Well, it took awhile, but they finally caught up with me right here in the heartland. I thought that I had covered my trail pretty well. I watched over my shoulder every mile thinking I had indeed escaped California with little notice by "them."
After a year here, I thought I saw "them" once in awhile, but figured it was just my imagination.
But when this year rolled around, I knew for sure it was "them" again. My first clue was little items in the police blotter. Then a symbol on the wall now and then. Automobiles with certain license plate colors. Certain strange bits and colors of clothing. Hand and finger signals, along with a language not fitting any high culture. Not Spanish, Not English. Some say its guttural sound called Spanglish.
Now as spring approaches, I know for sure who "they" are. The same "gangs" I was sure I gave the slip leaving Southern California in the middle of the night two years ago.
The Times-Union now is full of stories of hold ups, burglaries, and hit and run, plus lots of drugs.
"They" even struck on my street last week at the upscale end of the road. However, they didn't hit me or my close neighbors who are in range of my block video surveillance. Maybe they remember me from Southern California. I never called the sherriff out there. I just took care of it.
