TPV Chapter 28: Prayer

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

At the newly renamed World Church of the Creator Faith Assembly, Pastor Cabriel Forester stood at the pulpit with a copy of the NIV Bible in his right hand. He intended to address parishioners in the manner of a traditional, worship service. Yet from the time that members of his parish first arrived in their spacious sanctuary, a hint of rebelliousness tainted the air. He began to lead the flock in a prayer. But was quickly interrupted by a lone voice from the crowd.

 

Senior member Roel Psenka, wrapped loosely in a wool sweater with wooden buttons down the front, shook his fist and stammered with the deliberate cadence of someone who was almost 90 years old.

 

“YOU WANT TO PRAY WITH US? THEN DO IT FOR THE ONE WHO SITS IN JAIL RIGHT NOW! DO IT FOR OUR SPIRITUAL BROTHER, AIMES HEFTI! AMEN, I SAY! AMEN!”

 

A chant rose from the gathering in support of this verbal petition.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

The unexpected venting of anger from a respected icon of their community rattled the preacher. He had to pause for a moment of silence, to collect his thoughts. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Then, he responded to this populist demand, by placing the volume of scriptures on his lectern. He bowed while pressing both hands, palms down, on the book.

 

“It is written in Matthew 5:8-10, ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’ Hear and receive the Word of God!”

 

Roel was not impressed with this familiar quote. He gestured with arthritis slowing his pace, and pointed at the minister, directly.

 

“PEACEMAKERS? WHEN OUR CHAMPION HAS BEEN INVESTIGATED, HARASSED, RAIDED, IMPEACHED, CHARGED AND CONVICTED, AND INSULTED? I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOU GO WITH THAT, CABRIEL! INTO A CELL NEXT TO AIMES, I’D GUESS! I’LL CHOOSE A DIFFERENT PATH! ONE TO GLORIFY OUR KING OF KINGS!”

 

The theologian tightened his expression, and held on to the pulpit at its bottom corners.

 

“Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge, I will repay,’ says the Lord. That is Romans 12:19. Do you believe in the scriptures, my brother? I challenge you to accept the will of our creator.”

 

Psenka huffed and spit drool as he growled like an aging bear.

 

“Deuteronomy 20:4 says, ‘For the Lord your God is the one who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies to give you victory.’ There’s the promise for believers, Cabriel! Those who fight for good will have their victory! I say again, Amen! Amen!”

 

The sanctuary filled with a din of exuberant worship.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Pastor Forester went limp, as if his energy had been wrung out like a spent dishrag.

 

“Very well then, very well. Here is my prayer: In the blessed name of Jesus, who makes intercession for us when we come to him with our cares, I ask that our neighbor be given his freedom. He is being held as a prisoner for no reason except his strong belief in the Word of God, and in the Constitution of our land. He is a patriot and a pioneer. One who gifts us with protection, and the skill of a warrior. Let him not be forgotten in his cell. Instead, allow him to join us here, and lift up praise to you! He is one of many. And we are one in spirit! A tribe commissioned by gospel truth, and ready to reveal prophecy by divine inspiration! Let us go forth, to all of Ohio, and America!”

 

The chanting resumed, with even greater intensity, after this pleasing invocation.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! FREE THE CAPTIVE, AND MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

 

Roel needed oxygen to survive traveling to the church, alone. Yet his voice echoed loudly, in a call to action. Suddenly, the entire hall was electric with raucous ire.

 

“IT’LL TAKE MORE THAN YOUR PRAYER TO GET THIS DONE, REVEREND! WE NEEDTO STORM THE SAFETY CENTER! THEY CAN’T SHOOT US, OR BIND OUR HANDS, BECAUSE WE CARRY NO WEAPONS. NONE, EXCEPT FOR THE WRATH OF ALMIGHTY GOD! HIS SWORD IS WHAT WE CARRY!”

 

Forester felt his legs weakening. He was not eager to stage a confrontation with deputies at the county facility. That sort of idea seemed destined to fail.

 

“Brothers and sisters, I want you to ponder your emotions carefully. If you put pressure on our lawgivers, it will harden their hearts, defensively. Is this what you really want? If you desire a vigil, outside of that building, where we open our hearts to the Father, I have no issue with your plan. We are free to sing and pray and show our love. But I chasten you, do not forget that any appearance of brute force would ignite a tinderbox! There are already enough irons in the fire! We need not add to that desperate number!”

 

A different chorus resounded at this plea of caution.

 

“COWARD! COWARD! COWARD! COWARD!”

 

Psenka snorted and fiddled with his vintage spectacles.

 

“IT’S LIKE PRESIDENT TRUMP SAID ON CAPTIOL HILL, ‘GO AND FIGHT, OR YOU WON’T HAVE A COUNTRY ANYMORE! WE’RE WASTING TIME! LET’S GO, LET’S GO!”

 

The clergyman gulped hard, took a deep breath, and folded his hands.

 

“Friends, I beg you. Don’t let your zeal for Christ make you go blind! Our duty as good citizens is to calm the waters, not stir them with sharpened words of retribution...”

 

Laughter exploded from every pew. Then, the throng of supporters began to exit their seats, and stream toward the vestibule, en masse. Rage swelled their veins with righteous fury.

 

“ONWARD, CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS! TO THE WORK! TO THE WORK! TO THE WORK!”

 

In only a minute, the religious steward found himself alone in his church. The clatter of rusty cars and pickup trucks spinning to life could be heard, from outside. Smoky plumes of exhaust grew thick, against the blue sky. Soon, a swarm of vehicles headed toward their target destination, south of Chardon, the capital city.

 

Cabriel Forester closed his eyes, which had filled with tears of regret.

 

“Forgive them, Lord. For they know not what they do...”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 27: Trouble

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Governor Mark Moerlein never liked giving press conferences. It was a duty he performed only because there was no way to avoid speaking to reporters in a public forum, about his stewardship of Ohio. With every planned encounter, his blood pressure would rise, a nervous twitch made his hands tremble, and his mouth would go dry. Ending each one of these sessions brought a sense of relief, and gratitude for the intervention of a higher power.

 

He was secretly glad not to face another political campaign, once this term had expired.

 

But on Monday morning, there was an extra measure of reluctance in effect. Minutes before taking his place in the media room, at the Statehouse in Columbus, he received a warning call from Geauga County. A district near Lake Erie, steeped in support for the 47^th American president, who had just taken office.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath spoke in tones that were both diplomatic, and insistent.

