to talk to him while they’re walking their tiny dogs.

“Tyler, honey, your friends are here,” his mother’s voice called down the stairs.

“Quiet! I’ll be right there.”

He grabbed his hair shears and began frantically chopping at the long blonde locks that had sprung from his previously crew cut head.

“Shall I tell them to come down?”

He threw the scissors and ran for his artillery closet.

“Quiet! I said. I require more time!”

He pulled a neon orange roll of duct tape from a tool box and viciously wrapped the material around his upper torso and his newly discovered breasts.

“Tyler, sweetie? Is everything alright? I know it’s your big day.”

“God damn it, Mom. Stop speaking to me!”

It was then he realized. Had he forsaken God? He had. Recently. Was this biblical punishment? Was he to endure life as the weaker sex now due to his reckless infractions against the Holy Spirit.

He pulled a red cap down over his mangled hair cut along with a camouflaged sweatshirt and some cargo shorts over his... area. He had never seen one, one of... those before, and was terrified to inquire. Not now.

He loaded his guns and headed up the stairs to meet his followers. He could keep it a secret. He was still himself. He would march, deliver his speech, and then deal with this whole... situation, when he returned. He would sue Alex Jones if necessary.

Tyler managed to get to the parade without speaking to his entourage, but it was becoming more difficult.

“Excuse me! Watch it! I’m the organizer here. Coming through.”

“Hey cutie,” a voice called from behind.

“Nice ass,” said another.

“I like em pushy.” said a third.

“Hey Tyler, why does everyone...”

“Shut up, ” he replied, trying to deepen his voice.

“Sweet cheeks.”

“Fine Ass.”

“What’s under the sweatshirt?”

Tyler shouted and screamed but the men were indifferent to his calls for cooperation and mutual respect.

“Move aside! Get off of me! I’m the organizer!”

“Not likely,” a tall man in a hat and sunglasses said, turning around, “I like your spunk though. I like em spunky.”

He reached for Tylers waist with one hand and the other moved towards his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” he shrieked. “I’m wearing hunting gear. I have shaved my head! I’m seething with outrage and fury! Move!”

“Woo!” the man laughed, "She’s feisty!”

A group of men gathered around Tyler, laughing.

“Hey, thats our friend. He’s a man,” Tylers entourage argued.

Tyler's face turned red.

“'He?' He one of them? What you call em?”

“Get him out of here!” one of them shouted.

“Yeah, get him out of here!”

“Freak!”

“Queer!”

“GET HIM OUT!” the mob started chanting.

“GET HIM OUT!”

“GET HIM OUT!”

“Wait!” Tyler screamed.

He felt something hard jab him in the ribs. He collapsed. A boot hit him in the cheek.

He scrambled. He began crawling away as fast as he could. He squirrelled his way through the mess of legs, flagpoles, signs, and rifles. Boots stepping on his hands. A militia of hate at his heels. He didn’t turn around. He could hear the chants diminishing behind him. Squeezing his way out of the crowd, he escaped to the side and hid inside an azalea bush.

His mouth was bleeding and he couldn’t open one of his eyes. He was fairly certain his rib was broken.

If I just make it to the stage, I can clear this up, he thought.

He got back on his hands and knees and moved towards the stage. It would all be cleared up, it would all be okay. They would recognize him. They would understand. This was just a misunderstanding. It would be fine. He would still be victorious.

He slid around the stage gates and ascended the metal stairs. Lifting himself from his knees as he climbed and hobbling to the microphone, he steeled himself, then waved confidently.

“Greatness!” he shouted into the mic, “Winning!”

"Who's this chick?" a man in the front shouted.

“Take off your shirt!” yelled another.

“Show your boobs!”

Tyler looked down at his bulging sweatshirt. He felt the veins in his forehead swell with rage.

“No! You...! All of you! Just, shut the hell up!”

The men roared with laughter.

“Hey, her lady parts is bleeding!”

He looked down to see a wet patch on his shorts and a line of dark red trickling down his leg.

“Gross! That’s disgusting!”

“And her legs are hairy! Boo!”

“Get her out of here! Nasty!”

Tyler pulled the guns out from his waistband.

“YAY!” the crowd cheered.

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” he shrieked, pointing the barrell at the first man who had yelled at him. He pulled the trigger.

He heard more shots. He kept firing into the angry sea of his former peers. Bullets flying left and right. One struck him in the stomach. Another in the shoulder.

He fell to the floor of the stage, blood pouring out of his arms and stomach and crotch.

“Is this what it’s like to be a woman?” he pondered aloud, looking to the sky as the corners of his eyes grew dim.

Just then, he heard a mysterious female voice. It came from somewhere beyond, from deep within his own mind. A voice through the ether.

“You awful, racist, misogynistic boy. You moron. It gets so much worse than this. Shame. You've learned no lessons today.”