They Died 4

 Title: They Died 4

🎤 Cue the beat, cue the glitter, cue the gallows.

They called it a Pride party.

Bonfire blazing like a baptism of champagne and gasoline. Rainbow flags snapping in the wind like battle standards. A DJ screaming “Love is love!” over bass drops thick enough to drown a conscience.

And somewhere under that neon gloss veneer?

A body count.

Not the sexy kind.

The real kind.

See, an Oklahoma author—some nobody with scars in his smile—wrote a book.

2Die4.

A queer murder mystery soaked in blood, guts, and truth.

He didn’t ask for fame. Didn’t post rainbow selfies for clout.

Didn’t fly to L.A. for a DEI panel or slap a pink triangle on a coffee mug.

He just said:

“Here’s my art. It’s 99 cents. Every penny goes to suicide prevention for LGBTQ kids who want to die because people like you forgot how to give a damn.”

And what did they do?

They ignored him.

No retweets.

No book clubs.

No rainbow-wrapped influencers crying on TikTok about “allyship.”

Worse?

They whispered behind their glitter beards:

“He’s problematic.”

“A trauma vampire.”

“Not our kind of queer.”

“Let’s just… pretend he doesn’t exist.”

But the real party was never on the flyer.

The real party was a public execution.

On digital gallows.

With hashtags for nooses and champagne flutes raised high to toast another indie voice choked to silence.

⸻

Cut to:

A boy in a park.

Thirteen, maybe. Rope-burned neck, purple with goodbye.

A note in his pocket that didn’t say “love wins”—

It said:

“I don’t know if I’m a boy or a girl, and nobody cares.”

The only one who did?

Was the same “pervert” they canceled.

The “attention-seeking author.”

The “manipulator.”

The one they tried to erase like an unsold eBook.

He cut that kid down with trembling hands.

Held him like a brother, a sister, a soul.

And whispered through shattered breath:

“I wrote that book for you.”

“I screamed into the void for you.”

“I gave them the chance to save you—and they chose the party instead.”

⸻

🕯️ They Died 4 isn’t just a story.

It’s a requiem for every queer kid killed by curated silence.

For every book that wasn’t shared because the author didn’t wear the right pin.

For every scream reduced to “problematic content.”

For every love that wasn’t photogenic enough to trend.

This is the burn after the glitter fades.

The story they’ll pretend doesn’t exist.

The one that costs less than a dollar but comes soaked in the price of truth.

⸻

💬 Now tell me—do you love the party more than the people dying outside it?

Because he still loves you.

And he still writes.

Even if it breaks him.

Even if it kills him next.

You know who you are.

And that makes it even worse.

Yes—I’m talking to you.

The one who saw the post.

The one who rolled their eyes.

The one who thought, “Well he’s not even gay, so…”

You didn’t just ignore the book.

You ignored a lifeline.

You ignored them.

And here’s the kicker:

Jake isn’t even gay—

and he still gave more of a fuck than your flag-waving asses combined.

Let that roast in your rainbow-scented self-righteousness for a second.

While you were busy sipping glitter cocktails and snapping party pics,

he was crying under a dead boy’s body in a park.

He was writing stories with blood in the ink and kids in the margins.

And you?

You chose brand over bravery.

Clout over compassion.

Silence over saving someone.

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

You don’t get to claim “community” when your definition only includes the marketable.

Jake’s more of an activist than your entire curated feed—

and he didn’t do it for likes.

He did it because someone fucking had to.

So here’s your parade.

We brought the fire.

Now march in it.

This story is dedicated to every bookstore I wrote… who ignored it.

To every LGBTQ+ group who saw my message,

and brushed me under the rug like dirt on your curated image.

You had a chance.

No cost to you.

No risk.

No ask for more than a fucking share.

You could have helped save lives.

You could have stood beside something that wasn’t sponsored,

but was real.

But you didn’t.

You ghosted.

You gatekept.

You turned your rainbow backs.

So congratulations—

you’re about to get outed.

Not for who you are,

but for what you failed to be.

This was never about me.

It was about the kids. The messages. The lives on the edge.

You chose silence.

I chose the truth.

And now the world will see what you chose to bury.

This is evidence.

This is war.

This is They Died 4