 

“Mark, I’ve got a situation brewing up here. My jail cells are full of apprehended illegals. It’s a good grab for us, we want to support the new administration. And it puts a few extra bucks in our coffers. We’re getting hammered in the press, but that’s nothing new. Protesters from the college crowd, in Cleveland, have been here all week. There’s a new wrinkle on this conflict though, and I think you need to give it some thought. I had to arrest one of those militia hounds from our recent past. He’s a small-time instigator, nothing we can’t handle. Somehow though, the guy has made connections with other groups across the Midwest, and elsewhere. Like Patriot Front, the Oath Keepers, the Proud Boys, and even the Asatru Folk Assembly...”

 

The Buckeye chief executive was nonplussed by these references. Especially, the last.

 

“WHAT-SO-WHO? A FOLK ASSEMBLY? DO THEY PLAY BOB DYLAN SONGS, OR MAYBE SOMETHING BY THE KINGSTON TRIO? I THOUGHT THAT WENT OUT OF STYLE!”

 

Rath chortled and spit a mouthful of black coffee.

 

“Look, I need you to be serious about this, okay? They sent a petition to my office...”

 

Carefully and deliberately, he read aloud from a page of text scribbled on notebook paper.

 

“RESOLVED – THE RESIDENT ASSOCIATION OF EVERGREEN ESTATES DEMANDS AN IMMEDIATE RELEASE OF OUR NEIGHBOR, AIMESWORTH HEFTI. HE IS BEING HELD WITHOUT ANY LEGITIMATE CHARGES, FOR A PURPOSE OF INTIMIDATION. WE CONSIDER HIM TO BE A POLITICAL PRISONER. THIS UNLAWFUL CONDUCT WILL NOT BE TOLERATED! THE PEOPLE DEMAND THAT YOU TAKE ACTION ON THIS MATTER, IMMEDIATELY!”

 

Moerlein shook his head and groaned as if in pain.

 

“Where the heck did you get that nonsense, Tom?”

 

His contact in the northeastern sector rustled pages of evidence while frowning.

 

“It’s from a known perpetrator at the trailer community on our border with Ashtabula County. A guy who likes to rile up the faithful at church services and summer events. That patch of filled-in swampland has been a headache for me, ever since I took over this department! I wish it had been bulldozed, years ago!”

 

The Ohio executive had to rub his eyes. He was incredibly tired for being only a few minutes away from holding a press conference. Yet somehow, his affectation of being a sober, civil, caretaker for his principality was still in place.

 

“Sheriff, all I can say is that you need to handle your own business. I do mine, you do yours!”

 

The local lawman did not take this brush-off lightly.

 

“Okay Mark, okay. I’ll remember your flippant response. Thanks for nothing, old friend! Have a great day! I hope you can stay out of the newspaper headlines, and off those evening newscasts! Do your best! Good luck!”

 

The phone line clicked loudly in his ear. It was an irritating noise, but offered a quick end to their debate. He was already behind schedule for the morning press conference. Good fortune gave him easy access, however, to a corridor that linked his suite of rooms with the spot where microphones and cameras were waiting.

 

He arrived in a rumpled, brown suit, still tugging his necktie into place. A gaggle of reporters were present, already checking their watches and cell phones for the current time.

 

“I apologize for being tardy, everyone. My work in our capital is never done. There is no opening statement today, I think you all know that our former president has now resumed his service in a non-concurrent term. This will affect every state, and particularly, ours, because we had so many voters here who chose him as their candidate.”

 

Shouts and jeers echoed around the confined space. Then, a representative from the press corps stood up, donned his eyeglasses, and gestured with an ink pen. He was bald, overweight, and dressed in a tweed jacket.

 

“Governor, my name is C. Jalen Poke, from the Dayton Daily News. I’d like to ask about a story that just hit the wire services today. Do you have any information about the Asatru Folk Assembly making an incursion into Ohio? Is it true they have partnered with some residents of a mobile-home park, living in a rural part of a northern county?”

 

Moerlein chewed his tongue. There was little time to compose himself for a coherent response. He attempted to dodge the query, convincingly.

 

“A-Whatru? Who? Who is that? I’ve never heard of them before! Next question!”

 

Mr. Poke refused to be turned aside.

 

“I’d like to read this statement from one of their videos, posted in 2020, if I may...”

 

He flipped open a ring binder, and thumbed through pages of printed material.

 

“Being a Confederate is no longer about where you live or even on which side your ancestors fought. You can be from Ohio or Pennsylvania or New York because what is now happening in New Orleans and elsewhere in the South, is your battle too. The same interests that are demanding an ISIS-like erasure of history when it comes to the statues of Confederate heroes are the same forces tightening the leftist and globalist stranglehold on y’all up in the North, and those of you out West, and those of you from coast to coast and around the world... These people are not just after Southerners, they’re after you too!”

 

Upon vocalizing this radical missive, the professional scribe explained his reasoning for pointing out the group’s existence, and entry into their stream of consciousness.

 

“A secretary at our publication found this online. The SPLC, the Southern Poverty Law Center, used it in a listing. They have apparently connected with some residents in our state, individuals who have been known to hold views outside of the mainstream. That has me thinking that bigger things could be happening, very soon. So, I ask you, has your office been made aware of what allegedly occurred? And if so, what steps will you take to protect our citizens from harm?”

 

The Buckeye leader felt sick at his stomach. But before he could reply, another reporter interrupted. She was younger, slender, and visibly contrarian. Her tattoos and piercings stood out in the gathering of primped and proper members of the press.

 

“Sir, my name is Libby K. Raal, presently a writer-at-large. Though my past history has been with the Cleveland Plain Dealer. With regard to the previous inquiry, are you aware that a prisoner being held near Chardon is someone with ties to the aforementioned clan of militia activists? A man said to be unrepentant for aggressive encounters with members of the media, including myself?”

 

Governor Moerlein had started to swoon. He was flushed and overheated. Finally, an aide appeared, looking boyish, nerdy, and unprepared for his improvised service.

 

“THANK YOU, THANK YOU! THAT’S ALL WE HAVE TIME FOR TODAY! THERE IS A CONFERENCE CALL IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I REGRET THAT THIS SESSION HAS TO CONCLUDE, SO ABRUPTLY. HAVE A GOOD DAY EVERYONE! THANK YOU VERY MUCH!”

