"Do not call me a hero. I am but a man out to do a job, and my job is to protect..." The soldier in the box recites the lines given to him by the PR agent in the tent behind him...

"And kill with reckless abandon," she says. I always liked when she did that. That's why I love her, and always will.

Times are blind, and so they will be. I am part of that golden flash of deception, but that's what I get paid to do. And so they chant my name when I play a kid's game for a living. It doesn't pay much as they think, but that is not the beauty of it. I am a woman and so is Meg. Those who do not know that we are in love are the children of falsehoods, hate, of my home.

"Your hair is that of tragedy," said the old Sioux woman as I grew up, pride in battles past, a final victory to avenge a silent and unwritten attempt at genocide that goes unnoticed except by the children of the survivors. "You could always tell when he came, and you could then realize that you outnumbered him," she continued.

I never understood that. So I was a blonde, contrary to hate, although oddly consistant with porno movies. Lesbians don't mind a good blonde either.

I am a simple woman of simple needs, just not the needs of the simple woman. Yet I still am loved, except by those who hate, so I stand by and hope for the better, but only see worse.

Meg looks at me with disgust and shame, and like she is about to forget my name. This either means that I have forgotten my share of the bills or my home state has humiliated me again with their pompous thoughts of righteousness. I was hoping for the former.

"They banned abortion, shoved it down the court's throat. And oh yeah, the idiots in Seattle named their operating system after that guy who killed that Arab dude, the one who looks like the guy who pumps our gas. Damnit, I wished that Arab dude was him, I coulda used the money!" She winks at me and then goes on to her normal destruction of my birthplace. I've heard all it before: the lie on the plains, home of corn and cornballs, Georgia of the north, everything. Meg's always been critical of my home, and I don't blame her. The only good thing about it was that I could find a deer anywhere I wanted to, and could shoot it anywhere it leaped. Other than that, they saw someone who was married to whoever was single and male. They threw me in the corner and expected me to be who I was not. But then again, even in New York, they expect me to be the pretty one. I'm used to it, and the propositions are evenly split...if anything, Meg wishes there were more boys; less competition for her.

But, ahh, now my home has done it. They have created the lie in my image. Blonde, short, girlish smile, loving, barefoot, pregnant, and still the kinkiest whore when daddy comes home. No wonder 4 presidents now have their heads there, sounds like their kind of place.

I should have been used to it, but still I cry. It is a beautiful place, but it only sees what they are told. Except for the Sioux, the little unknown island of defiance that still lurks in the greasy grass.

I call my friend there to ask if it's true.

"Not where I live, we're putting up clinics faster than casinos! More business and I don't have to wear ice cream cones on my boobs while I work." They named her well when they gave her the name Hummingbird. No matter what the situiation she went on the same way, laughing in the face of the norm, just like her tribe.

I laugh with her for an hour then write a check to send to her to further her cause. She is married with 3 children but her people know enough of oppression to let it happen to anyone or anything else. I knew my money was in good hands, hands that give to those who loot, not those who find.

It's now summer, and the tide grows worse. In New York, though, it's mellow. You can't lie to millions of people who were born to the truth. That's what I like about this town. If it wasn't for the lack of deer and the high prices, I'd live here. They don't care if I'm lesbian. I think the boys even get a kick out of it in a bizarre way I hope never to understand.

As it is, I live with Meg in Denver because she likes the high mountain air. It actually makes her look like a legitimate basketball player. Besides, she hates the city. She can't stand the people staring.

I hear the stories, little 10 word paragraphs hiding at the bottom of the Post, half-page articles in the Times, dismissed as alien mind control tactics by the most read paper, the Enquirer. Gay couple burned at stake by church group, homosexual reform camp opens in Zarepath, NJ, proclamation of death to homosexuals by 2008 by group of fundamentalists. I can't ignore this, it is not mine to ignore, for they lynch me when they lynch anyone who is like me, another fable of Hummingbird's I keep by my side as I hope for the better.

It's late August and the season is about over. Meg looks at me in fear.

"Can't we play in Israel this year? They don't blow each other up as much as the God freaks blow up gays. What about Russia? Or, hell, stay here and work for the publicity department? I'm sure coach would love it and pay you for it."

Home is home, so I reassure her and she flies home a week early to get the house ready. I sit in New York, wondering why she hasn't called.

On a stopover in Denver on the way to Los Angeles, I stop by and find the door pried open but no one bothered to call. They give me weird looks as they pass. I walk in and smell death in the bedroom, a smell any hunter knows. I find her naked, sprawled out upside down. A fool wouldn't call for help, a fool wouldn't call it rape and murder. Who shoots herself in the back of the head? I go to the police and they write it down, say they will call me later.

I go out and have the worst game of my life and only my teammates can know why. Why? Because they are why, the they, the color of tragedy, the son of the morning star, leading his blind rats under the collar of lies into a world that outnumbers them, to die in their ignorance, but keep their boots on because the lies keep them alive and marching, living, breathing, spreading lies so the next little girl slowly rots into a giggling whore for the men to impregnate as much as they please before they trade her for another giggling whore, leaving the mother alone. Only one father, mine; only one son, of Him I do not know; if there's a Holy Ghost he's haunting some tourist trap in Disneyworld because divinity is now a show on tv.

