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“Please, show me where it says that protests are supposed to be polite and peaceful,”
—CNN Anchor, Chris Cuomo
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“(Antifa) is a myth.”
—Representative Jerry Nadler on the 2020 Antifa riots in Portland, WA.
August, 2020
Upstate, New York
1
I wake with a start. Heart pounding in my sternum, stomach tight, temples pounding, mouth dry. What was the nightmare I was having? Why can’t I remember it at all? All I know is that it was a nightmare and that it’s left me breathing hard and my skin cold and wet.
I glance over my shoulder at my wife Julia. She’s lying on her side, fast asleep in her white tank, her lush, long black hair a sea of beauty, exhaustion, and anger from yet another argument before going to bed. I’m working on getting more freelance work, I insisted. But she said, All you care about is being Stephen King, and you’re most definitely not Stephen King.
Of course, that hurt. It always hurts. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not broke, but we’re not swimming in cash either like a lot of our neighbors are. I’m middle-aged, been a writer for a lot of years now and have done pretty well financially during some years, and not so well during others. But even when things are good, the money just never seems to be enough. Julia works full-time as a clerk at a downtown attorney’s office which keeps us afloat. We thankfully have a nice roof over our head thanks to my mother who left it to us after she passed.
Here’s the deal: I promised Julia the world twenty years ago when I swept her off her feet. But all I managed to give her was a world of mostly red bank accounts.
I’m not entirely anonymous either: I’ve published a bunch of books under my own name, Paul Gibbons. I won some awards, gained the respect of my peers. But here’s the dirty secret about the publishing business: Writers don’t make any money. Oh, well a tiny few do. The Stephen Kings of the world, that is. But Julia’s right, Paul Gibbons, is most definitely not Stephen King. Yet (Or so I keep telling myself as my hair grays and my belly gets softer).
But I’m getting ahead of my skis here. I heard a bump in the night. It woke me out of a sound sleep tainted with a nightmare I can’t possibly remember.
“Must be my imagination,” I whisper to myself.
Setting my head back down on the pillow, I close my eyes, and think about the story I will write come morning. It will be the one that will put me over the edge, make me the fortune I promised the sweet Julia all those years ago.
Then, something goes bump in the night again.
2
This time even Julia hears it. She bounds up even faster than I do. She does it from out of a sound sleep.
“What the hell was that?” she says, running her fingers through her thick hair.
She’s breathing hard. Maybe she was having a nightmare too.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But it’s the second time I’ve heard it.”
Another bump. Louder this time. Coming from downstairs. Downstairs in the kitchen.
“Jesus H Christ, somebody’s in our house, Paul,” Julia says. “You’ve got to go down there.”
“Call nine-one-one,” I say.
She goes to grab her phone which is normally set on the bed stand.
“Shit,” she says, “it’s downstairs on the kitchen counter. Give me yours.”
“It’s fucking charging in my office.”
We don’t say anything for a long beat while Julia plants her face into her open hands. It’s the same thing she does when we argue.
Something drops to the floor downstairs. A plate. It’s shattered. Then comes a laugh. Someone says, “Be fucking quiet, asshole.” It’s a man’s voice. A young man.
“There’s more than one,” I say, my stomach going so tight, it’s like I swallowed a brick.
“You’ve got to go down there, or I will,” Julia insists.
She’s right, I’ve got to go down there. I’m the man of the house after all. The protector. Inhaling a breath, I pull off the covers and get out of bed.
3
My entire body is shivering. It’s summertime, and I feel like my body temperature is cold as ice. My feet are bear and all I’m wearing is pajama bottoms and what the rednecks call a wife beater t-shirt. But I’ve never beaten my wife nor have I ever so much as touched her in anger. Nor will I ever. We might argue about money, but I still love Julia with all my heart and I can only assume she loves me.
But these guys who have broken into my house, it’s possible I will kill them.
I need a weapon.
“The baseball bat in the closet,” Julia says.
It’s like she’s reading my mind.
“I’m a step ahead of you,” I say.
Something else crashes in the kitchen. This time the two intruders laugh aloud. It’s like they’re drunk or on drugs or both. I reach into the closet for the baseball bat. Gripping it my right hand, I take one last look at Julia.
“This isn’t gonna be pretty,” I say.
She’s lifted her head up and now she’s staring at me with her beautiful wide, brown eyes.
“It’s not supposed to be,” she says
4
Descending the steps gently, silently, I hear the two intruders rummaging around the drawers in the kitchen.
“Take anything that’s made of silver,” one of them says. “I’m gonna start on the dining room. Or fuck it, let’s just wreck the place. Let’s bring terror to the fucking fascists.”
“Knock yourself out,” says the second voice. “Let’s make our brothers and sisters proud.”
When I come to the landing, my hip knocks into the little wood table where we set our car keys. I stop on a dime, hold my breath.
“What the hell was that, Sal?” says the voice from the dining room.
“I dunno, Mikey. Watch where you’re going for fucks sakes.”
I swallow something dry and bitter, raise up the bat which is now gripped in both my hands, and start making my way past the vestibule along the short corridor that leads to the kitchen.
When I enter, I see him. Sal. He’s tall and thin, and wearing black jeans, boots, and a black hoodie. He’s also got one of those Scream masks covering his face like those Antifa thugs wear to hide their identities.
He turns quick, holds up Julia’s cell phone.
“Looking for this, asshole?” he says.
Julia’s phone.
“What are you doing in my house?”
“It’s our house now,” comes a voice from behind me. Mikey.
I turn and...