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 26: Safety

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

With a political earthquake happening in Washington, D.C., and across America, the Geauga County Safety Center had suddenly become a focal point for news stories in the region. This intrigued Libby K. Raal, and lifted her out of the doldrums where she had languished since failing with her trailer park manuscript. Daily reports from WJW, the Fox affiliate in Cleveland, showed protesters of all kinds surrounding the large facility. Members of AntiFa, Black Lives Matter, Earth Liberation Front, Queer Nation, and even Redneck Revolt were participating. The latter of these groups wore T-shirts that carried their progressive slogan, ‘Putting the RED back in redneck!’ Sheriff’s deputies and members of other departments from northeastern Ohio who were providing mutual aid, stood as a buffer between the angry mob and its target. The facility’s population had swollen recently, with illegal, foreign nationals apprehended in Immigration & Customs Enforcement raids. This attracted much attention from opponents of the new federal administration, and its MAGA supporters. The result was loud, colorful, and very unpredictable. A chore for local law officers to manage, successfully.

 

Chanting continued from sunrise to sunset, despite the frigid temperatures. The zeal of student activists and their allies in the mainstream media could not be silenced.

 

“NO NAZIS, NO KKK! ELON MUSK, GO THE HELL AWAY! TRUMPER FASCISTS, FUCK THEM ALL! PUT THOSE BASTARDS UP AGAINST THE WALL!”

 

Rachel Madcow, hero of MSNBC fame, and a figure of renown with those who were disgusted by the rightward tilt happening to their government, decided to broadcast live from the parking lot via a satellite feed. Her program quickly became the highest-rated broadcast by any news outlet from coast to coast.

 

“WELCOME TO THE MADCOW MOO! HEAR ME, SISTERS! WE WON’T BE QUIET, WE WON’T BE WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN! WE WON’T LIVE IN A ‘HANDMAID’S TALE’ KIND OF FANTASY FOR THESE TRUMPER TROOPERS! THEY CAN ALL BURN IN HADES! GET YOUR FISTS IN THE AIR, AND FIGHT LIKE HARDCORE BITCHES, NOT HIGH-SOCIETY LADIES! DO IT RIGHT – DO IT RIGHT NOW!”

 

The television personality looked sharp and smart, with her short-cropped hair, and oversized glasses. As a Rhodes Scholar, she was a formidable enemy for anyone who thought themselves to be a superior intellectual force.

 

“WE’RE COMING TO YOU LIVE TODAY, FROM A STRONGHOLD IN THE HEARTLAND, VIRTUALLY OWNED BY THE ORANGE MAN AND HIS SYCOPHANTS! THE ARMY OF FIERCE FEMMES WE’VE PUT TOGETHER TODAY IS READY TO GET THEIR CLAWS INTO THE FAT, WHITE ASSES OF THESE MAGA GOONS! I AM SO PROUD OF THEM, AND OUR SPIRITUAL SIBLINGS, EVERYWHERE!”

 

Debris rained down on the contingent of deputies, as chanting continued to echo.

 

“NO NAZIS, NO KKK! ADOLF HITLER IS IN HIS GRAVE! DON’T RAISE YOUR ARM IN A HEIL SALUTE, WE’LL BREAK YOUR FINGERS AND PISS ON YOUR BOOTS!”

 

The unruly throng soon began to surge toward, in a show of strength. But this test of the law brigade only brought out tear gas and rubber bullets. Riot shields were held high. Soon, the mass of college kids and their volunteer instructors was overwhelmed.

 

Libby watched in horror, yet kept scribbling notes in her journal. She took photos with a cell phone, and sent texts to both newspaper editors that had rejected her work before.

 

Inside the facility, Aimes Hefti crouched on a bench in his holding cell. Other prisoners who surrounded him seemed to speak no English. So, he felt very isolated. And wished that some of his militia cohorts might stage a violent incursion, to set him free. Something he thought would be unlikely, in view of the armed contingent already on duty.

 

Outside, Sheriff Tom T. Rath raised a bullhorn, and addressed the protest gang directly. He had been well-trained for handling situations where conflict resolution was a priority. But now, on his home turf, the battle lines were more severe to behold. Everything about his career turned pale when pondering that the wellness of his home community was now in jeopardy. He had no involvement with decisions made in Columbus, at the White House, or on Capitol Hill. Yet his life, and those of citizens in his county, all hung in the balance.

 

Long shadows streaked across the concrete, as angry outbursts continued to resound.

 

“NO NAZIS, NO KKK! THE TRUMPER TRIPE IS ON DISPLAY! IT’S MAKES US SICK, THAT FOUL BUFFET! ELON REEKS, LIKE JUNIOR RFK!”

 

The din of dissent had been deafening for so long that few seemed to notice a throaty roar of diesel rigs, coming in from Thompson Township. These big-tired, jacked-up haulers were belching black smoke, and spitting shards of scorched rubber. While the invaders from Lake Erie cheerfully made their voices heard, a note of opposition began to provide contrast. Circling the spacious lot, a row of trucks rolled into place. Their occupants brandished rifles, shotguns, and pistols of all sorts. Confederate flags waved alongside Gadsden standards, and Trump banners from the last campaign season. Then, a chorus of Lee Greenwood boomed through speakers in the biggest of this brawling brood, a Chevy Silverado, running on the rugged driveline from a military personnel carrier.

 

“If tomorrow, all the things were gone

I’d worked for all my life

And I had to start again

With just my children and my wife

I’d thank my lucky stars

To be living here today

‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom

And they can’t take that away

 

And I’m proud to be an American

Where at least I know I’m free

And I won’t forget the men who died

Who gave that right to me

And I’d gladly stand up

Next to you and defend her still today

‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land

God bless the USA!”

 

Tears of respect and honor were flowing, even from Rath and his deputies. Then, one of the mobile-home residents stepped forward, with his head bowed in a gesture of diplomacy.

 

“Sheriff, ya got one of our own held captive right now. There ain’t a reason fer that, because no charges got filed. That stinking drunk never spoke up about getting whacked. Maybe he realized that it was justified. I’ll give him, and yer ass, my benefit of the doubt. So, here’s the deal, open that cell and let him go! We’ll call it even. Otherwise, I’ve got two-dozen pickups waiting to smash through yer front doors. There’ll be a lot of bloodshed when that happens, I know it. You don’t want the headache, and neither do any of us. All we want is our commander back among the ranks, where he belongs!”