I am the one accused of lies, of hate, of treason, of disse..disloyal...no, dissent, for dissent is disloyalty, and I am convicted under due process of a law that says that homosexuals need to die.

The Post says I murdered Meg, the News says I raped her, the Enquirer says I raped her until her mind had been twisted around my tongue and she was reduced to a mindless sex puppet who I dressed up and whose hair I dyed in my own image, and oh yeah, I was born on Mars.

The Times calls for civil war, so I become like the guy who pumped my gas, a marytr, a saint, a cause, a woman strapped to a table with her legs open so she can be reformed by being rammed by another drunken soldier who can't even be aroused by his idea of godly redemption. An outcast in a cell, while others are put in front of televisions all day. They slowly beat me as well. They call me a hopeless tomboy, so they throw me in solitary so I do not damage the soul of true murderers, those who drown their kids, who steal from the dying, who lynch those who they do not like. And then they reform me some more, make me more beautiful as my face shows the wear of my assaults. I am bloody and yet I am proud. I fight back every time now, because I heard boys like that too. I don't like you, but I should at least aim to please. I hear nothing but suddenly I am in New York, and I am alone in my room.

1 year had passed, and it is worse. I felt it in the intensity of every time I was raped by the soldiers. They said I was blessed to be touched by a soldier, a savior, Jesus Christ's children. Well, if you're related to Jesus, where the fuck are your beards? I lie unbroken and broken as my next victim, my clone, my new prisoner takes the floor. She is like me, same lies like me, the hair of tragedy like me, the shot like me, the secret like me, but she will not be touched. I will die first.

I sit down alone again, and I see that I am no longer tragic, as my golden blood of evil has spilled to everyone outside of New York. I have heard about this before, in January, my image is now the taming coo of obedience. Yes, Hummingbird's prophecy has come true, the color of tragedy is heading toward the doom of the larger world. All united, none knowing that they are now dead. Dead, yes, here lay a teenager, now it is me getting laid. Dead, yes, here lies a businessman, now here rises a soldier. Dead, yes, here was a liberator, now here dies a liberal. Dead, yes, here was a family man, now here burns a faggot because his hair was too shaggy. Dead, yes, here was America, here lies a mass of televisions. Watch me scream by day, get beaten by afternoon, get raped by night. The one in the short skirt, that's me when I was playing; the one in the leather, that was me when I was me; the one dancing to no end, that's me escaping my captors before I was raped by two men for my efforts.

"All fades to the gray of the old TV, I've Got A Secret is nothing but a game show, To Tell The Truth little more than a passing fancy, as all the people shave their beavers and dine with the Cleavers," Meg calls to me.

"And all the blondes have gone away to die, and all that's left are the two naturals who are the most unatural." Her grin, her hair, her smell, the way she twisted in her jeans to make them tight like the pop whore who imposes her mind on everyone, just to send me into her arms in a frenzy: Meg lives. Meg has always lived, just always in the closet, waiting, pleading, crying...dying...to escape.

She's aged better than I have. I am but a gray mass, she is a useful gray pattern.

"Whaddya mean girls aren't in the men's league? what about the guy for Denver? I'll be out 50 bucks if that that isn't some butch girl, look at that face." She smiles at me as she speaks. I am hers, and she is mine once again. She fits well in my arms, and we are one. Her touch paralyzes me, and I stand motionless as her touch enthralls me, makes me whole, makes me that blonde shooting threes once again, faster and stronger. The anticipation builds and I grow steadier, firmer, more focused as my body clenches at each second, as the time draws nearer her touch grows stronger, stronger, stronger, and I see him and she smiles and I fall to my knees. She places the ring on my finger, I commit myself to her for all eternity, and she echoes my commitment...sweet release and all falls down, dead, right in the heart because love always hits the heart the hardest. Meg releases me from her embrace and I return home, and we clean up together, and I am me again. I lay Meg down beside me while she is at rest, and I lie awake as the laughter of the dead haunts me. Another in New Jersey, another in my home, another, another, another, dead, dead, dead. And next I know it is morning, and Meg calls for me, sleepily, brushing her leg inside of mine, and I let her into my arms to control me once again. As Meg awakens, her pulsating rhythms awaken me to the walking dead, blonde, lost, my former self cloned in all sizes, even races, There are still some alive; this area all seems to have some alive. I am the last bastion of civilization. Her touches become more profound and I sharpen. The intensity picks up even more as I stand on the roof of my own building... more, more and I cannot control my actions. My vision fades to blonde, then red, as Meg retracts her grip over me to let me see the dying twitches of the blonde stockbroker walking in Times Square clutching her cross for one last call for salvation before her soul is judged to be a whore and a murderer, and I return downstairs, and as I did when I was a schoolgirl, I count how many times I have climaxed before Meg and I clean each other together. She sleeps, then awakens, then takes me. She no longer calls for me because she knows I am hers, bound in an illegal and sinful marriage of love and happiness, settled in a happy and fruitful domestic partnership. I take her hand, and she once again professes her love for me, and I return the favor as another falls dead.