5
When I come to, I feel like my brains are about to bust out of my skull. What the hell truck ran me over in my own kitchen. I’m seated in one of the kitchen chairs. I try to get up but I can’t, because my legs are duct taped to the chair legs, and my hands are bound together at the wrists behind my back. Leaning up against the basement door is a four-foot length of two-by-four. It must be what Mikey belted me with. Set beside it is my now useless baseball bat.
Turning, I see something that steals my breath away. Just like me, Julia is bound to a chair. She’s only wearing her tank top and a pair of black panties.
“You okay?” I ask, my dry voice feeling like it’s peeling itself off the back of my throat.
Julia gives me one of her looks over her shoulder. “Is that a trick question?”
Sal and Mikey are in the living room presently, tearing the place apart. They’re using words like “white privilege” and “rich bastards” and “fascist pigs.” At one point they accuse my wife and I of not paying our fair share of taxes. If only they knew how broke we are half the time. Doesn’t matter that we live in a nice neighborhood in a nice house. At present, the bank accounts are dry as a bone.
When the two thugs come back into the kitchen, I see that they are not only both dressed entirely in black with matching black hoodies, they are also wearing identical Scream masks. It’s impossible to know who’s who. One of the bastards approaches my wife, runs his hands over her breasts.
“You’re a hot MILF, you know that?” he says. “Whaddaya doing with this old geezer?”
He leans in and sniffs her neck, runs his hands through her hair.
“Get off of me,” Julia spits.
I’m beginning to feel my blood boil. No, that’s not right, my blood as been boiling for a while now while my head aches.
“Why don’t you take your masks off, cowards,” I say.
The second one...I’m not sure if it’s Mikey or Sal since they’re both tall and skinny...steps forward. Bending at the waste, he gets right in my face.
“You don’t deserve to see my face,” he spits. “All you need to know is we...us, me and Sal here...we go right to where the right-wingers like yourself go. I’ve read some of your journalism...if you call it journalism. I call it hate speech. And hate speech, my white friend, is not free speech, you get my meaning.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I say.
But I’m lying. Because I know precisely what he’s talking about. In the past I’ve written for a couple of more conservative online journals that shall go unmentioned here, not because I support any political party. If anything, you would call me a right down the middle moderate. As a writer, I never believed in any one political philosophy. I need to be open minded. But I wrote what I wrote not because I felt the need to write something that might be interpreted as coming from the right and therefore hateful and deserving of the cancel culture. I wrote what I wrote because I needed the money. Simple as that. If a lefty magazine hired me, and wanted to pay me good money, I’d write for them too. But I’m not sure these intruding thugs want to hear that.
“You, sir, are endangering people with what you write and you do not have the right to do so. That’s why we have come to shut you down in protest, to place fear in you, to make sure you never write anything hateful again.”
“Is inappropriately touching my wife a part of your protest modus operandi?” I ask.
I can almost feel the one called Sal smiling under his mask.
“As a matter of fact, it is,” he says. “Because show me where it says protests have to be polite and peaceful.”
“Where the hell have I heard that before?” I ask.
“CNN,” he says, like I’m living under a rock. “The great Chris Cuomo said it himself.”
If my blood was boiling before, now it feels like it’s about to explode out my eyeballs.
I say, “I wrote two reports about the recent election and the possibility...the possibility...of voter fraud. How in God’s name is that hateful, assholes?”
I guess the asshole part is indeed hateful. But they deserve it.
Making a fist with his dominant hand, Mikey punches me in the mouth.
“Because I say it’s so, that’s why,” he says. Then, turning to his partner, Sal. “Let’s go toss the upstairs. Then maybe we can both play with the fascist MILF some more when we come back down.”
“Can’t wait,” Sal says. “I get to go through her underwear drawer first.”
“Race you upstairs,” Mikey says.
Turning, the two thugs sprint out of the kitchen, and head for the upstairs of my home sweet home.
6
“So what do you think, Jules?” I say when they’re gone.
“They’re ANTIFA,” she says. “No doubt about it. I told you not to write for those publications. I told you it would get us in trouble. These pricks spent the entire summer burning down half the country. They killed twenty people, and injured a whole bunch more, did billions in damage and the media...your mainstream media...encouraged them.”
Just then, some noises coming from outside the house. Glass breaking. Voices shouting. Then a flash that lights up the dark world outside the big bay kitchen. It’s got to be an M80 or something like it.
“Holy crap, they’re on a rampage throughout the neighborhood,” I say.
Julia shakes her head.
“What’s our next move now that we can’t call nine-one-one?” she says.
I can see over my shoulder that she’s struggling with her wrists to free herself from the tape. Rather, not struggling, but maneuvering her long, recently pedicured fire engine red fingernails to cut through the duct tape.
“I’m not sure the police would want to come to save us anyway. They are moving targets for these people, these days, if you wanna call them people. You’ve heard their slogan, Cops are pigs, fry ‘em like bacon.”
The sounds of things breaking and dropping to the floor coming from the upstairs. I’m getting more pissed off by the moment. Desperate too. But then, these are desperate times. Pandemic. Lockdowns. Riots in the streets. Race war. Brother versus brother division. Defund the police. It’s a real civil war. Like they say, I guess desperate times call for desperate measures. And believe me, as soon as I get free, I’m gonna do something really desperate and painful all over the antifascist fascists, Sal and Mikey.
“What are you doing, Julia?” I ask.
“What’s it look like I’m doing, Paul?” she says, her voice and face strained. Then, “There, I’m free.”
A sudden wave of optimism washes over me.
“Undo my wrists, quick,” I say.
“Wait,” she says. “They’re about to come back down.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s no more noise. They’ve stopped whatever they’re doing.”
“I don’t wanna know what they’re doing in our bedroom,” I say.
“Paul,” my wife says, “I never realized just how truly messed up the younger generation truly is.”
