Stepson of Anarchy
A busy intersection. A busy trigger finger. Proceed with caution.
If you want to know where all the balding, impotent weekend warriors of this city are, come to my street. They prowl and preen on souped-up Harleys that sound like a mash-up of Al Capone’s tommy gun and the cough of a smoker whose fluid-filled left lung rasps like a white shirt on a washboard in the muddy Mississippi. These mechanized hell hounds cruise my street at all hours of the early morning, revving and rumbling like Satan’s wet farts.
One day, I decided to do something about it. I read a magazine article about these guys called Minutemen who patrol the U.S./Mexican border without governmental help or approval, simply because they feel they must. People love them for it. I know I can trust this information because it was in Time.
So I bought a 9-mm Beretta from my mailman, who is more knowledgeable in the field of personal defense than anyone outside a federal prison. I cleaned it, polished it, loaded it, and slipped it into my coat pocket. Then I went down to the curb to wait.
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Appeared in: Page & Spine
Published in: 2014