 

Rath took off his Stratton uniform hat, and held it by the brim, in his fingers. He answered in a whisper that was only audible between himself and the militia representative.

 

“Citizen, I stand for the law. Nothing more or less. My personal opinions don’t count in that equation. I swore an oath to perform my duties, and by God, that’s what I’ll do. The courts will sort out this mess, that’s above my pay grade. If you really love this land, and this state, then it’s time to step aside. If you want to make a peaceful demonstration, that’s your right. But if your aim is to start giving orders, then I’ve got to send you home. I don’t take directions from you, or any group. I take them from the governor, and pray that whatever I ultimately did was right!”

 

 

 

TPV Chapter 25: Arrest

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Aimes Hefti slept restfully after confronting his drunken foe at Evergreen Estates. This triumphant experience gave him hope that perhaps, the alcoholic hermit might finally choose to leave their neighborhood, willingly. It was a goal that he, association leader Linn Speck, and many others had focused upon for several years. Something that would represent a cleansing of their trailer village.

 

But as the first hint of sunrise began to peek through a cloudy sky over the boxcar oasis, suddenly, a sharp knock and shouted warnings sounded from his front steps.

 

“THIS IS THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT! WE HAVE AN ARREST WARRANT FOR THE OCCUPANT OF YOUR MOBILE HOME! PRESENT YOURSELF WITH BOTH HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK! DO IT NOW! OTHERWISE, WE WILL BREAK DOWN THIS DOOR AND TAKE YOU BY FORCE!”

 

The militia commander was only half-awake, and still in his camouflage boxers. He struggled out of bed, and nearly tripped over his combat boots. His crew cut tingled with oozing sweat.

 

“What the hell? Y’all got the wrong lot number! I’m not making meth or downloading underage porn, or anything crazy. Check yer court order, deputies!”

 

There was a brief debate outside, and then the frame of his entryway split in a violent burst of splintering lumber.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath had proactively dressed in full battle gear. He led a SWAT team of beefy, burly men. The group surged into a hallway by the living room. Then, their target appeared, tugging up his shorts with embarrassment. The law professional raised his right elbow, and slammed the suspect into an interior wall.

 

“YOU HAD TO DO IT, DIDN’T YOU? YOU JUST HAD TO GO OVER AND MESS WITH THAT OLD FELLOW AT LOT 13! NICE WORK, COMPADRE! NOW I’VE BEEN DIRECTED TO PUT YOUR BUTT IN THE COUNTY JAIL!”

 

Aimes was puzzled and defiant. He babbled excuses while hopping on bare feet.

 

“What, that crusty dick ratted me out? All I did was rattle the cage of a dirty cripple! Nothing serious, believe me! If he cried about getting shaken up, then fuck him! He’s a gawdamm pussy! Y’all know I’m right!”

 

Rath frowned and growled under his breath.

 

“Granny Maylene made the call. You got her so upset that she couldn’t sleep last night. Come on, you know she’s connected to almost everybody in this township! I could’ve ignored another complaint. Even one from Link himself. I might’ve figured it was a matter of boozing and falling on his face. But that gray-headed woman carries a boatload of prestige, out here. If I slacked in my duties, there’d be mud coming from the trustees and commissioners. I don’t need that kind of trouble. Submit yourself to being handcuffed! Let’s get this done!”

 

The militant extremist raised his middle finger. He was in no mood to become a prisoner.

 

“CUFFED? SCREW THAT, SHERIFF! IF ANYBODY DESERVES TO GET DRAGGED OUTTA HERE ON THEIR ASS, IT’S THAT SLOBBERING, BULL-HEADED PIECE OF SHIT! BY GOD, HE NEEDS A BULLET RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES!”

 

The department chief sighed heavily, and patted his sidearm in its holster.

 

“Look buddy, I’ll decide who needs a popgun blast, and who doesn’t. You ought to stand down, and agree to come along with me. I’ll get you booked and fingerprinted, and out on bail, if that’s agreed to by the judge. Everybody knows your reputation around this part of Ohio. Maybe you’ll even get a pardon from Governor Moerlein, who knows? He’s sympathetic to anybody on our side of the aisle...”

 

Hefti slouched his stance, and turned around, submissively.

 

“I’m confused about yer attitude, man! Y’all think like I think, and believe what I believe. So, why get yer balls in an uproar about a lonely, hairy, asshole who lives by himself? He ain’t one of us, y’all know it! That yard of his was the only one in November without a MAGA sign in the grass!”

 

The sheriff coughed into his fist, and reddened a bit. He did not want to have a conversation about politics.

 

“My job is to serve this county. I don’t make policy, and I don’t give out opinions or advice. I follow the law, and nothing more. That’s my mandate from the people. It’s how our system works. Now I know you’d like to take up arms and change a lot of things. But it’s a matter of Congress, and the courts, and our system of checks and balances. You want to mess with that? Good luck. Maybe I’d even agree with some, or most, of your plans. But where we don’t agree is on the execution. I’m bound by the rule of law. That means something to me, and to the citizens of this whole area. They count on us to do good. Why don’t you dump the war footing, and go on a speaking tour? Tell people what you’ve got in mind. Let them make the choice...”

 

The militia head burst into an unbridled fit of laughter. His wrists were crossed, and he offered no further resistance to being apprehended.

 

“YER A DAMN COMEDIAN, TOM! RULE OF LAW? WE’VE JUST HAD FOUR YEARS OF EVERY LAW ON THE BOOKS BEING SHOVED UP OUR HIND ENDS! WHO PAYS ATTENTION TO THE REAL LAW? THE CRIME FAMILY THAT LET ILLEGALS STREAM ACROSS THE SOUTHERN BORDER? THE COWARDS WHO RAN OUT OF AFGHANISTAN, WITH BILLIONS OF DOLLARS IN GUNS AND EQUIPMENT, AND OUR ALLIES, LEFT BEHIND? THE LAWFARE AND RAIDS DIRECTED AT A GUY THAT ACTUALLY GAVE A SHIT ABOUT AMERICA? LEFTIST FREAKS SOBBING ABOUT PRONOUNS, TRANS BARBIE DOLLS, PLAYING POKEMON, AND RIDING UNICORNS COVERED IN GLITTER? GO AHEAD, TELL ME HOW THAT WORKS! TELL ME STRAIGHT UP! Y’ALL ARE NUTS!”

