c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
I have always been skilled at making bad first impressions. For whatever reason, my personality seems to clash with most people. Particularly those who have an arrogant, self-important view of their own existence. Said in street language, I know how to piss off almost everyone. It is something I do not celebrate, by any means. Yet it is a habit that I have never been able to unlearn.
After our initial conference with Nakano Volca of the Proletariat Property Co-op, many of my neighbors who had attended were busy pondering the potential benefits, or consequences, of being acquired by the New York credit alliance. But for one at least, the leftover reaction was more severe. I had managed to publicly humiliate a figure known across our rural development as an heir to the dead extremist hero, Esmeralda Jonovic. This legacy of inglorious conduct had been diminished over time, by attention from local law enforcement. And because of the media exposure we had received, in Cleveland and throughout the mainstream press. But my verbal defiance, in front of so many witnesses, caused him to feel like a eunuch.
His manhood had been taken without a single act of aggression.
Unlike Linn Speck, who had often been knocked down a peg, by other residents, Aimes Hefti was not used to this diminished status. A raging fire burned in his gut. He wanted a measure of revenge, that would erase his mood of failure. As days and weeks passed, this lust for conquest grew more intense. Finally, he could not endure another moment of denial. So, despite freezing temperatures and piles of precipitation along the route, he embarked on a clandestine trek from his own doublewide home, to the lot where his tormentor awaited.
If I had known he was coming, I might have at least been mentally prepared for this assault. But of course, my senses were obliterated. I had chugged an entire fifth of bourbon whiskey, before passing out on the sofa. The interior entrance stood unlocked, and open, with a fog of condensation clinging to the glass panes of my storm door. This meant that the furnace ran almost constantly as I slept. The temperature outside had dropped to around 12 degrees.
Since I was very, very drunk, it did not really matter.
Aimes had bundled himself in a trench coat, modeled after fashions that were popular in the 1930s. And leather gloves, thick and long. His footsteps were nearly silent, except for an occasional crunch of crystal ice. He was stealthy in rounding the curve of our back street, and then turning toward the short avenue connecting that lane to the others at our park. With huffs of cold air chilling his lungs, he marched through the dark shadows. There was little traffic in motion. Pale lights glowed from windows here and there, but otherwise, the village of mobile homes seemed to be sleepy and indifferent.
I had been snoring for about an hour, when he reached the top of my access ramp. A brief moment of surprise passed, as he realized that entering my trailer would be an easy feat to accomplish. He pressed on the latch gently, and peered into my living room with disbelief. There were moving boxes stacked everywhere. I had received a truckload of household goods from my sister’s storage space, in an unannounced delivery. This made the usable footage in my home very limited. I had plugged in beer signs on both ends of the chamber, for some visual illumination. But otherwise, it sat as a testament to neglect. All of the shelves and cabinets were dusty. Cobwebs draped the corners. A heap of sweatshirts and jackets covered the chair by my refrigerator.
When he was satisfied that I had been oblivious to his presence for long enough, the invader brought his fist down on the arm of my couch. The wood underneath its cloth liner shattered.
“WAKE UP, DICKHEAD! Y’ALL ARE GONNA GET AN ASS WHIPPIN’ TONIGHT! I FIGURE IT’LL BE MORE SATISFYIN’ THAN A BULLET IN YER SKULL! WHAT D’YA THINK ABOUT THAT? LET’S DO THIS! LET’S GET AFTER IT!”
I couldn’t focus my eyes. But a belch and groan signified that I was awake. Then, I passed wind with the musical force of a bugle blast.
“Ezzie, go back to hell, woman! I’m trying to get some sleep...”
The angry commando grabbed at my throat. He took offense at being mistaken for the late militia leader.
“YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT! DO I FREAKIN’ LOOK LIKE MS. JONOVIC? SHE’S IN HER GRAVE, LINK! BUT I’M STANDIN’ RIGHT HERE! GET OFF YER OLD ASS AND LOOK AT ME! I WANNA SEE THE FEAR IN THOSE EYES! BY GOD, I’M GONNA KICK THE SNOT OUT OF YER CARCASS, AND LEAVE WHAT’S LEFT OUT IN THE YARD! Y’ALL WILL BE BUZZARD FEED, I RECKON THEY’RE HUNGRY THIS TIME OF YEAR!”
Had I been sober, his threat might have resonated more effectively. Yet I couldn’t feel anything except the burn of whiskey in my stomach.
“Neighbor, you never have anything good to say, when coming around here. I have to admit that you’re a stone bummer. You act like someone who needs a to get a good lay, and smoke a fat doobie. Understand? But I suppose neither one is on your duty list for the evening...”
Hefti unholstered his pistol. His eyes were bloodshot and narrow.
“ALRIGHT, SMARTASS! Y’ALL WANT TA PLAY GAMES? I KIN GET INTO THAT. LET’S DO IT UP RIGHT! SCREW THE SMALLTALK, HAVE A LOAD OF THIS!”
He fired off a round that barely missed my head. It left a hole in the thin, pre-fab wall. But more concerning was my bladder. Now that I had found the strength to sit upright, my loins were bulging.
“Dude, I got to pee. Hold that thought, okay?”
The militant interloper flushed crimson red, with astonishment.
“Y’ALL GOTTA PEE? IS THIS A FUCKIN’ JOKE?”
As I wobbled to my feet, with both canes, the flow impulsively loosed itself. A dribble of urine soaked the left leg of my athletic trousers. A warm sensation trickled all the way to my toes. Only a state of inebriation kept embarrassment from taking hold.
“Now you did it! Damn, neighbor, your sense of timing is impeccable! Thanks for distracting me from the call of nature!”
Aimes recoiled as if he had opened the door of an occupied outhouse. His sidearm slipped back into its sheath. He had lost his desire for a physical confrontation. As I struggled to stay vertical, he turned to leave, abruptly.
“Y’ALL ARE A GAWDAMN BOOZER, LINK! A SAD SACK OF DOG SHIT! I’M OUTTA HERE!”
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