I used to joke that we live in a DMZ (de-militarized zone, a place the police won't even brave to travel because of the social and personal hazards) akin to those in Vietnam in the 1970s, but today it feels more accurate than ever. Every clown in a 20-block radius has gotten their hands on fireworks and other low-grade explosives and is blowing them up all over the place. They're going off around our dwelling with the regularity of exchanging gunfire in the steamy southeast Asian jungles 30-some years ago. I expect any minute for Charlie to come crawling out of a tree and into my third-floor window and run me through with his bayonet.
I fear a bit for my safety, because:
A) I've seen the kind of people who live around here, and let's just say they don't strike me as that BRIGHT,
B) there's a greatly increased threat of flaming debris shooting in through my window or landing on my car, and
C) the fact that some of these nearby sonic pops and cracks could actually BE gunfire. Brooklyn was never this scary, folks. Worcester is eventually going to collapse under the weight of its own crapulence.
I'm gonna keep my head low, pop a marker flare, and radio for an evac. With any luck, the chopper will be here soon and I'll make it thru the weekend earning nary a Purple Heart.