Footsteps coming down the stairs. A couple seconds later, Sal and Mikey are standing in front of us, their Scream masks gazing at us like something out of cheap horror flick from the 1980s. One of them is holding a pair of Julia’s black satin thongs between his fingers.
“Hope you don’t mind if I take a little souvenir,” he says, not without a giggle.
Judging by the sound of his voice, it’s Sal. He leans in closer to my wife, like he did before they went upstairs. He kisses her on the mouth. Rather, he presses the mouth on the mask against Julia’s mouth. Standing, he unzips his pants.
“Whaddya doing, Stan?” Mikey says.
“We’re here to terrorize and plunder in the name of irradicating the privileged white Fascists. That’s what I’m doing. It’s no different from what the great Stalinist’s achieved when they finally invaded Fascist Berlin. They not only plunged. They raped, and did so under the red flag of communism.”
When Stan pulls out his manhood, or should I say, boyhood out and sticks it in my wife’s face, I feel my heart shoot up into my throat. I’m trying so hard to get free of the duct tape I feel like I might break my wrists.
“The all-powerful hammer and sickle,” Mikey says, while unzipping his pants, and pulling his member out. “Well, fascist MILF, behold our hammers and sickles.”
Now they both have placed their sex only inches from my wife’s mouth.
“Open up, Fascist MILF,” Stan insists.
“Yeah, open up and give us what we deserve,” Stan says.
“My, my,” Julia says, “but aren’t you boys very, very big, Who wants to be first?”
The masked thugs just look at one another like it never dawned on them that someone would have to go first.
“I have an idea,” Julia says. “Why don’t you both stick your...hammers...in my mouth at the same time. It’s not gay or anything. It’s a really, really manly sexy thing to do. Very Russian bear.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. But then, knowing Julia the way I do, I have to believe she’s up to something. Something these two thugs are truly going to regrest. In any case, I’m helpless to do anything about what’s going down inside my own kitchen. The very kitchen where I ate dinner with my family when I was growing up.
Gazing at one another once more, the two thugs slowly step forward while my wife opens her mouth wide, taking both of them partially in at the same time. The screams that immediately follow rattle my bones.
7
Both Sal and Mikey lunge backwards, both of them falling onto their backsides. Dark red arterial blood is drooling out of their now very soft members. Excuse me, hammers and sickles.
“You bit me!” Sal screams. “Oh my God, you bit me.”
“She bit me too!” Mikey cries.
They’re both using both their hands to stem the bleeding. It gives Julia time to rip the tape from her ankles. Standing, she tears the tape that’s binding my wrists.
“Where’s the duct tape?” she says, looking over both shoulders.
“On the counter I think,” I say.
While she checks the counter, I rip the tape from my ankles and stand. Julia grabs a steak knife that’s sitting out on the counter beside her phone, hands it to me.
“If one of them makes a dangerous move, stab him in the stomach,” she insists. “Then use the baseball bat to pound their brains to pulp.”
She stands over them, four-square.
“Okay thugs,” she says, “get up.”
“We can’t,” Mikey says, tears poring out of his eyes. “It hurts too much.”
“Oh stop,” she says. “I just gave both a little bite and that’s all. You’ll be better by morning. I thought Antifa was supposed to be tough.”
Bending, she grabs hold of Stan’s arm and yanks him up onto his feet like she’ capable of deadlifting five hundred pounds. It tells me how much adrenaline is running through her system. It also tells me how entirely enraged she is. She shoves Stan in the same chair I was bound to.
“Paul,” she says. “Tape him up.”
“Shouldn’t we be calling nine one one now that we have the phone?” I ask.
“Too late for that,” she says, yanking Mikey up onto his feet and then into the chair she was taped to. “We’re gonna teach these spoiled antifascist fascist brats some manners.”
I go to work taping their wrists behind their back and their ankles together. I also wrap several layers of tape around their waists, binding them to the wood chairbacks. They’re both still crying and still bleeding from their exposed body parts. It’s not a very pleasant thing to look at either for me or Julia who no doubt still bears the taste of their blood in her mouth. Heading to the kitchen sink, I grab a dish rag in the storage space beneath it, carry it with me back to the thugs. I then do something that makes me cringe. Working with one thug at a time, I take hold of each member with my dish rag covered fingers, and shove said member back through the open zippers on their jeans. I make sure to zip them up.
“Now,” Julia says, “let’s just see who we’re dealing with here, shall we?”
“Ummm, Julia,” I say, giving her an up and down gaze. “Do you think first you can put some clothes on first.”
She gazes downwards at herself.
“Good idea,” she says. “Be right back.”
She heads upstairs and I’m left alone with the thugs. Outside the window more explosions are going off. More people screaming. Hard to believe I’m not hearing any cop cruiser sirens but maybe they’re on their way.
“So how did you two get into this anti-fascist fascist thing?” I ask, after a time. “It can’t be because of CNN anchor, Chris Cuomo, or because one poor soul died at the hands of the police in Minneapolis.”
“Hey, man,” Sal says, “I don’t need anybody on TV to tell me what to do. And yeah, what that cop did to that Black dude when he kneeled on his neck was insane. But this is a whole lot more than that. This is revolution. This is real change.”
“What Sal’s trying to tell you,” Mikey jumps in, “is we learned all this in college. You wouldn’t believe what the professors teach us about stirring up the new world order, about doing away with the white fascists and the wealthy class. About redistributing the wealth, and doing so by force. The professors really make sense.”
“College,” I say, sorry I asked. “And where do you two go to college?”
Just then Julia comes back in the room wearing a pair of jeans along with her tan Ugh boots.
“You don’t want to see what these two fuckers did to our bedroom,” she says.
