14

I sit at the desk and wait until the van pulls out of my driveway and disappears into the afternoon. My eyes focused on my phone and the Ring app, I go to “Camera 1” and press on the icon. I can see the front porch and yard of the house from the perspective of the camera which is now installed beside the front door. It means I’ll be able to ID whoever approaches it.

I press Camera 2. It’s the same deal, only I’m looking out onto the back of the house. Even my studio is included in the camera’s lens. Despite dishing out another fifteen hundred dollars I don’t have, I feel myself grinning. Pouring myself a double shot of whiskey, I get up from my desk and go to the window. I look out onto the property. I focus on the back door. It doesn’t seem any different than it did early this morning prior to being secured with new locks and a new digital security system.

I sip the whiskey and feel the heat emanating from the cast iron stove. The Lefties want to eliminate wood stoves and the burning of wood altogether for heat. No one living north of Albany will follow their insane rules even if they become law. They’re also trying to ban gas stoves. They want us to be subservient to the government. Dependent.

It’s like America has become the Soviet Union. We’ll fight them because they are the minority who scream the loudest and make all the fuss. They are experts at throwing tantrums and accusing everyone of being racist when in fact, they are the racists. If we fight them, we will win quickly. We own all the guns they are trying to take away from us. We still have a free press even if it has gone independent or even underground. That’s where you’ll find me, underground. Independent. Loaded for bear. Ready to fight for my independence.

I sip more whiskey.

“Fuck ‘em,” I say out loud. “Fuck the state. Just try and take our stoves, our wood, our guns, our meat, our gas trucks, and our words. We’ll gladly strip you naked, parade you on the front lawn of the White House and hang you in public from hastily constructed gallows. We don’t need civil war. We need a revolution to destroy the deep state.”

How did I get on this topic?

I sip more whiskey. I haven’t eaten a whole lot, so it’s going to my brain fast, and it feels so good. It gives me the edge I need for my writing. In answer to my own question, ever since the lockdowns and the organized riots back in the summer of 2020, plus the defunding and utter humiliation of law enforcement, many of us have decided to take the law into our own hands. That’s why I bought my gun. I guess in a funny way, it's why I fell in love with the cop. After thirty years on the job, she could have easily quit and said, “Fuck it, I don’t need the humiliation.” But she didn’t because she believes in the law, and a human being’s right to roam freely and safely, even if her own government has become the enemy of the law.

When I was a boy, so many kids wanted to grow up to be cops, soldiers, or firemen. Now, no one wants to work at all. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a deer emerge from the woods to my left. It’s another buck. He checks to see if the coast is clear and keeps moving. As expected, a doe appears. She’s a good size for a doe. Behind her, two little ones. Bambis, I call them. I wrap my knuckles on the window. They about-face and race back into the woods.

Swallowing the rest of my drink, I decide to turn off my brain and forget about politics for a while. You can’t fight City Hall, right? Well, I’m going to try if it comes to that. I exit my studio and close the door behind me making sure it’s locked. Heading across the lawn to the kitchen door, I pull the yellow paper locksmith receipt from my pocket and look for the instructions on how to set my own four-digit keycode for the electronic keypad locking system.

When I find it, I press the pound button just like you’d see on a cell phone and enter my new code, not once but twice as instructed. I’d tell you the code but it’s probably a better idea that I keep it to myself. The system indicates that my code is approved, and the system is armed, so to speak. I try to open the door, but it’s locked tighter than a Stewart Copeland snare drum. That’s a good thing. I type in the new code, and I hear the somewhat pleasant sound of the mechanical locks releasing and tumblers dropping. I turn the doorknob once more and open the door.

“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” I say not without a grin. “No more worries about forgetting or losing my house keys.”

Heading across the kitchen floor, I enter the dining room, and then the vestibule to the front door. There’s a keypad located on the interior. I arm this one with the same code. The door locks. I try to open it, but the lock seems impenetrable. Entering the new four-digit code, the locks including the new deadbolt release, and I’m able to open the door.

“Sometimes you gotta love high tech,” I say.

This, coming from a man who used to write his college papers, essays, and short stories on a manual typewriter handed down by his uncle. Things change and you have to change with them, unless they are trying to make you a slave or hurt you. Then you fight them.

Speaking of someone possibly trying to hurt me, I glance at my watch. It’s two-thirty. It only takes me about ten minutes at most to get to downtown Millbrook, but I want to get there before Jennifer does. I want to be planted at a table up against a window or a wall, for safety’s sake. I’ve stupidly had my back to the entry to the roadhouse bar on more than one occasion, and because of it, suffered a sucker punch or two.

I can’t take that kind of chance in this situation. It’s like I already said. What if Jennifer isn’t even a woman? What if she’s a man or more than one man bent on abducting me, torturing me, holding me for ransom? That’s how I would write it anyway. Heading upstairs, I grab my gun and its clip-on holster. I attach it to my belt. Grabbing my worn leather coat off the bed, I put it on and safely, and conceal the piece.

Just for the hell of it, I go to the nightstand, take hold of an extra nine-round magazine, and store it in my coat pocket, easy access. What if there’s an honest-to-goodness shootout? I’ll be needing it. Again, that’s how I would write it in my new book. If it is my new book.

Locking the front door, I head back through the kitchen, grab my car keys, and exit via the back door. Engaging the lock, I make for the barn and my Toyota pickup. I’m heading into town to face my crazy stalker...my deranged fan. Maybe it would have been a good idea to make sure Mary was there too. But something tells me this is something I need to do on my own.