It wasn't much to ask— I just wanted the youth gang hanging around the park to keep the damn noise down—but just asking caused them to target me and my family.
The police didn't scare them off and all the security hardware my buddy, Cliff, loaned me only challenged them and pushed them further into destructive acts.
But when my tires were slashed for a second time, things began to heat up. I began to get mad.
The police put a patrol car outside my house and an uneasy peace ensued. But I knew it wouldn't last.
It was quiet the next few nights. The police car sat parked at the gate of the school parking lot.
I actually got some sleep.
The next night, the patrol car was gone and the partying began again.
The security lights started going off and on, all night long, and then, just before dawn, I hear a loud crash and the breaking of glass.
I ran out onto the driveway and could smell gasoline fumes everywhere. They threw a Molotov cocktail—fortunately, it didn’t catch fire.
The security cameras captured the incident. The teenager wore a mask and a hooded jacket. I recognized the stocky figure as one of the boys who menaced me, but his face was hidden.
Again, the same police constables came, took their reports and watched for two nights. On the third night, the patrol car was gone again.
I set up my own patrol, sleeping outside in my SUV.
Cliff offered to take a night watch, but I knew and he knew, it couldn’t go on.
Anger was burning in my stomach—that primeval fury that wells up when you or a loved one is being attacked.
I knew I’d have to take things to the next level.
That night, instead of defending my turf, I was on the prowl.
I had my night vision binoculars and parabolic listening device.
I waited most of the night, dressed in black with balaclava and leather gloves—waiting for an opportunity.
It finally came, when the leader and most of the kids left—leaving the stocky guy and two girls behind. They were smoking dope and drinking beer.
It was simple.
I crept up on the three of them and then made a beeline for the stocky kid.
Before he knew what was happening, I felled him with a two-by-four to the gut and began kicking with my steel-toed work boots.
It felt good. I didn’t want to stop. One of the girls, tried to grab my arm and I hit her with the two-by-four. The other girl took off, terrified.
Afterwards, I stole back to my house and slipped into bed beside Jana, my wife. She never stirred.
I waited the next day for the police to come—they never did.
Two days and nights passed—nothing.
Then, it began again, the familiar laughter and clinking of bottles.
I waited two more nights and then on the third, I went hunting again.
They stuck together in a tight-knit group. The stocky guy wasn’t there, but the two girls were.
I waited, waited, waited...while one by one the teenagers left, until there were three—the leader, his back-up and the tough girl who mouthed me back the first night.
When they were stoned, I made my move. I slammed the leader in the back with my board. He went down immediately.
His friend came at me cursing and furious. I just rammed the two-by-four at his mid-section. He crumpled.
The girl was surprisingly defiant. “You want a piece of me, Scumbag?”
She was crouched like a wrestler. Without a thought, I swung my timber at her head and it missed, but glanced off her shoulder and she toppled, writhing on the ground.
This time, I controlled my fury, kicking only the leader—twice. Then, I left, saying nothing.
Again, I slid noiselessly into bed beside Jana—and again, she never stirred.
The partying at the playground ended—about the time the school board hired a night janitor and put motion lights up.
Cliff came and took back his night vision binoculars and eavesdropping device.
He didn’t say anything or ask questions. I never offered an explanation.
Now the police drop by occasionally to check in and make sure everything’s going well.
I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel anything.
Cities have been compared to human zoos, but I see them as jungles. Zoos are much better supervised.
Recently I saw a TV documentary about rogue battalions terrorizing the Congo. The reporter asked a woman—Are these men like devils?
She cradled her young child and shook her head.
“No, they’re not devils,” she said, “They are in a human shape.
I think that about sums up my feelings about guns and gangs.