“I’m sure I don’t,” I say. “We were just having a talk about college, and how these two learned to become fascists there from their professors.”
“Anti-fascists, dude,” Sal insists. “You’re the fascist pig. You and your white privilege.”
“Can’t help the way God made me, son,” I say.
“Ok, if we’re way too white for these thugs, let’s see what they look like under these cowardly masks.”
That’s when Julia reaches out, pulls off Sal’s mask and then Mikey’s mask.
8
Naturally, both of them are as white as can be. More than white. Their faces are so young and smooth, I don’t even think they’ve sprouted peach fuzz yet, much less possess the ability to grow a beard. Sal has thick jet-black hair and looks like a young Dean Martin. Mikey has wispy blonde hair and looks to me a like a typical preppie straight out of the early 1980s Preppie Handbook.
“Paul,” Julia says, “grab their wallets. Let’s see where they come from.”
Reaching around both of them, I pull out their wallets. Mikey’s is an expensive alligator wallet that must have costs his parents a pretty penny. Unless he stole it, that is. Stan’s is standard leather, but stylish.
I open Mikey’s first. There’s no money inside but he’s got a several credit cards including a Capital One card, and a gold American Express card. Not bad for someone who can’t older than...I glance at the driver’s license date of birth...twenty.
I also glance at his home address. He lives in a suburb called Loudonville, which is a portion of North Albany, just a mile or so north of my Village of Menands address. Loudonville is not only ninety nine percent white, but it’s also the wealthiest part of New York’s Capital Region. Most of the residents are either business owners, or professionals like doctors and lawyers. Almost all have college educations which they paid for with their own money.
I toss his wallet onto the counter, and open Sal’s. His full name is Salvatore Valente and wouldn’t you know it, but he’s also from Loudonville and he’s also barely twenty years old. If he is who I think he is, his father owns the biggest gravel pit in upstate New York, plus multiple residential and business development properties. In fact, I see his father at a local bar now and then. Nice guy who’s always asking me about my books and how they’re coming along.
“I know Sal’s dad,” I say, tossing his wallet onto the counter beside Mikey’s.
“You know his, dad?” Julia says.
The look in Sal’s eyes is not a good one. In fact, now that he knows I know his dad, his complexion has turned distinctly pale and his Adam’s apple is bobbing in his neck like a turkey about to face the hatchet. That’s when I let Julia in on their ages, where they reside and the credit cards they store in their wallets.
“And yet they’re referring to us as white privilege fascist pigs,” she says. “A little ironic don’t you think, Paul?”
“Hey,” Mikey says, his face now also looking tight and anxious, “we’re just doing what they tell us to do at school.”
“So now tell me, gentlemen,” I say, “where do you both go to school.”
“Why Harvard, of course,” Sal says
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9
I pace the kitchen for a moment or two. Finally, competing with the chaotic noise coming from outside the kitchen window, are the sounds of police cruiser sirens.
“Looks like this party is about to get broken up pretty damned quick,” I say.
“Hey listen, Mr. Gibbons,” Sal says, “if it’s all the same to you, Mikey and I have to be getting home.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, “plus we need to get some antibiotic on our wounds.”
Julia looks at me and smiles.
“Looks like our young antifa-fascist brownshirt, would-be rapists, burglars, and home intruders are afraid of getting arrested,” Julia says. “Tell me, Paul,” she goes on. “You study a little of the law for your novels. How much time are these two facing in an adult criminal court for their crimes tonight?”
While pacing the floor, I cock my head over my shoulder while I weigh the specific charges in my head.
“Well, here’s the thing, Julia,” I say. “Even if these two were to get arrested by anyone of those cops we can easily flag down right this very second, they would still go free tonight, due to our governor’s catch-and-release policy.”
“That doesn’t sound like justice to me,” she says, pursing her lips.
“No, it does not,” I say, “which gives me an idea. Why don’t we put these two young criminals on trial tonight in our very own home? Right now, Julia. What do you say?”
“Sounds good to me,” she says, not without a beaming grin. “But why don’t you go put some clothes on first. I’ll make you a cup of coffee in the meantime.”
“Much appreciated, darling,” I say, exiting the kitchen and heading upstairs.
As I make the stairs, I hear Mikey ask if he can have a glass of water.
“Fuck no,” Julia says.
10
I put the destruction of our bedroom out of my mind as I slip into my jeans and a pair of worn cowboy boots. Putting on a button-down shirt, I can’t help but recall that Julia and I had been arguing over money prior to going to bed. Little did we know that come the middle of the night, we’d be working as a team to teach a couple of Harvard Marxist/Leninist-slash-terrorists a life lesson. On one hand, I’m so excited about this, I almost feel like I’ve shed ten years in just an hour and a half. On the other, I can’t help but see the thugs doing something unspeakable to my wife. But then, she took care of the situation like a trooper, now didn’t she?
Entering the kitchen, my wife hands me a mug of coffee. I take a careful satisfying sip and set the mug down on the counter.
“I’m guessing you boys are used to Starbucks,” I say.
“I could go for a Grande latte,” Sal says, almost sadly.
“Me too,” Mikey says. “And a blueberry muffin.”
“Bet they don’t get much Starbucks in Arbor Hill,” I say, referring to the predominantly Black ghetto in Albany which consists almost entirely of dilapidated, depressing concrete housing projects constructed during President Lyndon Johnson’s “Great Society” push back in the late sixties. So much for the Great Society. All it did was foster more poverty, more reliance on welfare, more drug gangs, more murders, and dare I say, more slavery. But then, I guess some political parties will do anything for votes.
