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 giggles 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.

 

“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!”