Clarence Hughes had spent most of his life
in this house. His parents purchased it soon after his father landed an
assembly line job at Ford during the company’s mid-century heyday. Clarence had
graduated from the high school just blocks away, and was subsequently drafted
to serve two tours of duty in Vietnam. When he returned from the war, he not only
had little opportunity for higher education, but he was also forced to endure
the scorn of a nation deeply divided and resentful of his service. Employment
was scarce and often marred by shouting matches with his bosses and coworkers.
He never lasted anywhere for long. By the time his parents passed, he had been
living in this house for over four decades.
Although it was paid for, Clarence owed a substantial
amount in back taxes, but he preferred electricity to happy government
officials. He got by on house painting in the warm weather months and snow
shoveling in the winter. He did his best to maintain the property too, and
guarded it fiercely from break-ins and threats from local gangs. He remembered
the cliques from his high school days; the jocks, nerds, band geeks, and greasers.
There would be occasional scuffles and a lot of posturing when these groups
were thrown together by organized or spontaneous events, but guns were never in
the picture. In those days, guns were only found in the hands of police
officers or hardened criminals, or were safely tucked away in the nightstands
of law-abiding parents.
Clarence kept his own Glock carefully
hidden, and rarely found it necessary to produce it. Word on the street was he
was unpredictable and perhaps a little crazy; two qualities that to some extent
guaranteed his safety in these forever-changed times. However, the slow, methodical pounding on the
front door that awoke him at three a.m. gave him pause. He always retrieved the
gun if he heard a suspicious noise, but there was nothing subtle about this
visitor.
Fearing it might be the police, he left the
gun where he could easily pick it up instead of wielding it as he opened the
door. He flipped on the porch light and peered around the crack in the door as
he opened it as far as the chain would allow. Clarence was shocked to see not a
badge and a pair of men in blue waiting on his porch, but a large, well-dressed
white man with a belt tied around his head and blood soaking the collar of his
shirt. The man was wobbly and dazed. He seemed unable to speak clearly, and blinked
his eyes repeatedly as he tried to mouth words with a hoarse whisper of a voice.
Clarence knew immediately the man was not a threat to him. Instead, he needed
his help.click here to order!
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