“Now, Salvatore and Michael,” I say, standing before them with my arms crossed over my chest as I play both prosecutor and judge, and while Julia plays the part of the jury. “You are both accused of breaking and entering, several counts of burglary, one account of attempted murder when you hit me over the head...Oh hell, seeing as you’re still young, let’s just call it assault. Two counts of rape in the second degree, domestic terrorism, and just plain being about as unamerican as a U.S. citizen can get.” I pause for effect while the police sirens and the screams in the neighborhood street just outside our front door get louder and more alarming. Then, “Now, what do you have to say for yourselves?”
The two just glance at one another over their shoulders.
“I guess we just did what we thought was right,” Mikey says.
“We’re considered heroes at Harvard,” Sal says. “Lots of students say they support Antifa, but they’re not willing to put their lives on the line like we are. We’re the brave few, Mr. Gibbons.”
I give Julia a look. She’s rolling her eyes and shaking her head, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing from these two brainwashed jerks.
“Lady of the jury,” I say after a long beat. “Do you have a verdict in this case?”
“I do,” she says, while sipping on her own cup of coffee. “Guilty on all counts. You maybe proceed with your sentencing, Judge Paul.”
I pace back and forth again for a bit, stopping once to take another drink out of my coffee mug. Finally, I once more stand before the two boys.
“Salvatore and Michel, you have been found guilty by this American citizen’s court of all counts. I will now proceed to hand out your sentences. I’d ask you to rise but considering you’re all tied up at the moment, you may remain seated.” I clear my throat. “Now, Sal and Mikey, as members of the Anti-fascist fascist organization, I sentence you both to spending the rest of the night in Arbor Hill, entirely alone, and entirely unprotected. You will both be wearing signs on your backs which we will provide for you which will read, in big ass Sharpie letters, All Lives Matter. Your wrists and ankles will still be bound, so if one of the Arbor Hill residents seeks physical retribution on you, which they are sure to do, that’s your problem.” I smile, ear to ear. “This court has spoken.”
I go to the counter, sip more coffee.
“Julia,” I say, “will you kindly find us some cardboard and a Sharpie?”
“I think I can arrange that,” she says, going to the basement door and, moving the two-by-four and baseball bat to the side, heads downstairs where we store all sorts of junk.
That’s when I begin to hear something very strange. It sounds like crying, weeping. When I gaze back upon the boys, I can see that the two of them are actually shedding real tears.
“Please Mister,” Sal pleads, “don’t do this to us. We’re sorry. We’re sorry for everything. We were just...we were just...”
“We were just what?” I say. “Use your words, Salvatore.”
“We were just doing what they were telling us to do at school, and on CNN.”
“Yeah, CNN,” Mikey says. “Chris Cuomo and that other anchor guy, Don Lemon.” He pronounces Lemon like the citrus fruit.
“Lemon,” Sal corrects, while his nose starts dripping snot. He pronounces Lemon like Lemone, as if it’s French.
Julia comes back upstairs with a Sharpie in one hand and two pig pieces of cardboard she must have ripped off an empty box. She sets them out onto the kitchen counter and begins writing on the cardboard. When she’s done, she displays her artwork. Both signs read, “All Lives Matter!” in huge letters. It’s truly what Julia and I believe, that all lives, no matter what your creed, color, or race, matter.
I proceed to securely duct tape both cardboard signs to the boy’s backs. When I’m done, I head back into the vestibule, grab the keys to my pickup truck.
“Let’s all take a ride, shall we?” I say.
“Please, please, please, don’t do this!” Sal screams.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Mikey cries. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You’re the ones who should be begging for mercy. Not us.”
Tearing off two more long pieces of duct tape, I proceed to gag both thugs.
“Revenge is a real bitch, ain’t it, kids?” I say. “One day you’re going to thank me for this. That is, you live through the night.”
Cutting the tape that binds them to the chairs, I hold the knife on them as a convincer, while Julia and I assist them in hobbling out the front door to my awaiting truck.
11
Outside, our usually quiet street is a chaotic mess. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles are driving over lawns, several fires have been set. An older, gray haired woman by the name of Emily Smith, is standing out in the street in her bathrobe crying while her sixty something husband, Doug Smith, is lying stone still on the pavement, bleeding from the face and head. It’s a scene that makes me sick to my stomach. Three or four police cars are parked diagonally in the street, and several of the uniformed cops are being beaten by Antifa thugs with two-by-fours, just like the one that was used on me.
The police don’t seem to be doing much to stem the violence, like if they do, they will be charged with something. One cop is lying on his back, his body trembling, a brick set near his head. I’ve truly never seen anything like this.
Opening the back hatch, Julia and I heft the skinny boys up and drop them into the flatbed. We then close the gate again. I get behind the wheel and Julia gets into the passenger seat. Starting up the truck, I back out of the driveway, and make sure I don’t hit anyone when I make it out onto the street. Putting the transmission back in drive I head in the direction of the city. When I come to the stop sign where I have to make a right turn, I come upon a cop car that’s stopped there. The driver’s side window is open, and a stunned looking cop is seated behind the wheel.
I roll down my window.
“Can you believe this, officer?” I say.
“The entirety of North Albany is blowing up,” he says, shaking his head. “And the Mayor wants to get rid of us.”
I know he can’t see the boys in back because they have no choice but to lie on their backs. But even if they could sit up, I’m sure they wouldn’t want to make their presence known to the law. Not after what they did to Julia and me. Not after what they did to our house.
“You getting out of harms way?” the cops asks.
“You could say that officer,” I say.
“Take care of yourself,” he says. “This is civil war. Once we’re given the official okay, we’re gonna come down on these assholes with the wrath of God.”
“Good luck,” I say, “and thanks for your service.”
