Twisted Metal and the Trailer Park Kings
Joshua James Jordan
My hotshot defense attorney said it would be dumb, he actually used the r-word, for me to take the stand, but I can’t just sit here while all these lies get told about me. Besides, just look at him. He looks like he just turned eighteen. That suit don’t even fit him right.
Let me get to the point:
I done it. But I ain’t guilty.
There’s history you’ve got to understand. The Shady Palms trailer park has a neighborhood council, and these folks have the power of royalty. They can pass any rule they want. Increase your fees, take away your dogs, or even enslave your kids.
And when the tornado came down, it was the thumb of God swiping across half of the neighborhood. I was home at the time, and when the sirens started wailing, I hopped into the bathroom. The toilet gurgled like a monster crawled up from underground. Then the roof ripped off and spun into the air like a kite lost at the beach. Clinging to the hot water heater, I watched my home crumple up and fly apart. Wood and metal piled on top of me. When the firefighters finally dragged me out, I saw what was left.
I tell ya, you’ve never known what rock bottom feels like until your home is a pile of twisted metal. Your whole life is spread out on the ground like a trash bag ripped open, its contents spilled everywhere.
A photograph of Mom before she was in the home, sopping wet and torn.
My urn of Peppers, the best dog you ever had, busted open, its ashes spread out to Lord knows where.
Now, the other half of the park was spared, completely untouched, except for the crappy palm trees. They were already leaning, and now they leaned the other way.
While all that’s going on, you got to know that our park royalty had been in talks with developers who wanted to build tall apartments. Months before, they made an offer to buy up our side of the park. It wasn’t enough money to get new places to live. We just would’ve been the richest folks at the homeless shelter. So most of us did what anybody would do. We voted down the sale.
After the ‘nado, the council held an emergency meeting, which made sense because we just had a disaster. I thought maybe they were trying to get us some funds to help us. So while we were still picking up the pieces of our lives, they got together at the local breakfast joint, stuffing their faces with bacon, dipping fluffy pancakes into strawberry syrups, and they voted in a new rule. We had to have our lots cleared and a new trailer on there or get a one-thousand-dollar fine. Every day.
Now, suppose I was rich. It would’ve taken weeks for me to pick out a trailer, get it shipped over, clear the lot, install the utilities, all that. But, I ain’t rich. I got to convince a bank that I’m a smart investment. Do I look like a smart investment to you? I ain’t Apple stock. I work construction.
The council knew that. They just wanted to force us to sell for pennies on the dollar.
Those kind of times call for heroes. Robin Hoods. Merry men living in the swamps and armed with heavy equipment instead of bows. I went to work the next day and borrowed the bulldozer and a megaphone. The supervisor asked me where I was headed, and I told him that I’d be right back.
I wouldn’t.
First stop was the neighborhood council chair’s place. I nudged the trailer with the dozer, moved it side to side by shoving it at the top.
“Come on out, Chairman,” I said into the megaphone.
He peeked his bald head out a window.
“What the hell?” he yelled.
“Come on out. Time to pay your fine,” I said back while pushing into his trailer again.
He burst out the door, revolver in hand. He took sight at me down the barrel.
“You psycho,” he screamed. “Don’t you dare.”
Now, I’m not afraid of anything. I nudged his house again with a little smirk.
Bang. He took his shot. Bullet bounced around the dozer, ping ping ping. Ricocheted off and nailed him in the shoulder. He cried like a baby, like he ain’t even been shot before, and lay on the ground.
I rolled over his trailer in the dozer. You’ve never heard a more satisfying set of crunches.
Then the police showed up, beat the piss out of me.
I wasn’t trying to hurt nobody, just take away their homes, same as they done to me. An eye for an eye! A trailer for a trailer! That’s the law of a universe when nobody is playing fair.
Hot damn! I’m still pretty bothered over this if you couldn’t tell.
The defense rests, your Honor.
Still pissed, but resting.
