Them movin’ in from the city… it’s poisoning our town.
The Ol’ Blowin’ Wind
Jonathan’s free hand hovers an inch above the knob of Maxwell’s front door. He feels a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he’s been here before, and then he remembers he has. Just a few months ago. He didn’t want to be there then and he doesn’t want to be here now, but just like back in November, he has to be here. There’s a racist plot to sacrifice a child to an imaginary deity, and Jonathan’s the only one who can make those damn dirty cops pay.
The front door swings open without making a sound. Jonathan steps into the house without taking his shoes off even though they’re dirty from the woods. Jonathan isn’t afraid of leaving footprints on Maxwell’s thin carpet tonight. When he’s done with this place, there’s not going to be any carpet left.
At least, that’s what he thinks before he hears heavy footsteps coming up the basement stairway. Fighting the urge to shriek, Jonathan whirls around and bolts from the house like a bat out of hell, slamming the front door behind him. Chief Maxwell, who’s coming up to fetch the jeans and sweaters for the rest of the Fellers, has a start at the sound of his front door slamming and almost falls backwards down the stairs, but he catches his balance.
“You all right there, Chief?” asks Jim Hubert, moving to come to the rescue.
“Yeah Jim, I’m just fine,” says the chief, putting Jim at ease. “Must not have closed the front door all the way; wind blew it shut.”
‘And then Jim would say, But Chief, how do you know we weren’t being surveilled? A bunch of damn dirty cops like us who spend all our time patrolling the streets, it would only make sense for us to be eavesdropped on, and then the chief would chuckle, saying, Oh Jim, I appreciate you, but I think it was just the wind. Just the ol’ blowin’ wind, Jim. Just the ol’ blowin’ wind.’
The ol’ blowin’ wind sure is a’blowin’ tonight; tears streak down Jonathan Knox’s face as he sprints along Cannonball Road, the gas can clutched to his chest so he doesn’t throw out his wrist. That was close, that was too close, they almost found him out, almost took him down into that moldy ratty basement and had their way with him, whatever way that might have been. Maybe they’d sacrifice Jonathan to the imaginary meteor in the sky, maybe they’d lock Jonathan in a closet until he was nice and exhausted and then pull him out and smear dirt and mud and shit on his face until it soaked into his skin and he appeared to be colored, and then they would claim he was one of the Earthen folk and they would sacrifice him to fell the meteor down unto their poisoned town an–
Jonathan runs into his car, dropping the can on the narrow hood as he tumbles down to the cold pavement. There are scrapes on one of his ears now. Scrapes on his ear and his knees, and probably on his elbows too. Great. Just fucking great. Jonathan Knox sits himself up and leans bodily against his front bumper, then sighs.
“I’m getting all worked up,” he admits to himself. “I always get all worked up when there’s a job I have to do. I always goose it up, just like I goosed up tonight. Now that black kid’s go’n’a die.”
But the black kid doesn’t have to die. Aside from the ol’ blowin’ wind the night is silent; no cars are mobilizing, no police officers are storming the lack of sidewalks. The gas is still in the can and Jonathan Knox is still alive, still breathing, still a free American citizen. He can still do the job that only he can do, he can still stop the damn dirty racist cops from abducting and sacrificing the child. It’s not too late, Jonathan Knox, it’s not too late to make a difference!’
Jonathan Knox stands and lifts the gas can off his hood, ignoring the dent it made when it landed. He takes two steps down the road, the confidence and sense of duty flowing in his veins keeping him warm against the cold early-spring night. Then, a branch breaks off a tree deep in the woods and Jonathan mistakes it for a door slamming shut. Jonathan then reels and throws himself violently into his car, brings the engine back to life, and leaves skid marks in the road as he peels out and makes an extremely illegal U-turn, the least of his problems if he gets caught. Oh yes, the very least of Jonathan’s problems will be the extremely illegal U-turn he pulls in the middle of Cannonball Road; the breaking and entering, unlawful surveillance, conspiracy to commit arson – those are the most of his problems. Those, plus about a trillion other charges the damn dirty cops would pile up on top of him just to get him, just to kick him when he’s down and keep him there, just to make a sacrifice out of him and fell the meteor of martial law unto the small backwoods town of Wuester, New Jersey and succeed from the rest of the country and slaughter all the humans who have dirt in their skin, all the children of Earth who are not orphans of the stars.
“No,” Jonathan growls, his teeth grinding themselves into dust. “They won’t catch me. They won’t. They won’t!” Tears continue to fall down his face, but they’re not from the cold anymore. Jonathan Knox has gotten all worked up. “They’ll never take me alive, and they won’t get the chance to kill me! You hear me, you damn dirty cops?! YOU WON’T GET THE CHANCE TO KILL ME!!”
Hello Commons, this has been the last subchapter of the first chapter of Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox, a novel about a man who likes to eavesdrop on his neighbors.
Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is the second book in the W-2222 series, a series of books which take place in Universe W-2222.
Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
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