I tap the gas and hook a right onto the road that will take us all the way to Arbor Hill, a most desperate and dangerous place.
12
Arbor Hill is located only four or five miles southbound on the northern edge of the Albany City limits, but it seems to take forever to get there. Along the way, we pass by small pockets of Antifa gangs doing damage to some of the mansions that reside on both sides of New York Route 9. Clearly, what’s happening tonight is a carefully executed plan and well financed by someone or something. George Soros maybe. A foreign born billionaire bent on destroying America as we know it.
I glance in the rearview and see that the boys have managed to sit themselves up, their backs leaning against the flatbed’s side panels. My guess is they’d love to jump out, but I’m driving way too fast, and in less than a minute, we’ll be in Arbor Hill. This truck will be the only protection they have.
Heading off Route 9 and onto the inner city Henry Johnson Boulevard, I go left on Clinton Avenue. We pass by what used to be some of the most beautiful stone and brick townhouses in Albany, but that since the 1960s have become dens for drug dealers and ruthless gangs, including MS13. The projects are located right beside these once beautiful homes. A whole lot of architectural gems were mowed down back in the late sixties to accommodate the concrete projects. I make another left and we begin to head into the heart of the ghetto.
It’s the middle of the night, but plenty of people are up and gathered outside the four- story buildings. Small bonfires are burning on the concrete sidewalks. Young shirtless Black men in overly baggy jeans belted not around their waists, but around the tops of their thighs so that their boxer shorts hang out, walk around with bottles of booze in their hands. Some of them have pistols tucked into their waist bands. All of them pause and glare at us as we slowly maneuver the roads.
When I stop, Julia turns to me.
“Make this quick, Paul,” she says. “We are in harm’s way.”
“We’ll be okay,” I try and assure her. “I know someone who’s going to help us.”
Opening the door, I get out. The boys are back to lying on their backs in order to hide themselves from what they perceive as a sure death sentence. Or so I can only assume.
I open the tailgate.
“End of the road boys,” I say. “You’re home. This is precisely what you’re fighting for, am I right? This is what you want. To be one with the oppressed and the downtrodden. Now here’s your chance to be with those whom you defend by invading and terrorizing the white fascist suburbs. So have at it.”
They’re not moving, so I reach out and grab Mikey’s legs, and drag him out of the truck. He hits the pavement hard. I do the same to Sal.
“What the fuck you doing?” one of the young shirtless men shouts.
“He’s a crazy white man,” someone else shouts.
Why no one is taking a shot at us, I’ll never know. Both boys sit up straight. They’re screaming through their gags and crying like baby girls. I’d like to feel bad for them, but I don’t. Not after what they did to my wife.
Getting back in the truck, I throw the tranny in drive and pull away. Glancing in the rearview, I see a throng of young, angry men converging on the two anti-fascists.
13
I take a right at the next block which is Lark Street Extension.
“Where you taking us?” Julia asks.
“Believe it or not,” I say, “I’m saving the boy’s lives.”
“I thought the whole point was to feed them to the wolves, so to speak.”
“It is,” I say. “But as much as they deserve to be punished for what they did to us tonight, we’re not about to lower ourselves to their level.”
I pull up outside a small grocery store that’s located in the same concrete project building that also houses the rental office.
“Come on in,” I say. “We’ll be safe here.”
“How do you know?” she says, reluctantly opening her door.
“There’s a man here I’d like you to meet,” I say. “He helps me with researching my crime novels.”
Together, we head up the cracked sidewalk, and enter into the all-night grocery. To the left is the grocery store part of the space and to the right are some tables where six or seven older Black men are drinking coffee and talking quietly among themselves. At one table way in the back sits another man who appears quite different from the others. He’s a man called Blood, and he’s my friend.
As Julia and I approach, Blood lifts his head and shifts his focus from his smartphone screen to us. He cracks a tiny grin, which is unusual for a man who rarely shows his emotions. As usual, he’s dressed entirely in black, including thin black leather coat over a black t-shirt that fits his weight trained pecs like a second skin. His face and head are shaved smooth.
“Paul Gibbins,” Blood says, “you must be working very late tonight on your latest book. Must be the full moon.”
We come to his table.
“We’re here on different business, Blood,” I say.
I then introduce Julia. Blood does something that most women wouldn’t expect. He not only stands, but he takes hold my wife’s hand and plants a gentle kiss on top, the same way a knight of King Arthur’s Court would respectfully address a lovely lady. He then sits back down while asking us to take a seat.
“How about some coffee?” he asks. “This might be the hood and as far from Starbucks as you’re ever gonna get, but the coffee here is primo. In fact, it’s called Writer’s Block Coffee. You should check it out Paul, seeing as that’s how you make your living.”
A rather humble living I want to tell him, but now’s not the time.
“I’ll pick some up tomorrow,” I say. “That is the supermarkets aren’t burning by then.”
“Trouble in Suburbia,” Blood says.
“I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Been keeping up with the local news,” he says. “Plus, Marconi already called me about it. It’s why I’m here at this hour, you wanna know the truth. I have a way of controlling things should they get out of hand in this part of the world, if you dig.”
“I dig,” I say. “And you’re dating yourself with that kind of language.”
We all share a little laugh over that.
The Marconi he’s referring to is a private detective by the full name of Jack “Keeper” Marconi. Blood and Marconi sometimes partner up on cases the Albany Police Department can’t solve and/or don’t want to touch. I’ve met Keeper on several occasions and he, like Blood, reads my books, even after they’ve gifted me with some much needed research tips and advice.