 

Sheriff Rath struck the loud-mouthed combatant across his teeth. He had heard enough.

 

“Simmer down, soldier! I’ve listened to plenty of small talk about your preferences and passions. You’re about to take a ride to the Geauga County Safety Center. Save that hot breath for the other perpetrators in your cell. You’ll need it, trust me! My jailhouse isn’t a hotel. You won’t like being a guest there! I guarantee it!”

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 24: Vigilante

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

When Townshend Lincoln turned around to face the gang of neighbors who had assembled in his front yard, the number of participants filled his head with amazement. There were a dozen or more residents from around the park, all armed and seemingly ready for battle. Aimes Hefti, the insurgent hero and self-appointed militia leader, wore tactical garb and a duty belt with various weapons at the ready. He stood vertically shorter than the rest, but squared his shoulders to appear stronger and larger. His fists were clenched. He did not hesitate to take charge, immediately.

 

“Y’ALL HAD PLENTY OF TIME TO GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS DUMP, BEFORE GOD BLESSED OUR TROOPS! I’VE HEARD YOU CAME HERE ABOUT SIX OWNERS AND A DOZEN MANAGERS AGO! I DON’T KNOW HOW YER HEAD HAS STAYED SO GAWDAMM HARD! BUT IT HAS, RIGHT? THAT TIGHT ASS OF YERS IS STILL PUCKERED WHENEVER SOMEBODY SAYS THE NAME OF OUR FUCKING PRESIDENT! Y’ALL WON’T COME OVER TO THE GOOD SIDE! NAH, IT’S ALWAYS LAME EXCUSES AND HORSESHIT! MUMBLING CURSES UNDER YER BREATH! WELL NOW, YA CAN SAY YER PIECE STRAIGHT OUT LOUD! GO AHEAD! ADMIT YER GUILT! Y’ALL ARE NOTHING BUT A LIMP-DICKED WHINER! A USELESS LITTLE TURD STUCK TO MY BOOTHEEL! I WANT TO SHAKE YOU OFF, LINK. IT’S TIME THIS COMMUNITY PULLED THE RIPCORD! YER ASS IS HEADED OUTTA HERE, TO CLEVELAND AND THE PANSY, PROTEST CROWD, OR WHEREVER AND WHATEVER! THIS IS FUCKING IT!”

 

The disabled hermit leaned wearily on both of his mismatched canes. He did not attempt to defend himself, verbally or physically. His tone was clear and free of any rural accent.

 

“See, I could debate your claims, if that’d make a difference. But it wouldn’t. And straight-up, what you say is factually correct. I could’ve left this place years ago. Probably with a lot of things lost, because I can’t carry much. But it don’t matter. I’ve been here longer than you, longer than your patriot brigade, longer than Linn Speck who must be hiding right now behind his wife’s apron tail. You can make your threats, you can chant about your orange king, you can wallow in the mud like pigs, for all I care. My head and heart are pure. Nothing about your association meetings, or church services up the hill, or diesel fumes clogging the air every morning, can change that fact. It’s a coin flip as to whether any of us are here in six months, or a year. This is a social sinkhole. You, me, and every one of us is pretty much condemned. Ain’t that a hoot? I know it, you just can’t think that far ahead. Too bad. Because if you could, maybe we would all sit down together, give up on the infighting, and get sloppy drunk...”

 

Aimes lifted his sidearm, which had been manufactured to commemorate the second inauguration of Donald Trump, and made a show of pointing the gleaming pistol at his adversary.

 

“KEEP TALKING! THAT BIG MOUTH MAKES A GREAT TARGET!”

 

Whispers of disbelief buzzed across the small crowd. Yet the militia bunch remained in place. For Lincoln, it was a sign that his ranks were not so loyal as first expected.

 

“A bullet between the eyes would actually end my torment here. Do you get that? I’d cough up blood, and give thanks for being set free. Living in this hole has never been fun. Listening to your shitty, Pop Country racket, smelling your stale, piss beer, hearing your boasts about pledging loyalty to an old con-artist who honestly doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of you, or Jesus, or America. I’d be thrilled to get a ticket out of that circus. But it ain’t going to happen. Because you don’t have the balls to squeeze that trigger. You know damn well that Sheriff Rath would be at your door in a matter of minutes. There are at least one or two snitches hiding in the shadows. Reward money would make them talk...”

 

The extremist leader started to grind his teeth. He holstered the DT-47, and swung a rifle instead. The reinforced butt caught his target across the law. It sent the reclusive loner crashing onto his wooden deck.

 

“HOW’D THAT FEEL, LINK? Y’ALL SURE KNOW HOW TO RUN YER TRAP! BUT MAYBE NOW THERE WON’T BE SO MUCH FIRE IN YER BELLY!”

 

His victim rolled painfully on the floorboards. He had no leg strength to get himself up again.

 

“That was a love tap, right? You’re a badass, I admit it! Picking on a shaggy cripple like me, that’ll definitely impress your posse here...”

 

Snorts and whistles sounded from along the street. Eyes were rolled and faces grinned. Finally, the militant commander tightened his muscles as if preparing for a charge from the trenches.

 

“Y’ALL ARE A FUCKING COMEDIAN! THAT’S HILARIOUS! WELL, HOW ABOUT THIS, FUNNY MAN? HOW ABOUT SOME BROKEN FINGERS TO GO WITH YER CHIN?”

 

He began to stomp with his combat boots. This caused the isolated contrarian to shift his gloved hands from one spot to the next, in a desperate game of Whac-A-Mole. Eventually, there were angelic tracks in the snow. But the strategy failed. Bruised bones ached furiously, in the frigid air.

 

From across the rustic boulevard, Maylene Jefka appeared on her roofed porch. She had donned a purple overcoat, trimmed with fake fur at the neckline. Her wool booties were unsuited to being exposed to the winter conditions. But as the adopted grandmother of their development, she felt called to speak out for order in the midst of chaos.

 

For a second time, her presence stalled the anger of neighbors intending to do harm.

