Middletown, Connecticut, is not a place I would have picked as the home of a revolutionary group. Though, in all honesty, perhaps it wasn’t home so much as a waystation.
I found the Raiders, as they called themselves, on a large farm on the western border of the city. When I came upon them, I discovered the group kitted out in Army gear and going through maneuvers and tactics. The group was impressive for a collection of idiots who had never served a day in their lives, or who had ever been fired upon in anger.
I changed that for them.
As one of their number set a smoke-pot alight, I killed the man, loaded live ammunition into a Lewis machine gun they had somehow acquired, and I began to murder them.
And murder is exactly what it was.
There was nowhere for them to hide. No trenches dug. No embankments to get behind. Nothing. Not a single, solitary place for them to seek refuge.
I used all the ammunition I could find, and when I had expended it all, I destroyed the Lewis gun with several well-placed shots from my Colts.
Then, I strolled out onto their ‘field of honor’ and looked for any survivors. I found five of them among a group of twenty. I killed two of the survivors immediately, to let the other three know I wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense. The next two believed they were brave.
I taught them how wrong they were. It’s amazing how high a man can scream when you’re pushing a knife into an open wound.
When I moved on to the last survivor, he told me what I wanted to know. I killed him quickly.
The other two, I dragged to a log, wired them to it, and then set them on fire.
I had worked entirely too much for a single name and place.
Claire Genest in Hudson, New Hampshire.
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