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The Beginning

The magistrates formed about a week after the phone calls began, about three weeks into the semester. 2:30 A.M. on Monday morning and the speakerphone conversation went something like this:

Hello?

What’s it feel like to live with a nigger?

What the fuck’dju say?

Click

I said, Did you hear what he said? Malcolm’s voice was muffled with his head under the pillow. Yeah, I heard that shit, man. Go back to bed. The words said, Forget about it but the tone said, This is nothing new; I expected it. I went back to bed and stared at the ceiling for about fifteen minutes. I wanted blood.

I began my search immediately the next day to find the motherfucker who called.  Mark and I scored that oscar of pot from a guy I knew in my old hometown, a douche I called a friend because he knocked ten bucks off the bag.  Mark and I needed only enough to fill our Dugouts, little wooden boxes with metal bats that would last us two weeks. When we rolled blunts, joints, packed bongs or whatever, it was always a communitive effort where everyone threw in a little, the pot crowd being the only truly successful socialistic society ever to make it work. After filling our dugs, we had about a half-ounce left to do whatever we wanted with and Mark suggested selling it. I told him we should hang onto it, making the argument that a college dorm is essentially a prison state with a longer leash and keys to the doors, that prisoners traded favors for cigarettes and other social amenities and pot was no different. Mark, seeing the logic and the opportunity, nodded and smiled. The Third Floor Magistrates were conceived in a blitzkrieg of dope smoke, a campaign of vengeance funded by cannabinoids.

The first fish’s name was Greg. I still don’t know anything more about Greg than his first name and that idiotic Cocks hat he always wore. Hey, do you guys have any weed I could buy? I looked at Mark and he looked back at me, we were high, sitting on the smoke bench outside, the night was still hot which meant early Fall. We took him upstairs for a private chat where we said, Greg, we’re not exactly in the business of selling anything, but we might be able to help you out.

Greg got two fat joints in exchange for the promise that when called upon he would perform a service for us, straight up Godfather shit. Greg, not realizing that one day he might be called upon to do something he didn’t want to, thought this was the greatest deal in the world.  After Greg left, Mark looked at me and said, So it begins. I nodded and said, Let’s go back outside man.

Greg was called upon the next day. I caught him in the hallway on the far end of the men’s side of Kohl Hall, the one where most of the lights were burnt out so we called it The Dark Side. I followed him into his room and told him we needed a favor, explaining about the phone call, and judging from his blushing and avoiding eye contact with me, he knew something about it. I told him to spill and he gave me a name, some jackass on the second floor. The guy’s nickname was Snowplow, some redneck fuck from a podunk southeast Ohio town. We watched for the guy over a couple of days and one night when we were sitting on the smoke bench, he came out headed for the convenience store located in the building behind our dorm.  Mark, no expression on his face, said, Let’s go. We went.

There was a small alley-like walkway next to the Commons dining hall. Mark and I waited until Snowplow came out with his plastic back of groceries and his gallon of milk. We hid behind bushes and waited for him to pass. When he did, Mark ran out of the bushes and jacked him with a lead pipe wrapped in ankle tape about a hundred times over. He went down like anyone fighting Tyson in the 80s. I was behind Mark and began kicking the fucker in the ribs, the legs, and arms, stomping his balls, punching his face, and smashing his groceries on the sidewalk. Mark pulled his Ace of Spades throwing knife out of his boot, cut open the gallon of milk, poured it all over the worthless fucker, then spit on him. I followed suit with my own hocker. Snowplow’s keys had fallen from his hand when he went down. Mark grabbed them and broke off the fob that said Jensen’s Plow Company Logan, Ohio. We bolted away from the scene and all was well. The guy never saw us coming and Mark threw the lead pipe in the ten-foot pond at the other end of campus. Vengeance was served for the moment.

The Payback

Snowplow approached us a couple days after we beat the shit out of him. We were sitting on the smoke bench and he stumbled up, eyes still black, scratches from the concrete on his right forearm. He was wearing a Dixieland Drivers Do It Right t-shirt. He sat down next to Mark, sighed and said, I heard you guys have a way of finding people.

Mark said, Yeah, and who told you that?

I thought for sure we were about to scrap again but I stayed playing my hand.

Snowplow said, One of my buddies told me that you two were the ones to talk to about getting some revenge on the fuckers that did this to me. He touched his face when he said this, absently. He didn’t know. My God, he really didn’t know it was us. I spoke up before Mark could laugh in his face. I said, Yeah, we can probably help you, man. We hear things you know?

He said, I can give you guys forty bucks. That’s all my mom gave me for this month.

I said, It won’t cost you anything, as far as money goes; but someday we might call on you to perform us a little service.

He said, Whatever but I want proof that you got the fuckers.

I said, Okay, well we gotta go.

Mark and I got up and walked, reaching for our dugouts after we passed the campus police station and were well out of range of any innocent passersby. He said, Jesus man, what’re we gonna do? I told him I thought I might have a plan.  After we had talked it out, my egg of an idea became a panzer tank after Mark’s diabolical suggestions. The plan was hatched and I guess this was the first time I got a glimpse of what this thing would become.

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