~ ~ ~
March 2026
Joshua James Jordan
My hotshot defense attorney said it would be dumb, he actually used the r-word, for me to take the stand, but I can’t just sit here while all these lies get told about me. Besides, just look at him. He looks like he just turned eighteen. That suit don’t even fit him right.
Let me get to the point:
I done it. But I ain’t guilty.
There’s history you’ve got to understand. The Shady Palms trailer park has a neighborhood council, and these folks have the power of royalty. They can pass any rule they want. Increase your fees, take away your dogs, or even enslave your kids.
And when the tornado came down, it was the thumb of God swiping across half of the neighborhood. I was home at the time, and when the sirens started wailing, I hopped into the bathroom. The toilet gurgled like a monster crawled up from underground. Then the roof ripped off and spun into the air like a kite lost at the beach. Clinging to the hot water heater, I watched my home crumple up and fly apart. Wood and metal piled on top of me. When the firefighters finally dragged me out, I saw what was left.
I tell ya, you’ve never known what rock bottom feels like until your home is a pile of twisted metal. Your whole life is spread out on the ground like a trash bag ripped open, its contents spilled everywhere.
A photograph of Mom before she was in the home, sopping wet and torn.
My urn of Peppers, the best dog you ever had, busted open, its ashes spread out to Lord knows where.
Now, the other half of the park was spared, completely untouched, except for the crappy palm trees. They were already leaning, and now they leaned the other way.
While all that’s going on, you got to know that our park royalty had been in talks with developers who wanted to build tall apartments. Months before, they made an offer to buy up our side of the park. It wasn’t enough money to get new places to live. We just would’ve been the richest folks at the homeless shelter. So most of us did what anybody would do. We voted down the sale.
After the ‘nado, the council held an emergency meeting, which made sense because we just had a disaster. I thought maybe they were trying to get us some funds to help us. So while we were still picking up the pieces of our lives, they got together at the local breakfast joint, stuffing their faces with bacon, dipping fluffy pancakes into strawberry syrups, and they voted in a new rule. We had to have our lots cleared and a new trailer on there or get a one-thousand-dollar fine. Every day.
Now, suppose I was rich. It would’ve taken weeks for me to pick out a trailer, get it shipped over, clear the lot, install the utilities, all that. But, I ain’t rich. I got to convince a bank that I’m a smart investment. Do I look like a smart investment to you? I ain’t Apple stock. I work construction.
The council knew that. They just wanted to force us to sell for pennies on the dollar.
Those kind of times call for heroes. Robin Hoods. Merry men living in the swamps and armed with heavy equipment instead of bows. I went to work the next day and borrowed the bulldozer and a megaphone. The supervisor asked me where I was headed, and I told him that I’d be right back.
I wouldn’t.
First stop was the neighborhood council chair’s place. I nudged the trailer with the dozer, moved it side to side by shoving it at the top.
“Come on out, Chairman,” I said into the megaphone.
He peeked his bald head out a window.
“What the hell?” he yelled.
“Come on out. Time to pay your fine,” I said back while pushing into his trailer again.
He burst out the door, revolver in hand. He took sight at me down the barrel.
“You psycho,” he screamed. “Don’t you dare.”
Now, I’m not afraid of anything. I nudged his house again with a little smirk.
Bang. He took his shot. Bullet bounced around the dozer, ping ping ping. Ricocheted off and nailed him in the shoulder. He cried like a baby, like he ain’t even been shot before, and lay on the ground.
I rolled over his trailer in the dozer. You’ve never heard a more satisfying set of crunches.
Then the police showed up, beat the piss out of me.
I wasn’t trying to hurt nobody, just take away their homes, same as they done to me. An eye for an eye! A trailer for a trailer! That’s the law of a universe when nobody is playing fair.
Hot damn! I’m still pretty bothered over this if you couldn’t tell.
The defense rests, your Honor.
Still pissed, but resting.
~ ~ ~
March 2026
