Bjorn Buntersson was a human rights lawyer. Previously based in New York, he now lived in the Twin Cities in Minnesota. At sixty two years old he was starting to feel his age. He had always been a big man, a bear, so to speak, but now he was huge. The disc he slipped, in his mid-forties, had never truly healed, and the constant expansion of his belly had done him no favors. He spent his days sitting in his Chesterfield arm chair, reading his vast collection of books, and looking out of the window. He liked to watch the world go by on his quiet suburban street, it gave him peace.

You see, Bjorn felt guilty. He tried to deny it, but deep down he knew that he was at least partly responsible for the state of the world. Everyone sets out with the best of intentions; everybody thinks that they are right; everyone wants to improve the world. Bjorn had been no different. He cared about people, and he cared about freedom, and individual rights. He had been a true libertarian; do whatever you want as long as you don’t harm anybody else. The part that he now knew that he had gotten wrong, was that the consequences of actions were not always foreseeable. Actions have consequences, and you can’t always predict consequences. Consequences can be unforeseen, abstract, and multi-generational.

As a single gay man of means, Bjorn had acquired twin sons through the services of a surrogate; a homeless junkie from the Bronx, who he put through rehab in return for the gift of children. At the time he thought that it was a fair deal. He told his sons that their mother had died when they were young. Bjorn had never had a problem with lying to himself, so long as he believed that it was for the greater good. He never told his sons that he was gay and lived out his life as a bachelor; for their own good.

Steve and Henry were beautiful babies, identically blue eyed, blonde haired, and perfectly chubby. Bjorn loved them more than anything else in the world. He wanted to keep them that way forever. His libertarian values, and high salary, allowed him to supply his sons with everything that they desired. They hence grew up fat and spoiled. Bjorn saw no problem with letting his children eat whatever they want, it was libertarian; do what you want so long as you don’t harm anybody else. Obesity was a personal choice, how could your fatness possibly cause a problem for anyone else?

Bjorn realised that his sons were gay at an early age, but he never talked to them about it. He didn’t see the point. He was gay, they were gay. It seemed natural, like homosexuality was passed on by genes that simply. He accepted them without ever explaining to them, and everything was fine, until they met Shawn, but we will come to him later. Right now, we need to go back to Minnesota.

Bjorn was sitting in his Chesterfield reading Women in the Nineteenth Century by Margaret Fuller, when he heard the commotion outside in the street. He wanted to go out to intervene, to help, but he couldn’t, his back hurt too much, and he was too fat. All he could do was sit and watch.

The DHS (Department of Homeland Satiety) agents turned up in oversized SUVs. They were after a young man called Jose Flaco. Jose was a suspected member of a gym. They knew this because they had seen a suspected photo of Flaco’s arm on one of his ‘friends’  Instagram accounts and it appeared to have a faded tattoo of a dumbbell on it. Flaco fue fallado.

Bjorn was, of course, fully aware of current events, and the presence of DHS agents in his city. As a human rights lawyer, he understood much more of the current political situation than most people, however, he was still shocked to see them on his own street.

He watched as the giant SUVs skidded to a halt on the ice, and the giant agents sprang out of them. There were at least five of them. He couldn’t tell who they were, or how old they were, as they wore masks over their bloated faces, but he knew exactly who they worked for, as all of them were well over 300 lbs. He watched, horrified but intrigued, as their flabby stomachs bounced and bounded as they bashed and bullied poor Flaco to the ground.

As Flaco was smushed and smothered into the tarmac by the fatist fascists, he noticed another car pull up. It was a lady filming the scene. He knew instantly that she was a lesbian; he knew instantly that she was in danger. These gays had no use for women.

The next part flashed by all too fast. One of the fat gestapo approached the lesbian’s car. He was obviously mad at her for existing. Bjorn felt a pain in his stomach as he saw him draw his gun. He thought about his sons, and how they had been led down the wrong path. He thought about how he had enabled it. He thought about Shawn as the bullet entered her face. He was so far away, yet so close. He was ever present. He felt a pain in his chest.