SEATTLE HAS A STRANGE way of connecting you to drama through the people you least suspect. You turn around and there it is, drama just waiting for you around every corner. The day after the gunfight is when I get the lowdown on what the fuck actually happened. It comes from the last person I'd expect, as per usual. I know a guy who goes by “Jack” online. He's a hardcore Antifa, anarchist, activist type. Another Seattle wash up with no future, who vents his shit on the internet. That's most of us these days. He sends me a message asking if I'm alright. I know for a fact that he ain't a witch and wouldn't know that I was mixed up in this shit.

“Why do you ask?” I prod.

“The whole community blew up last night. I'm shocked you didn't hear. The Grand Punk Palace tried to convince people to kill you. Legit. Like, that Elliot dude lost his shit and went on and on about how you were an abuser, a racist, a TERF, and everything. And of course the usuals are like 'Oh, we hate Claudia too.' They tried to get a black bloc mob together. It was pandemonium. But they said they were gonna fuck you up last night.” Jack info dumps on me.

“Really, on social media? Just ask people to kill me on social media?” This whole thing seems fake.

“No, this was all happening in a Signal group for black bloc antifa dudes. They were asking me if we could organize to do it ASAP. I told him to fuck off and screenshot'ed the whole thing.”

“How did they plan on doing that once you told him off?” I ask.

I want to know how they hired the hitmen. There are way too many details missing from this. It seems too incredulous to believe. When shit gets this wild, you know it must be true. Life is stranger than fiction.

“I don't know. I imagine they got another black bloc cell or something together. There's a lot of angry queers who will hunt each other for sport here.” Jack replies.

“Keep me in the loop if you hear anything else.” I tell him.

Just because I have an encrypted messaging app doesn't mean it amounts to shit. The pigs can hold you indefinitely if you refuse to decrypt something in court.

On one hand it doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened. Elliot got enraged at his ass kicking and went on a tantrum to slander me. He begged Brian to flip the bill for a hit squad once everyone else turned him down. Brain is pissed that one of his dealer connections is dead and the messenger boy got his ass kicked. Ist es obvious?

On the other hand this all happened too fast. It's no coincidence that the same guys I sold the guns to were the ones who tried to off me. Maybe they thought it'd be an easy way to get their money back. Maybe there's a connection between them and Andrew I didn't know about. There is a lot going on that I'm not privy to. Either way I don't care what The Family thinks or what the hell is going on anymore. To quote the the philosopher Dr. Dre “You fucked with me, now it's a must that I fuck with you.”

It's time to take action. I'm not going to sit on my ass and wait for more shit to come my way. I'm not going to let myself be the victim here. I leave a note for Jer-Bear and Gregory.

“hey guys, going out to get payback. bbl (if I don't die).”

And of course as I'm about to leave, Jer-Bear walks in.

“Where you going?” he's annoyed as shit that his house gremlin isn't sweeping and cleaning dishes.

“I found out who put the hit on me and I'm gonna kill his ass.” I say matter of fact.

He makes a face and throws up his hands in a dramatic gesture.

“You're not off cleaning duty once they're dead, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

As I'm leaving, I text Astrid and ask if she wants to help me 'move a rug to a friend in Tacoma.' This is our new secret signal for “help me dump the bodies.”

Chapter 12

I KNOW WHERE ELLIOT LIVES. The Grand Punk Palace. Haven to spoiled rich kids playing poverty tourism. I know this because I lived with them for a few months. This was years ago, practically another lifetime. I know every bastard that lives there. Their miserable faces are etched into my memory. There was Emma, who owns the “anarchist” bookstore Left Bank Books. She ran it as her own private, for-profit business so she wouldn't have to work a real job. Then there was Nolan, the depressive stoner who tried to get his dog high on the reg. They were both pretty racist in the flesh.

One time they were interviewing a potential black roommate. She written the house in an email that she “won't tolerate any anti-blackness” in her new space. Pretty simple request. How do you fuck that up? Lemme tell ya. She comes in to meet the roommates and they say, I kid you not, “we don't know what 'anti-blackness' is. So if we do or say something racist, you have to tell us.” It gets worse. Then there was the fact they chose Maple Leaf to live in because they “wanted to live in a white neighborhood... ya know, to not contribute to gentrification.”

Then there was Zeppy, the serial abuser who everyone in the queer community warned people not to date. A fucking bitch on wheels. She pretended that was a poor outcast. One day her rich aunt, who had dyed blue hair, visits her. Auntie dearest bought her brand new docs, easily 200 bucks. Zeppy did an exaggerated act about how grateful she was. Pretending not to be a spoiled little shit. Another fun story was when she got a write up at work that she left on the kitchen table. The call center she worked at had a lot of choice words to say cus she forgot she hadn't put a customer on hold when she shit talked him. They weren't happy that she yelled at people who weren't vegan when they ordered a pizza. But enough about them.

My plan is simple, allegedly, at least by my standards. Figure out schedules, find out whose room is whose, and plant the poison I have left. First I checkout Elliot's social media crap to figure out what room he's in. Then, when he's out, I break into their place and sprinkle it with the poison powder. Lastly I let the fucker rot. But also I have a backup plan in case shit goes sideways. Again. I tell Astrid to steal a Blue Lives Matter flag from her neighbor and bring it with her. Just incase there's a shoot out and I need people to frame. Two birds, one stone.

First step complete, cus looking up social media is something you can do while sleeping. A quick look reveals Elliot is staying in the basement room. This makes life a lot easier. That basement is near the backdoor. Those jackasses call it the “door vortex.” A cluster fuck of doors near the back entrance. The first door to your right leads to the basement. The first one to your left leads to the kitchen. From there, the next door to your right goes to the upstairs, and the other bedrooms... yeah, it's a cluster fuck. But the most important thing is that their house has a back alley. One that's pitch black when the sun goes down.

I try to figure out who the other roommates might be and what their schedules are. I see a few faces on their posts from months ago. People who might be their roommates. They have like 3 other U-Dub kids, who are probably going to rarely be home. I don't give a shit, as they'll be hiding in their rooms or in the living room getting high. I ain't worried about them spotting me. Nolan works construction, gets home at 3, and passes out. So he's out of the equation. Zeppy works till 9pm. Elliot's a barista who occasionally cleans bathrooms for rich people. I figure 5pm is perfect to break in. Nobody will be home. Poison the fucker's room and bounce. Easy peasy. Plus the basement doubles as a band rehearsal space, so a strange punk coming and going won't raise any suspicion. It's also soundproofed, so if a fight goes down no one will hear it.