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!”