“Master Aimes! Should I scold you for being so obnoxious and mean? You were always misbehaving in my Sunday School classes! Is your head still that hard? I hoped you’d have learned better by now! We’re all children of God, don’t you understand? Put your differences aside, and leave that poor fellow alone! If anything, say a prayer for him, and for yourself!”

 

The rebel chief was humbled by this public invocation of forgiveness. It turned his limbs to rubber. And his angry work into reluctant submission.

 

“Dammit, Granny May! I was just trying to convince this hairy rascal that he’d be happier on the outside, than in his dirty trailer! Y’all can’t fault me fer that! Don’t do it!”

 

A commotion of noisy spectators had assembled behind the militia platoon. Suddenly, nearly everyone in the park was front and center. None of them wanted to continue the act of aggression while under the watchful eyes of their beloved matron.

 

Lincoln had managed to sit up against a porch railing, and wrapped his injured digits with a length of duct tape.

 

“There’s your cue, Sarge! Time to take a hike! Maylene says that playtime is over! Don’t let the jailhouse door hit you in your ass!”

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 23: Public

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After receiving dual rejections for her short series about Evergreen Estates, Libby Raal withdrew to the Lakewood condominium that she called home base. A map-point where the sting of defeat was muted by depictions of her past successes. The interior walls were adorned with magazine covers, newspaper headlines, and framed letters of recognition. Still, she could not escape feeling that her communication skills had been diminished by a storm of creative nullification. It was a moment of sorrow very much out of character for someone who had been at her keyboard, typing stories, from an incredibly young age. She loathed the disconnect from her true passion. But now, that cord had been severed.

 

With no outlet for her prose piece about the MAGA disciples in Geauga County, she was stalled and silent. Long hours of scrolling through entries for other publishing venues yielded nothing. A literal glut of content had changed the paradigm of journalism. There were too many words chasing too few eyes.

 

Finally, she stumbled upon a website listed in one of her professional directories. A gathering place for peers in the field to share their manuscripts, rants, and ongoing projects, free of charge. It was called, interestingly enough, Nightlight Keyboard Zone. She was intrigued by this oddball title.

 

‘NKZ - A place for 2:00 a.m. thoughts, and more!’

 

When she reviewed the user database, with curiosity, there were several members of her social circle already using the platform. This heightened her interest in participating. Becoming a member required filling out an application, but did not nag her for many personal details. She included both the Plain Dealer, and Queer Conundrum, as past employers. Then, access to a blogging part of the site opened, as a reward.

 

She whispered a Wiccan prayer before uploading her manuscript.

 

“O Gracious Goddess of

Love and Light,

Protect me now with all thy Might.

Watch over me and mine with care,

So that we may avoid dangers snare.

 

Hail Fair Goddess,

Protector of the night.

Banish all evil from my sight

Send it far and away from me.

So it is and So mote it be!”

 

Her work had only been posted for a few days when comments began to appear, underneath. These snippets of praise helped to restore her confidence.

 

NoNazisLeftAlive99 – “I really, really, really like the character of T.C. Lincoln. Is he a real person, or just a figment of imaginary art? I mean, he claims to be descended from Abraham, our 16^th president. Is that even possible? Hehe! Other than that poor soul, everyone you describe sounds like a fascist goon! I can’t imagine owning a park where that kind of people congregate. No wonder the churchy creeps are stuck out in a dirt-hole like that trailer park! They wouldn’t last in any civilized neighborhood! I’m glad to be here in Cleveland, where it is safe!”

 

DaisyMoonPrincess4Ever – “Those people in the country must be carnivores. It rots your brain to eat the flesh of other beings! Vegan thinking is much clearer and gentler, and right! How do they survive with a cigarette always stuck in their mouth, and a red hat on their head? They aren’t making anything great again, just to put that out there. It’s a joke! A bad, bad joke!”

 

SocialJustice_Engineer101 – “I got goosebumps reading your article about conducting interviews out in the hinterland. Geez, what an assignment that must’ve been! I wouldn’t have gone there without a police escort. Not that I trust the cops either, per se, but at least one of them would be more disciplined than a militia freak in tactical gear! Come to think of it, they’re all pretty much the same, right? Sieg Heil! That’s their battle cry!”

 

Libby lounged in her bathrobe, while reading all of the entries. The friendly tone of readers eased her spirit. Tension melted away, and her mind returned to happier thoughts. She was gratified by the multitude of compliments and congratulations.

 

Capping this stream of celebratory rhetoric, one last response provided a chilling counterpoint, however. She almost missed the paragraph, while scanning pages of virtual text. But when the contrarian assessment came into view, it struck her on the forehead like a stray arrow’s tip.

 

PatriotFrontBeliever/USA – “Dear Lefty Dame, I’m glad you had the guts to hang this shit-on-a-shingle out in public. It’s something everybody should see. I know that dump. I know that township. I know how they roll. I know there can’t be more than one or two traitors living on those crooked streets. If that idiot had any common sense, he’d be keeping his head down. Those citizens love America. And you just marked him as a turncoat, for life. Trust me, there’ll be a comeuppance for that asshole! He won’t be giving anymore interviews to metropolitan bitches! As Donald Trump said, ‘There’ll be hell to pay!’ Thanks for lighting the fuse, lady! Stand back, and stand by!”

 

Raal swallowed hard and chewed her bottom lip.

 

“What the heck? What did I do? For the love of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, what did I do??”

 

Lincoln had been drunk since shortly after the hour of noon. His breakfast of reheated, red potatoes, and fried cornmeal mush, sat in his belly like a mass of concrete. His fingers were stiff and uncooperative, barely able to pull the cork stopper out of a whiskey bottle. Yet he did not have any remorse for switching from coffee to liquor, so early in the day. Both eyes were watering while sitting outside, with the thermometer behind his head registering 19 degrees above zero.

 

The frosty breeze kept his beverages chilled. But before long, he felt a desperate urge to empty his bladder. Instead of hobbling inside, and through his trailer to the rear bathroom, he decided to sneak behind a trash receptacle that was sitting in a corner of the wooden deck. Safely out of view, he turned his back and loosed a golden stream that spewed past a broken porch railing. The warm liquid melted a mound of snow under his air conditioner. Something that made him feel slight pangs of guilt.

 

He was fiddling with his zipper, when a rough voice shouted from the street. Instantly, his pulse began to race until it pounded like a jackhammer. His legs wobbled, weakly. With gloved hands, he reached for his disability canes.

