I am with Antifa. Haters rage at us. They’re going to kill mom and dad. Already dead for decades. The Feds stalk Antifa. Haters poison my pets. Publish maps to my house. They pinpoint my controversial sites including Facebook, and Twitter (thank you). They cannot spell. They burn my books, especially the gay ones, these merit a special fire, (and filmed it). Then, the film disappears because they are unorganized, hit-and-run guerrillas. Irony. They take photographs of black people on my porch (plotting the sin of voter registration). They follow me walking down the street. Most of this is nuts. The scariest thing is when they drive their pickup trucks, armed with Confederate flags, guns, no plates, screaming sexual silliness, the windows rolled down to the sound of pit bulls in the bed of the truck. The dogs whipped into a frenzy. Welcome to Appalachia. They put stuff up. Pull stuff down. I am Satan. Utterly impossible to locate them. They use burner phones and fake accounts. Masks are laughed at. Virility. It’s the War of the Crazies. They publish where my kids have gone to school. But it hardly matters. What school. I have vastly improved my aim with a shotgun. Please don’t tell me to call the authorities. Not a solution. Cops are worse. Corrupt. They do whatever they want. Antifa scares them. Their hair catches fire. The noise is produced by white men whose shoes shiver. Yet I will defend to the death their right to speech. It’s about tolerance. Practice what you preach.