Blood might be as big as an NFL linebacker, and just as hard and muscular, but he also has a master’s degree in English Literature along with a degree in pre-law, both of which he earned while doing time at Green Haven Prison back in the 80’s when the Keeper Marconi I just spoke of was its warden. The way Blood explained it to me, he happened to come upon a young black woman who was being raped in a back alley by a drunk white man. Blood proceeded to beat the rapist to death with just two well aimed punches to the head.
It was one of those crimes that really isn’t a crime in the eyes of the good Lord, but for which he nonetheless did ten years in a maximum security joint. Rough justice to be certain, but an event Blood states he would do all over again if he had to. That’s the strict code of justice the man lives by.
“Okay,” he says, sipping on his Writer’s Block Coffee. “What’s wrong? You didn’t just decide to come out here at this hour of the night ‘cause you like walking the projects.”
I give him the bullet points. When I’m done, he sits silently for a bit while he digests everything I said. He shifts his focus to Julia.
“You okay, Mrs. Gibbons?” he says, the concern in his voice palpable.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m tougher than I look. But thank you, Blood.” She reaches out, and takes hold of his big hand, and squeezes it.
“How’s your head, Paul?”
“I’ve got a bump,” I say. “But no brain damage.”
He nods.
That’s when I tell him about how we turned the tables on the two kids and, acting like a court of law in our own home, sentenced them to fend for themselves in the hood with signs on their backs that read, All Lives Matter.
Blood sits back hard in the booth and grows a very rare smile.
“You didn’t,” he says like a question.
“We most certainly did,” Julia says.
“However,” I say, “they’re just young kids and I want to make sure that we throw a good scare into them. Not kill them.”
Blood pulls out his phone, punches a number on his speed-dial.
“’Scuse me a minute, folks,” he says, sliding out of the booth and heading out of the shop.
For a long minute the old guys occupying the other booths gives us a collective look, and then go back to talking among themselves. We must be quite the unusual sight. When Blood comes back in, he approaches the table and sits back down, returning the phone to the interior pocket on his leather coat.
“I’ve taken care of everything,” he says. “Some of the young dudes gave them a hard time, maybe even roughed the kids up a little. But my people say they will protect them until you go back and retrieve their sorry Antifa asses.”
“You don’t like Antifa, Blood?” Julia asks.
“You might perceive me as a man of violence, Mrs. Gibbons—”
“Julia, please. We’re friends now.”
“Okay, Julia,” Blood says. “As I was saying, you might perceive me as a man of violence, but I actually deplore all forms of it. Black Lives Matter as a concept is a very good thing for this country. It raises awareness about our struggle under all political parties, and it’s a struggle that I don’t think will ever end. Not when one particular party gives us free things in exchange for votes. However, this Antifa movement is no friend of mine, nor of those closest to me. They have hijacked the real Black Lives Matter movement and made it out to be a violent organization which, at its core, it is not.”
“And the police?” I add.
“I have a terrific relationship with the police,” he says. “And they hire me to work for them on a regular basis. Like in any walk of life, there are good cops and bad cops. But do I believe they should be defunded? That’s one of the most ludicrous ideas one could have ever come up with since it’s the folks who live in these projects who will suffer the most if the police aren’t present.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Julia says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too, Blood. And I can’t thank you enough for helping us out tonight.”
“I’m just sorry you had to go through all that,” he says, “and that other innocent folks are going through it as we speak.”
“Gonna be a long night,” I say.
“Let’s hope things change real soon,” he says. “These are desperate times to be sure.”
“We’ll be going,” I say.
Julia slips out of the booth and I follow.
“Blood,” Julia says, “would like to come for dinner next weekend? We can cook some burgers and hotdogs outside on the grille, have a few beers. Bring a date if you like. Or are you married?”
“Me married?” he says. “Never. Dating? Always. And yes, I accept your kind offer, so long as we can make martinis.”
“Deal,” I say.
Blood gets out of the booth and stands. All six feet four of him. We give one another a bear hug. As Julia and I turn to leave, I feel tears welling up in my eyes.
14
We get back in the truck and take the Lark Street Extension to the inner-project road where we left the boys. I hook a left and find them sitting on the curb, their faces looking down at the macadam as if in shame. Standing behind them are a couple of the shirtless young men who are packing semi-automatics in their waistbands.
I get out and open the tailgate.
Eyeing both young men, “Thanks for watching over them.”
Both young men don’t offer a word of response, nor do they show even a shred of emotion.
Shifting my eyes to the boys, I use my two hands to grab hold of both their hoodies and pull them up off the curb.
“I can toss you in like last time or you can manage to get in yourself. It’s your choice.”
Both their faces are swelled from crying so much. They’re still bound at the wrists and ankles and for a brief second, I contemplate cutting the tape. But then I think better of it. These boys might be scared shitless, but they are still capable of doing some horrible things. I do however, rip the gags off their mouths.
“Ouch,” Mikey says.
“Jesus, you ripped my lips off,” Sal says.
“Get in the truck,” I say.
They both take my advice and manage to slither their way up onto the flatbed on their own.
“Now, Sal,” I say, pulling out my smartphone, “I want your dad’s phone number. And don’t hold back on me ‘cause all I gotta do is Google it, or I can even just drive you straight home and knock on his door at this very late hour of the night.”
He nods and mumbles the number in such a muted voice I can’t make it out.
“Speak up, damnit!”
His eyes wide, he shouts the number.
“Thank you,” I say.
I plug the number into my phone, and then slam the tailgate shut. Giving the two shirtless young men a nod, I get back in the truck and take off for the burning suburbs.
On the way, I dial Sal’s father, Robert Valente. Placing the phone on speaker, I set it onto the dash and wait for him to answer. That is, I pray he answers. After a few rings, there’s a pickup.
