My master at that time, Andre Glaucon, had been a Knight for
several years; he came into the order rich, and was known to rely
on his armor more than truly necessary. He was masterful with
the lance and the spear (he learned the spear coming from the
outland regions) but poor with the sword, at which I was better
than many Knights. I battered him about the field with the
practice-sword, until it became obvious that I was training him,
and not the other way around. Gradually, he built up a rage, a
rage that intensified his skill instead of degrading it. Then,
he exploded, and threw a blow so fast I blocked only by instinct,
and still it clove my shield in twain. With a wooden sword, he
did this!

“Is this Brad Carson?” The voice asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I’ve been watching how you’re into alien bestiality with that
cat and YOU’RE SICK!” he said, hanging up.

I blew up. What the snippy little queen didn’t realize was that
I made enough money to afford one of those phone attachments that
display the number of whomever is calling you. I dialed him
right back.

“Listen you gutless faggot,” I said when he answered, “why don’t
you take your anger out on whoever made you so hostile instead of
dumping on other gay people? Go home and beat up the bullies in
your school yard or your parents if they abused you. Take up
martial arts training if you aren’t able to do it now.”

“Fuck you,” a snippy-sounding voice replied.

“You can say ‘fuck you’ for the rest of the evening,” I snapped
back, “and it won’t change the fact that you’re no better than a
straight bigot who makes obscene phone calls to gays. If you
ever wonder what motivates them to go out of their way to hurt
someone who hasn’t done anything to them, you only have to look
at yourself. Well, if it takes fear of the straights to keep
some of you faggot snips civil, I’m letting you know that I’m
just as capable as a straight guy of giving you a busted lip if
you mouth off to me.” I hung up with a bang.