 

A chorus of hatred echoed with ominous intensity, as armed intruders crossed the edge of his driveway. They were not in a mood to bestow mercy.

 

“HEY OLD MAN, Y’ALL HAVE BEEN OUTED AS COWARD, HOW ‘BOUT THAT? WE ALWAYS KNEW YER ATTITUDE DIDN’T MATCH LIVING IN THIS PARK. BUT NOW IT’S ON THE GAWDAMM WORLDWIDE WEB! WHO’D HAVE THUNK IT? NOWADAYS, EVEN US REDNECKS HAVE COMPUTERS, DICKHEAD! Y’ALL ARE DAMN SURE COCKY FER SPOUTING OFF ABOUT THIS’N THAT! WELL, HERE WE GO! HOW COCKY WILL YA BE NOW? TURN AROUND AND FACE YER ACCUSERS! THIS IS GONNA BE AN ASSWHIPPING! A MOMENT OF VIGILANTE JUSTICE!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 22: Rejection

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Once Libby K. Raal completed her newspaper manuscript, a sense of accomplishment took hold. She had wrestled with the subject matter for weeks, and used every trick of the trade in her repertoire, to produce a finished product worthy of being offered in print. It would be, she thought, a career-saving feat. Something that future scribes might look upon as having provided inspiration for their own journalistic adventures.

 

Yet when the time came to meet with Editor-in-Chief Magda Poleski, at the Cleveland Plain Dealer, she realized that there was an emotional disconnect between her own view of the future, and that of the seasoned, publishing veteran.

 

After waiting for more than an hour, the supervisor opened her door with a frown of obvious embarrassment.

 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long. Please have a seat! This has been a busy, busy morning. Our advertising budget has gotten reduced by half. The younger demographic doesn’t tilt in our favor, you know? It’s a brave new world...”

 

Libby tugged at a row of piercings in her left ear. She still bubbled with enthusiasm.

 

“You’ve got to review my piece, Maggie! It’s pure dynamite, I think! Just what readers need right now to straighten out their perceptions. Everyone is so divided and confrontational. I’ve got neighbors in Lakewood that want to declare this county part of Canada! They’ve had it with being American!”

 

Poleski raised an eyebrow while scanning the document placed on her desk. She looked her age, but still had a measure of personal style. It made her appealing as a leader in the company. Wrinkles formed around her mouth as she read aloud from the first page.

 

“THOMPSON, OHIO - T.C. Lincoln lives on a rural parcel of land divided into narrow lots for mobile homes. His knowledge of the area is considerable, after more than 20 years as a resident. And though he is not a member of the MAGA platoon that controls their property, he says that dealing with the extremist habits of those who are has become very familiar, over time. It is, he believes, a miracle that someone like himself has not set his trailer on fire, and gone running for the exits. He stays drunk, every day, to blot out the reality that his life consists of listening to neighbors bleat obediently, about their orange hero...”

 

The newspaper chief sighed and folded her hands. Gold rings on her fingers sparkled in the fluorescent light, from overhead.

 

“Your article is written well, I’ll give you praise for that. But... I have to take a hard pass. We’ve all been instructed to stay focused on driving up circulation numbers for this daily. A large chunk of the next issue, and those that follow, will be taken up by coverage of the upcoming Guardians baseball season. And also, stories about what the Cleveland Browns intend to do for a new stadium. It’s all a matter of attracting eyes to our work. Controversy is something we want to sidestep, at this moment.”

 

Ms. Raal choked on saliva that was stuck in her throat. Her skin turned decidedly pale, which signified a mood of disbelief and surprise.

 

“A HARD PASS? YOU’RE GOING WITH SPORTS REPORTING, INSTEAD??”

 

Editor Magda lowered her gaze and whispered with regret.

 

“It’s a boardroom decision. We’re at a crossroads of some kind. The titans of social media have all lined up with our old-new president. I don’t get it, nobody gets it...”

 

Her suitor and former employee coughed angrily. Her purple hair stood on end.

 

“A COUPLE OF MONTHS AGO, THEY WERE CALLING HIM A FASCIST DESTROYER! ONE OF THE BOYS FROM BRAZIL! A TERRIBLE, TEST-TUBE BABY WITH SMALL HANDS AND NO BRAINS! AND QUITE FRANKLY, NO BALLS! IS THAT WHERE YOU WANT TO STAND, MAGGIE? ON THE SIDE OF A REALITY TV STAR WITH A DYED COIF AND A PENCHANT FOR GRUBBING OUT ON PATTIES OF MC DONALD’S GREASE, AND DIET COKE?”

 

Poleski hunched over the cluttered desktop. Her eyes were wet and red.

 

“I’m sorry Lib. I’m really sorry...”

 

When the wandering reporter left her media contact, she was nearly blind with rage. Yet discipline kept her wild thoughts in check. She puttered impatiently over urban streets in her Toyota Prius, until reaching the weathered, brick structure where offices for staffers at the Queer Conundrum, and other volunteer groups, were located. There, her ritual of trying to sell the story she had written was repeated. This time, with a more informal approach.

 

Community mother, editor, and activist Quantra Bolden had taken a break in the room they used as a cafeteria. The crowded space was stocked with vegan treats and organic teas and coffees. She was surrounded by a small cloister of student devotees. Her long skirt was made from hemp and boasted rainbow colors.

 

“Libbers! I didn’t expect to see you again, so soon! Have you been busy working on that tale about people out in Trump country? It’s all we talk about here, especially since the transfer of power on Inauguration Day.”

 

The professional writer nodded and fell into a mismatched chair by her mentor.

 

“I got blown off by the Pee Dee! Isn’t that a hoot? Anyway, you and I are much more in sync, intellectually. All they want to do is sell newspapers. I know you care more about effecting change. That is what really matters! Moneymaking is a soulless hustle!”

 

Mama Q rolled her eyes and smiled.

 

“We’re retread hippies here. Money is shit to us. Which is a good thing, because we don’t have much funding to keep this little safehouse going...”

 

Libby handed over a copy of the feature she had composed. Pride made her glow in reflection.

 

“You’ll be cheering when this gets into your head! Read it, and see what you think! I dare say, it’s the best work I’ve ever done!”

 

Bolden brushed the gray locks away from her tired eyes. She scanned the text briefly, then cleared her throat.