No one questions our illicit affair, and as war comes we unravel in a honeymoon of wedded bliss. Meg grabs me and doesn't let go, bringing me to climax more than ever, and each time she makes me hers more and more, her steely gray complexion hardening around me, her crossed eyes becoming mine. I feel no fear, her touch numbs me, makes me remorseless to that color of tragedy who dared invade the plains. Now I live in a wasteland, led there by a woman I know is still alive. She speaks to me but I now only speak the language that Meg speaks to me. I am uncomfortable speaking any other tongue, for Meg and I are together at last and I do not want us to part for any reason. The woman feeds us; she knows both of our needs, she knows that we are a couple who act out of undying love. Love for what once was, love for ending what now is, and love for returning to what once was.

The woman is a brunette, not that color, but suddenly Meg rubs my thigh, and I spring into her embrace. Her actions are quick and her release faster than my old three-pointer, and dead falls a lone spy sent to kill me and sever our union. I am free from hiding my sexuality, and now those who disapprove will be met with with my Meg's burning passion that sears the heart and makes it understand me as they scramble to understand why their senses fail and their eyes fade before fading into the blackness of my imprisonment to be raped daily by their own ignorance and hate.

I look at the spy. Her complexion is darker than most but not a negro. She looks familiar but the golden stain atop her head wipes any familiarity away. Meg grabs me full force and takes me to her favorite lovemaking location on the rooftop. It's one of the longest and intense sessions ever. She holds me tighter, not letting me go after each climax, and she speaks to me once again in between each session before seizing me harder each time. "They're all gone, friends, lovers, mothers, daughters, they all are dead. You have me now, I love you, I always have, I kept you strong when you were being violated. I kept your soul from being raped even when every other part of yourself was." And Meg seizes me harder, and I can no longer see anything but blonde, blonde, and when it fills every inch of my vision, no trace of any innocent browns or reds, no purity of nature, just the mechanical golden thread of the machine, I know the sweetest red release, the most pleasant thought, peace to the restless, calm to my violated soul. Meg softly coos at me that I am now her wife, no longer an enamored lover or a blind newlywed. "Let these two now become one", and how we have! I saw what she saw, thought what she thought, rested when she was tired, gave myself to her when she wished me, fed myself when she was hungry; my body had assumed her form, rigid, cold, and gray.

My only friend is my one teammate who also has become like me. My older teammate was like me, blonde like me, gay like me, but more fearless. She lives in the harbor and tells me who is alive and who is dead. Meg and I listen with intent before Meg pulls me away so I can fulfill my friend's wishes before daybreak.

The climaxes mount, and Meg and I are inseparable now, wives in an eternal embrace. We express our love wherever we see fit, wherever it fits. I feel an air of acceptance from the community. We are the couple, or so I've heard. Meg's sighs and screams keep me locked in breathless focus as we calmly express ourselves; we have homes, we have people who feed us, but we are essentially alone. Then a visitor shows up in a long box from my old home. Meg releases me from her embrace; she senses it's safe and she rests herself as a familiar voice greets me.

"Crazy Horse was mad too, but he was also the greatest warrior. I live, be kind to the spirits, and they will guide you...Chris"

I was stunned. I awakened slightly. She had survived, and yet I bound... My memories of her turned into one of the most intense embraces yet, I was worried about Meg, that she would be jealous, but she just laughed and I tucked her into bed as I always did. The sensations of Chris' embrace were swift and stern. She was not wild like Meg, she was not there to tease or pleasure me, but to harden and chill me. Her touches were fists of rage and her intentions one of undying rebellion. And her release was an instant flash of red before she awakened me. Yes, she would make sure I killed daily. I start a separate tally for her before we clean up and Meg takes my hand one more time with a smile at this reunion with my second best friend.

My life has become bigger ever since Chris moved in. Meg makes love to me in the morning while Chris fulfills my commitments at night. I am as much a machine as they are, and I love both equally. Finally Meg whispers to me and out of a box comes the cutest child. Chris congratulates me and little Fiver comes into my arms. She barely fits in my hands and her cries awaken me to the growing new generation. I feed my child and she fills my final need as I roam from place to place, Meg and Chris by my side. I am now whole, now a woman, and time stands still as the climaxes mount. There is nothing except the neverending sea of blonde that fuels me and the flashes of red that soothe me. We are a happy family. Some see me as a hero as I stand enthralled in Meg's loving embrace or in an angry trance as Chris steadies me. But I am empty until that flash of blonde followed by the flash of red.

I hear no voices aside from the rare utterances from my circle... except for one. One man...

"Do not call me a hero. I am but a man out to do a job, and my job is to protect...and kill with reckless abandon."