Let me be the first to say that I don’t scare easily. I’ve seen far too many movies like Goodfellas, Casino, and The Godfather to piss my pants over thinly veiled threats. The Sopranos taught me that you don’t panic over stupid shit.
But what happened yesterday has me on edge. My defenses are up. I’ve put my family into hiding. My little dog Mooch is here to listen for intruders. But let’s not bullshit ourselves: She’s doing it for the treats. She gets three instead of one. Hazard pay.
I received a threat at my home. No lie, I found something that has me more than a little bit concerned. I know that writers often are targets of threats. I don’t take that idea lightly. More to come about this threat later.
Salman Rushdie went into hiding for years over his controversial book, The Satanic Verses. People have been killed for publishing comic strips depicting the prophet Mohammad from the religion of Islam. The creators of South Park received similar threats for doing the same thing.
When you write controversial, sometimes angry articles, you’re bound to piss a few people off. My disdain for the MAGA community is obvious. Because I detest racism and bigotry, I feel the need to speak out against it. With a following of almost 75,000, I feel that my writing can effect change.
And bring out the psychos, evidently. Holy shit.
I was sent a message, and I cannot be convinced otherwise. I’m cautious by nature. I don’t tell people I meet every little detail about my life. But in my writing, that’s different. Now I’m going to have to rethink some of this.
The first step after discovering the threat I received was to arm myself. Fortunately, I live in a very conservative red state. It’s not difficult to run down to your local pawn shop and choose from an arsenal of weapons. I’m surprised they don’t issue them to schoolchildren after they graduate the 6th grade.
They even had body armor for Libby. Size XXL. Don’t tell her I said that. Mooch is sensitive about her weight.
With ourselves armed to the teeth, we headed back home. I decided to start cooking my homemade spaghetti and meatballs. I needed something to take the edge off of the situation. With my family in hiding, and Libby patrolling the grounds, it was all too quiet. I decided to quietly play some soft music. A little Sinatra would do nicely.
Mooch started neglecting her guard dog duties about the time the meatballs came out of the oven. This stressed me out, as she was late for a top-floor sweep of our home. I promised her a bite of meatball after she made sure no assassins were attempting to breach the second-floor windows.
Not like those lardasses could have made it up a ladder and fit through the window, anyway. The fitness levels of the Gravy Seals are even worse than mine.
Libby came bounding down the stairs and took a tumble toward the end. While the body armor throws off her coordination, at least it made for a safe landing. She skidded into the kitchen and looked up at me, as if to say, “Fuck, this is above my pay grade. Better make it a whole meatball.”
I obliged and she debriefed me about the situation up north. She confirmed that there was jack-shit going on upstairs. The only thing she found was a piece of bagel in The Boy’s room, which she promptly disposed of. I made a mental note to have a chit-chat with him if we somehow survived this death-threat situation.
I calmed myself with a liberal-sized glass of Cabernet and focused on the spaghetti dinner. I tried to figure out who could have delivered this threat to me. It had to be a Substack user. Someone who read my writing frequently and was triggered by the things I wrote. Poor little snowflake.
I started thinking that it may not just be a conservative, gun-humping ammophile who delivered this threat on our property. I stared at the item, trying to piece this together. The vino wasn’t exactly fostering critical thinking. Perhaps I wasn’t drinking enough of it. Time to kill the bottle.
It may have come from the religious right. I am quite critical of religious organizations and bible-thumpers who try to insert their religion into our laws and daily lives. However, this wouldn’t automatically disqualify a Trump worshipper from the equation. Most of them claim to be good Christian folks, which is laughable.
Though many attempt to elevate Traitor Trump’s racist and bigoted rhetoric above the teachings of Jesus. By misinterpreting and weaponizing the Bible, they target women, minorities, and LGBTQ citizens, trying to strip them of their rights. While wearing those tasteless, $400 high top, golden Aryan Jordans.
Gross. No class whatsoever. Just like their Mango Mussolini. Who the fuck has golden toilets in their home? Talk about clown shoes.
My cell phone ringing jolted me back to reality. I put down my wooden spoon and my AR-15 to take a call from my Bride. It would be good to hear her voice again. I’m sure she and the kids were terrified.
“Hey Lovie, what’s up? Are you guys hanging in there?” I asked.
I heard the kids screaming in the background and my mind instantly defaulted to the worst. They’ve been captured! They’re being tortured! Someone has their head in vice and their captors are calling me so I know about it. Those motherless fucks!
She answered back, “Hey, calm down! We’re just at the indoor pool in the hotel. The kids are having a blast. How about you tell me what’s this about? You shooed us out the door so quickly without explaining. What is all of this?”
I calmly explained about what I found outside, on the step of our back door patio leading to the deck. And the message that I took from it, as a mouthy, opinionated Substack writer. This is when she laughed her ass off at me.
Scroll down to see why:
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“Oh good Lord, Honey. I saw that up on our roof when I was outside with Libby. I used a rake to get it down. I left it there on the step and forgot about it,” she replied, still laughing.
What? Are you fucking kidding me? THIS is what I freaked out about? This is why we went down to the pawn shop and prepared for war? I told her that I thought someone was sending me a message about my writing. That they’d hunted me down and were telling me to prepare for the death.
I sensed her eye-roll over the phone. She answered, “Seriously Dear, how important do you think your writing ACTUALLY is?”
Well fuck. I guess not enough to go into thousands of dollars in gun-debt over. I started cracking up and told her to come home once the kids were done swimming. We’d have a spaghetti feast and laugh about all of this together. I got off the phone and relieved Mooch of her guard dog duties.
After all, we didn’t need spaghetti stains on her new doggie armor.
© 2024 Jason Provencio. All rights reserved.
Thanks for that one Paisan! I’m glad you and the Fam are safe and sound, just be in the watch out for the crazies… they’re in every corner of the gene pool these days.
But, I have to tell you that I needed that story to get me over all of this ridiculous nonsense we’ve all been having to read and see on the daily. It was a somewhat semi-tense novella that had a very happy ending. Meatball’s are always an apt reward for any experience like you and Mooch just went through. That and some good Vino!
Remember, Just Keep Typing… We’ve Got Your Back 🤜🏼🤛🏼
My god, Jason, first the divorce article and now this?? If anything bad ever does happen to you, I’m gonna think you’re just crying wolf! 😂😮💨