 

“Libbers, I’m sorry to say that the upcoming installment of our weekly is already full of good material. We got an interview with Right Reverend Mariann Budde, the Episcopal bishop of Washington. She really... to use a common metaphor... knocked it out of the ballpark!”

 

The room became very quiet after her confession. Then, there was a chime from the intercom system. Someone paged that a telephone call was waiting, on an outside line.

 

Ms. Raal returned her manuscript and notes to their satchel. She sniffled a bit, before extending her hand, with gratitude.

 

“Thank you. I understand. Everything has turned into a game now. It’s all about winning. And I am, to be blunt, a loser. So be it. Have a good day, Mama Q!”

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 21: Questions

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After being physically assaulted by neighbors in his park, and then berated by a distant friend from days spent living in New York, Townshend Lincoln had reached a point of emotional exhaustion. Even before beginning his daily ritual of drinking alcohol, he was oblivious to everything. Beyond staying clear of other park residents, he also found that small tasks and pleasures had suddenly lost their importance and appeal.

 

In the afternoon, a march of celebration passed his trailer abode with noisy glee, over the return of their MAGA hero to the White House. It was a spectacle that would have once caused the contrarian hermit to raise his middle finger, while sitting outside. Or perhaps, to fling his shot glass against an exterior wall. But now, he felt nothing. Only a redness of his face gave any sign that he remained aware of events transpiring in the run-down community. He could barely form words with his mouth, or stand up for long enough to curse and shake a fist with defiance.

 

A victory chant echoed throughout the property.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

 

In his head, stanzas of Elvis Costello music played, over and over.

 

“Turn up the TV, no one listening will suspect

Even your mother won’t detect it

So your father won’t know

They think that I’ve got no respect

But everything means less than zero...”

 

He had consumed a partial bottle of Ezra Brooks bourbon, when a notification chirped from his computer in the back bedroom. Someone had logged onto the Skype application, and was attempting to make contact. His stamina had already begun to drown in a river of beer and liquor. Yet somehow, he made it to the desk and his office chair.

 

The familiar face of Libby K. Raal, adorned with piercings and stark, gothic makeup, peered from his device screen. She looked a bit like the Australian WWE wrestling star, Rhea Ripley.

 

“Link! Thank you for answering so quickly. I’m in a funk here, struggling with a bout of writer’s block. I need more material to complete my assignment for the Plain Dealer, or Queer Conundrum, or whoever decides to run my piece...”

 

Lincoln slouched over the keyboard, with a can of Yuengling lager in his right hand. His rural vibe disappeared, almost immediately.

 

“You’re still working on that article? Shit!”

 

His journalist contact went pale with embarrassment.

 

“You have no idea how tough my editors can be! They want lots of meat on the bone, so to speak. Sorry, that’s a disgusting analogy for a vegan disciple to use, but it fits. I have to get more background color for my manuscript. Can’t you give me anything extra about the sitch at your trailer village?”

 

Her interview subject rolled his eyes and sat back in the wheeled seat.

 

“I told you already, this ain’t a place I’d ever call home. I’m an outlier here, a fucking pariah! So, I don’t know squat about what makes these people tick!”

 

Libby fiddled with her stainless-steel piercings.

 

“Just today, I was reading about Elon Musk throwing Nazi shade at a rally. He actually did the ‘Sieg Heil’ salute! What’s up with that kind of craziness? I wanted to barf in my oatmeal. Do you think that’s justified? Do people on your street think that’s cool?”

 

The graying hermit wiped sweat off his forehead.

 

“Look, nobody believes that propaganda, at Evergreen Estates. Is it real, or an imaginary phenomenon? Honestly, it gives me the creeps. But none of them pay attention, one way or another. My friends in the outside world are convinced that all free-thinkers will be in prison camps before the year ends. But I’ve lived here 22 years and more. It’s SS/DD, same shit, different day. These people are uneducated, broke, and basically screwed by the system. That’s why they don’t react to any invocation of better angels or a refined outlook on the world. They’re flowers in the dirt. Anything of beauty here sprang up from mounds of excrement. You can smell that stink in the air. It permeates everything and everyone...”

 

Ms. Raal grabbed one of her notebooks, and started to scribble entries.

 

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! YOUR WORDS ARE GOLD, KEEP TALKING, LINK! KEEP TALKING!”

 

Her conversational subject had turned mellow from drinking so heavily. His lips opened, in sync with his inebriated mind.

 

“You know, I don’t go out much, because it’s tough to walk. When I have to buy rations to fill my cupboards, I mostly hit the little stores here in the country. When I go into town, the big town, I get looked at like a homeless bum. Cleveland citizens who have moved out here are always in a hurry. They don’t have much patience. In the sticks, the hinterland, I get treated better. They don’t turn up their noses at my camo apparel, shaggy hair, or tattered shoes. They don’t get an attitude about my muddy SUV being parked next to their BMWs or Lexus varieties...”

 

The reporter tapped her pen on the spiral-bound ream of paper.

 

“That’s how you feel? Like a social reject? Out of your natural environment?”

 

Lincoln groaned and leaned closer to the webcam on his monitor.

 

“I’m good with it, no biggie for me. But that’s the mindset of residents here in this junkyard oasis. They are outcasts. You can piss on them and throw insults, but it has no effect. Every coil of barbed wire gets turned back on itself. You think these blue-collar schlubs are stupid? Maybe they are, by the standards of coastal elites and social-justice engineers. I’d like to educate them myself, sometimes. Yet they are hard on the inside. They know how to survive. Could you wake up every morning to a diet of cigarettes and black coffee, and frozen trays of Walmart gruel for breakfast? That’s how my neighbors live. They inhabit shacks made of plywood and steel framing, and drive cars that should’ve been scrapped decades ago. Their clothes are threadbare and stained. The men look like refugees from a mountain cave. The women are gritty and tanned, like old pieces of leather. And they give thanks to God every day, for being able to breathe in diesel exhaust and brake fluid. That’s the foundation under their work boots. How would you react to being stuck in that kind of rabbit hole?”

 

Raal flew over the notebook pages, with her fingers working furiously to document every word.

 

“YES, YES, THAT’S IT, OLD FART! YOUR ANALYSIS IS MAGIC! KEEP IT COMING! GIVE ME EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT! I’M READY FOR MORE!”