I Know the Kind of Men Who Are Attracted to Ill-Gotten Gains

I heard the shooting as I approached the house. How could you not? It sounded like a war zone. Chet and the boys were out back launching clay pigeons into the air. They had a spring loaded machine that sent three disks spinning high. A boy I didn’t recognize stood off to the side with a handheld launcher. When the machine finished, his job was to send one more disk chasing after the main group.They told me later they did this to mimic the behavior of real birds.“There’s always a straggler,” Leon said with a smirk.Chet noticed me walk up but he didn’t say anything. Our eyes met and he nodded. He looked like a coiled spring, gun ready. Apparently, they were in the midst of some kind of series. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was welcome.“Pull!” Chet barked. Off went the clay pigeons followed by, “Blam! Blam! Blam!” The boy was late on the last throw and he got chided.“Come on Artie.”“It didn’t fit in right!” Artie protested still fiddling with the cheap plastic. Finally he gave up and stepped into the throw. The clay pigeon flipped end over end into the bushes. Chet regarded Artie with a look of pure disgust.“Nice going. Those pigeons are fifty cents each.”The color drained out of Artie’s face. “I can run down and get it, maybe it didn’t break.”“No, don’t be stupid. You screwed up. There’s no fixing it.”The pulverized remains of the three other pigeons drifted through the air. I watched the bits reflect the light as they fell to the ground and recalled how this branch of my family lived in perpetual poverty. Fifty cents a pigeon. Thirty cents a shell.My cousins always lived in a white farmhouse on top of a hill. The one they lived in now was exactly the same as all the others. These were the type of houses you might see off in the distance and think, “I wonder what type of person lives there? Probably a serial killer. The basement is probably full of bodies.”Basements in old farm houses are made of ancient stone. Sometimes there’s even standing water.My cousins knew everything about houses like that, from the chipping paint to the sloping floors to how there was probably a bee’s nest in the walls. They knew to check for soft spots on the porch before chasing each other across the uneven boards. These derelict monuments felt like home to them.I always got the sense that my cousins knew a lot of things that would forever remain a mystery to me. It was as if we called out to each other from opposite sides of the street, but we never ventured to the other side.Well, at least I tried.It wasn’t until years later that I realized the reason that they never came to meet me.They were afraid.The white house stood on a hill that descended into brush and wetlands. You could see far into the distance. Other houses dotted the landscape. The people who lived there must have heard the gunshots.What did they think?As likely as not, they’d already learned not to complain. My cousins took care of things like that on the first day.I knew better than to ask if was dangers to shoot shotguns in the direction of their neighbors. They’d answer me in terms of muzzle velocities and estimated distances. Then they’d ridicule me for even suggesting a pellet could travel that far. They almost sounded like scientists.“Weren’t you supposed to be smart?”My grades were a constant target. My cousins knew better than to even try to do well at school. They insisted the teachers only taught lies anyhow.This wing of my family was known as a terror across three counties. Their father lived down in Kentucky, and they spent their summers there. When they came back, it was with stories of whiskey stills and fast cars. They laughed and claimed everyone in Wisconsin was “soft.”The whispers I heard in the halls of my school supported their claim. The football players talked about the deranged kids who lived out on Highway 8. Naturally, my cousins weren’t on the team. They just stuck around to pick fights after the game.I didn’t share their last name, so the kids at my school never suspected I might share the blame.My cousins drove their cars too fast, never quite losing control as they came around turns but sometimes they did. One of them had cut off part of his finger with a table saw. He posted a picture on social media before he went to the hospital.Today, these are the type of people I worry about.When my wife first came to the United States, I introduced her to them because I thought there might be value in having the support of ruffians. I felt confident that they’d fall in love with her just as I did.So, we went to visit them in their hunting lands in the dark and muddy woods. We stayed a night in a shack that even they could only take for a week at a time. As night fell I began to regret that I had come. In the last fifteen years, I’ve learned that my wife is much stronger than I am. She can handle complex situations with grace and dignity. The peculiarities of my cousins were new to her. They were all too familiar for me.The only thing that gave them any pleasure was inflicting death upon the innocent. All their extra money went to alcohol, bullets, and cigarettes.Theirs was a life spent spiraling around the drain. It was filled with constant struggle and pain.For them there was no escape, so I had to make a break.The years passed. The only time I heard from them was when one of them died in an accident. I also learned how they’d begun to repeat the violent hate rhetoric directed at immigrants.That scared me, because though they were uneducated, they are unquestionably dangerous. They’re armed, and well-practiced. I expect they’ve shot more rounds than many men who are highly decorated.They’ve spent their lives preparing for the end of civilization. But they substituted recklessness for responsibility and discipline. If they don’t crash and kill themselves on they way to a mission, there will be no shortage of destruction.Check the reels that are published in the pages of independent journalism. Check the raids that leave women and children handcuffed and beaten.It’s happening.My cousins are from the pool of men who would jump at the chance for a signing bonus and government benefits. The one part they always hated about the military was that they’d be held to a standard.The combination of chaos and violence appeals to them.I’ve thought often about what might happen if they came to my house in the same pickup trucks they always drove. But this time they’d be carrying a badge of dubious origin with their faces covered in masks.What if they come barging in and tell me that it’s time for my wife to go? What then? What if my family becomes the focal point of all their anger and resentment?They mocked me for my studies. They mocked me for my clothing. They mocked me for the glasses I needed for reading.“Those make you weak!”But I guess I got the last laugh. I have a family. My wife and kids are making a positive impact on humanity.My cousins spend their time working through their rage by standing on a hill to blow up pigeons made of clay. The vibration of violence runs through their bones. The noise goes on for hours and hours until the body aches and a bruise develops on the shoulder.This is the character profile of those that are the first to sign up for the promise of ill-gotten gains.Will they finally overcome their fear to cross the street and come to my home, only to wipe it from the Earth so that nothing remains? Or will their humanity prevail?I guess we’ll see.You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! 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