“Hello,” he says, part sleepy, part annoyed. I guess the nights riots haven’t kept him from getting his precious Zs. Or maybe he just went to bed. “Who is this?” he begs.
I tell him who I am, and that we already know one another. Then, in as few words as possible, I tell him about what his sons did to us tonight, starting from their breaking and entering and then finishing with our showing them a lesson by dropping them off at the projects in Arbor Hill. By the time I’m done, we’re back in the suburbs which have managed to quiet down somewhat now that the dawn is approaching.
“I knew something like this would happen someday,” Robert Valente says after a time. “Both those kids have been spending all their time on the dark web talking to some pretty radical people and groups.”
“Would you like me to drop your son off at your home, Rob?” I ask. “Then I can take Michael to his home.”
“No,” he says, immediately. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
He goes on to tell me that if it’s okay with me, I’m to take them back to my house. In the meantime, he’ll contact Michael’s dad, and they both will meet us there.
“We will want to see the damage our sons inflicted on your home for ourselves. And know that you will be compensated well for any damages.”
“We can work that out later,” I say.
“Been a hell of night,” he says.
“Thanks in part to your son and his buddy,” I say.
“See you in a few minutes then,” he says, cutting the connection.
15
By the time Sal’s and Mikey’s fathers arrive in Robert Valente’s black, four-door BMW, the sun is rising red/orange on the eastern horizon over the Blue Mountains of Massachusetts. The two fathers get out of the car at the end of the driveway and make their way to the truck. Robert Valente is tall, with big, broad shoulders, a clean-shaven face and salt and pepper hair. Mike’s dad, Michael Wells, is shorter, stockier, and balding. Both are wearing jeans, sneakers, and polo shirts, as if they planned it that way. Both look like they haven’t slept all night. The entirety of North Albany hasn’t slept all night.
The two gaze at their wrist and ankle bound sons not with rage against me for tying them up, but with beady eyed expressions that scream, They deserve this kind of treatment.
Sal stares at his father wide eyed.
He says, “Well, aren’t you gonna cut the tape off of us, dad?”
“Shut up,” his father says. Turning to me. “Mind giving Wells and me a tour of your house, Mr. Gibbons?”
I look at Julia. “Mind staying with the boys?”
“It will be my pleasure.”
“You want me to go inside and get the baseball bat?” I say.
Julia smiles. “Something tells me I won’t be needing it at this point.”
I take the two men inside and give them the tour they asked for. It only takes a couple of minutes at most for them to get an idea of all the damage, but all the time, they’re shaking their heads and mumbling things under their breath like “spoiled brats,” “delinquents,” “antifa thugs.” When we make it back into the kitchen, Valente can’t help but notice the spots of rust colored blood that stain the linoleum.
“Is this where it happened?” he asks, referring to the boy’s rape attempt.
“Yes,” I say, swallowing something dry and bitter, as if the reality of they did to my wife is only now sinking in.
“I assure you, Mr. Gibbons, our sons will not go unpunished for this,” Valente goes on.
“I’m sure they won’t,” I say.
We proceed to head back outside, but before we make it to the front door, I pose one final question.
“Mr. Valente and Mr. Wells,” I say, “do your sons really go to Harvard?”
Valente’s hand wrapped around the doorknob, he turns to me, and smiles bitterly.
“They tell you that?” he asks.
I nod.
“They both attended community college until they were kicked out for causing one disturbance after the other. And you know what, Mr. Gibbons? It’s really a shame. These boys come from nice, law-abiding, Judeo/Christian families. We gave them a great childhood, and for a long time, they were normal everyday kids who starting paling around when they were in kindergarten together at the Loudonville Grammar School. But something happened along the way that made them turn bad.”
“I just can’t understand it,” Wells chimes in, his voice best described as defeated.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, we’re sorry,” Valente says. “And thank you for giving them a much-deserved lesson last night. Let’s hope it has a positive effect on them.”
We head outside, me with a kitchen knife in hand. After I cut the boys lose, they slide out of the truck, each of them rubbing their wrists. But it doesn’t take more than a few seconds for both fathers to grab hold of their respective sons by their arms, and shove them in the back seat of the BMW.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Sal screams. “You don’t treat your only son like this. I’m injured.”
“Yeah,” Mikey says, “me too. We need medical help. That lady damaged us. We might have to sue.”
“Boys,” Robert Valente says into the open car door, “Mr. Wells and I are about to do you the biggest favor two loving fathers can do for their disturbed and hateful sons. We are going to escort you promptly to jail. In fact, the police are already waiting for you.”
He shuts the door and opens the driver’s side door.
“We’ll be I touch, Mr. Gibbons,” he says. “So will the police. Tell them everything that happened. Don’t hold back a thing.”
The two men get back in the BMW and drive off.
For a time, Julia and I stand there, staring at a once peaceful, suburban neighborhood that in a word, looks trashed. But the good news is that anything that gets trashed can be repaired and rebuilt. I can only hope that the same goes for the once United States of America.
Turning to Julia, I say, “How about some breakfast before the cops arrive?”
But instead of answering my question, she breaks out in tears and wraps her arms around me.
“Let’s not fight over money anymore,” she says. “You’re a great writer, and I’m sorry for nagging you about making a better living. We’re doing fine.”
I squeeze her and kiss her damp cheek.
“I’ll try and find more freelance work while writing my books,” I say. “Least I can do.”
Together, we head back up the driveway hand in hand.
“One thing’s for sure,” she says. “You have a new novel to write after tonight. Maybe even one Steven King might wish he’d written himself.”
“Now that’s looking on the bright side of a very dark night,” I say.
“How do you think it will begin?” she says.
“Like every nightmare,” I say, “it will begin with something that goes bump in the night.”