c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(5-26)
T. C. Lincoln had never been one to keep silent when expressing his opinions. But the fact that he was socially isolated, somewhat withdrawn, and reluctant to spend much time in the company of others, meant that he did not often encounter situations where delivering his take on current events was possible. He preferred to stay at his home on Lot 13 at Evergreen Estates, while imbibing beverage alcohol, and numbing himself to the outside world.
But occasionally, when feeling drunk and agitated, he would make posts on social media accounts that tied residents of the trailer community together. These verbose bursts of lucidity were always entertaining to read, and provided evidence for neighbors who were shy about approaching his singlewide hovel, that he had not yet died while getting loaded. Yet with each of these contrarian contributions, he rattled nerves around the park of manufactured homes. The rural development was nearly unanimous in affection for a particularly conservative outlook on living, loving, and the worship of a Christian deity. So, anything outside of that limited sphere was considered to be a heresy.
The shaggy hermit had a Libertarian bent that rubbed salt in their eyes and tingled their ears, on a regular basis.
Unlike other figures with a similar history of causing tempers to flare and pulses to quicken, he was not anonymous by any means. The gray-bearded iconoclast could be found easily, sitting on his front porch, during afternoon and evening hours. He made no attempt to hide himself from public view, or to soften his persona in the interest of co-existing quietly. He would guzzle whiskey and cold beer, belch, grunt, growl, and engage in flatulence, loudly enough that those who were on each side of his longbox dwelling were well aware of his presence. Though with a constant drumbeat of Country melodies echoing from vehicles and garages in the park, and loud mufflers yielding a mechanical cacophony of combustion, this did not offend too greatly.
But for Aimes Beauregard Hefti, the self-appointed militia commander at their site, simply knowing that the cranky boozer had not yet been evicted was sufficient cause to plan some course of direct action. He would plot and scheme about ways that the senior menace might be eliminated from their ranks. Though with each of these ideas ruminating in his head, the same sort of unhappy conclusion stalled his dark desires. If he killed the stinky lout where he sat, at the top of a long, wooden ramp built for handicap access, it would immediately alert others along the street that some woeful event had transpired. He needed a better method to rub out this persistent stain. With some cover for himself as the perpetrator.
On a weekend morning as warmer temperatures had arrived, he drove around the property in his Chevy Silverado, scouting the environment. Each concrete slab had been placed at a standard distance from the others, to meet codes set by the state. So, there were no safe spaces where he could hide and shoot off rounds of ammunition. His desperate act would be visible to everyone. But after making laps around the grid, he realized that there were enough empty homes interspersed with the others, that he could lie on a rooftop, flattened to the shingles, and set up a vantage point for his AR-15 rifle. No more than a single crack of live fire would be needed. Right after sunset, this clandestine cleansing of their isolated village could commence.
Few if any residents ever approached the disintegrating shack, on foot. It might take days or weeks for the body to decompose enough to be noticed. By then, he intended to be out of Ohio, and back in a southern district where his accent and mannerisms were more familiar. A place where he would arouse no suspicion, and find plenty of allies.
Gunfire was often heard at the trailer oasis, due to hunting in the area and vigorous 2A supporters who lived at the small development. So, a sharp retort from his weapon would fail to attract much attention. It was rarely quiet at any hour. Moreover, many of the renters and leaseholders fully supported his own inclination to remove undesirables from their midst. Only their official manager, an employee of the distant owners, had any good words to offer, about the disgusting drunk and his habit of going against the grain, in intellectual terms.
“That dude always pays his rent on time, okay? And he don’t make no trouble for us at all. Whatta ya want me to do? I need more people like him, not less. Give me your monthly checks and shut up about it, already!”
Lincoln always preferred to leave his payment via the drop box. He did not like engaging in conversation, or being seen in his T-shirt and sweatpants.
With a deep blue of finality taking hold, one week later, the militia goon crossed himself before beginning his task. He scaled a stolen ladder, up the back of an abandoned Schult trailer with a convenient line-of-sight to the west side of Lot 13. He wriggled across the tar squares, until finding a spot on the sloped roof that allowed him to take aim with a measure of anonymity still intact. As expected, the inebriated bum was on his bench, across from the front door. He had already dribbled liquor over his camouflage hoodie, and exposed belly. There were wrappers from a party pack of Taco Bell eats strewn around the inset square, where he sat. Crushed cans had fallen by his feet. A half-empty jug of bourbon waited on the porch railing. He yawned and scratched his long beard, before loosing a thunderous brap of wind from the pit of his stomach.
This was the final moment of decision Hefti had been anticipating. His target was about to taste a judgment of hot lead and cold justice. A gift given to every other citizen in their neighborhood.
The rifle felt steely and sleek in his hands. He could see the victim clearly in its crosshairs. A silent countdown buzzed in his skull. Then, he squeezed the trigger with a calculated amount of effort, taking care to maintain his steady position.
Lincoln spat out a mouthful of brown fire, and coughed reflexively just before the bullet arrived. He had gotten some of the potent juice down his windpipe. This error caused him to lurch forward, and crouch over his arthritic knees. The vinyl siding shattered where his head would have been, if not for this odd coincidence.
The weary drunk cursed and gagged, and dropped his jug on the floorboards.
“GAWDAMN IT! WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH ME? I CAN’T EVEN GET BLITZED WITHOUT MESSIN’ UP! THIS SHIT IS CRAZY! I GUESS EVERYBODY IS RIGHT, I’M A FREAKIN’ LOSER!”
There was a telltale hole in the wall, which was frighteningly obvious Yet in his sloppy condition, that bit of evidence went unnoticed. Once he had managed to cease convulsing and contorting himself, he soothed away the throat affliction with a satisfying round of Miller High Life.
Across the street, his opponent had lost the fortitude to continue. His hands trembled around the stock and barrel of the long gun. With a snake-like slithering, he retreated to the back yard behind the empty abode, and then crawled away to his own doublewide construction. A veritable palace by comparison, on the back road past their on-site sewer facility.
He sat in his pickup truck outside, still shaking from the failed attempt to commit a homicide. He whispered with guilt while clinging to the steering wheel.
“Holy shit, I almost killed that dumb son-of-a-bitch! I almost did it! I almost did it!”
T. C. Lincoln passed out with his jug of swill emptied, and his life spared. He had been unaware of the merciful interruption that saved him from a painful demise. Yet in the morning, a hangover would rekindle his regret over falling asleep without first going inside to his bed. Pangs of arthritis were aroused by the chill of night, on his wooden seat. But a first taste of alcohol stilled this throbbing in his bones.
Aware or oblivious of his encounter with grace, it was good to be alive at Lot 13.
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