Do you remember a golden time when fags and dykes were considered abhorrent, amoral and evil? A time before the pop media high-school slumber party of nonthreatening Ellens and Jacks who can’t wait to repackage grungy straight guys into foul smelling CK, overbranded clones?
What the hell happened? Did we all succumb to vacuous market appeal, politicking our way from deviance to mainstream with mass identity prostitution? Did we nail sexual liberation to a big fucking pink cross in exchange for the “right” to marry?
If I’d known I was walking into some airhead beauty contest in Barbie’s dream home when I came out, I would have picked up a good book, got something from the fridge and made the best of the confines of the closet. At least there it’s dark and I don’t have to make small talk with morons.
But it’s too late for all that, so, starting today, I’ll be reasserting my devious and debauched queer villainy. I don’t want to be just any old line-jumping farts-in-the-elevator smokes-indoors sort of villain, either. I want to wear scary outfits, make the public “rue” something and wrestle hunky musclemen in spandex at some abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.
First I’ll need a name. Using the modern supervillian’s most valuable resource, the Internet, I find a villain name generator. It’s hard to decide with so many devilish options to choose from, and none of them adequately allude to my queerness, which is, of course, what makes my brand of villainy a lot more cool than plain, old, hetero blood-for-oil villains like George W Bush.
I quickly narrow it down to a list of potential monikers including Captain Sodomizer, Invader Spluge and Generalissimo Mischevious el Strippenwhorz. But finally I decide on Baron von Koitus, The Sexecutioner. May it strike white-hot terror into my enemies.
Next I’ll be needing a base of operations from which to carry out my fiendish plans. Finding your perfect villain’s lair or hideout in Toronto’s housing market can be a heady task. In fact, most prospective homeowners must make a delicate choice between wage slavery to giant bank loans or robbing the bank outright just to be able to afford housing in Toronto.
(Incidentally, robbing faceless capitalist pig-dog banks is a good start for any truly dedicated super-villains out there. Doing it in drag or a cape and leotards will give you that gay edge. And have most of your hostages on the floor laughing while you scoop the loot.)
I, Baron von Koitus, am fortunate, having been related to many really cheap bastards who finally died and, as some desperate act of contrition, left their gay grandson handsomely endowed, financially speaking, in a vain attempt to buy their way in to heaven.
Oddly enough, no matter how many local real estate agents I contact none seem to list any secret underground bases, so I opt for an overpriced downtown condo with a nice boardroom where I can bring my villainous plans to fruition. It doesn’t have the Bauhaus steel furniture and marble floors that one usually needs to properly plot world domination, but it does have a low maintenance fee and a 24-hour gym.
As far as an overall plan goes, I won’t be indulging in petty acts of cruelty like beating up random citizens or eroding people’s basic rights – after all, our local police and government seem to have those both well in hand. I want something grand and sweeping. Something that whacked-out conspiracy theorists everywhere can sink their collective teeth into.
I’ll be advocating a liberation of queer consciousness and a declaration of war on the market forces that have convinced us to celebrate the pink-dollar-granted permission to exist publicly, as well dressed, rainbow-splattered, sex-crazed, sarcastic, hollowed out, cuddly stereotypes. I want to recruit fresh, vicious queers to the cause. Hell, to any cause for that matter.
Each and every one of you can join. You can start quite easily, by spreading on-line impotence rumours about your recent ex, hissing at passersby, leaving penny tips for bad service, gratuitous kissing of strangers in public, throwing befouled kitty litter into your neighbours’ recycling bins, shopping at Wal-Mart, stealing cabs from tourists while they struggle with luggage, slowly working your way up to crashing big family weddings and seducing happily married couples with acts of self-effacing sin and nonmonogamy.
Before I put any villainous plan into action, I’ll need a name for my nefarious organization, something that captures the spirit of the cause: the Queer Terror Force.
(Let’s face it, I’m white, Anglo and gay so I simply need to put “terror” in my name to get big brother to even notice me. That and QTF makes an easy acronym.)
Therefore it is with malicious pleasure that I, Baron von Koitus, The Sexecutioner, officially declare today the first day of operations for the Queer Terror Force.