It was a hazy day here in Charleston, a week after the election.
I was on my way to pick my wife up on lower King Street. Even here, in this blissfully gentrified section of downtown, thugs run amok.
I parked my Honda Fit, (I’m a cultured man, I don’t mind driving a sensible, foreign vehicle,) and I began the short walk to the boutique where I was too meet my wife.
I wasn’t allowed to exit my vehicle.
Two young black men blocked me in, requisite black lives matter signs in hand. I shouldn’t have had a Trump bumper sticker in this part of town, I suppose.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I was told. This was news to me. “You voted Trump. We’ll follow you wherever you go,” the larger one bleated. “Don’t expect this car to be here when you get back!” the other screeched.
I’ve lived in Charleston my whole life.
I’ve never been intimidated like this. I made it to my wife without incident, I took the high road, but the thugs are out looking for its now.
We have to fight back.
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