Story code: ST-001062
Part 2: Direct Action
Julian stepped back so fast his shoulder slammed into the searing hot door of the G-Wagon. His breath hitched in his throat, a sudden spike of primal panic overriding his irritation. In the city, a hand reaching into a jacket meant only one thing. He threw his arms up, the hundred-dollar bill fluttering to the asphalt, and braced for the deafening crack of a gunshot. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, the eucalyptus-scented safety of his SUV suddenly feeling miles away.
No gunshot came.
Instead, the man withdrew a thick, rubber-encased smartphone. The screen was heavily spider-webbed with cracks, but the display was bright enough for Julian to recognize the interface of a popular social media app. The man’s thick, calloused thumb tapped the glass.
A second later, Julian heard his own voice, compressed and tinny, echoing from the phone’s speakers.
*”…true equity means abandoning the concept of gated sanctuaries. We cannot preach community while hiding behind wrought iron. The streets, the spaces, the wealth-they belong to the collective.”*
It was the exact sign-off Julian had recorded less than ten minutes ago.
Julian lowered his arms, the flush of fear instantly replaced by a burning, suffocating humiliation. He stared at the man on the ground, who was now holding the phone up, angling the screen so Julian could see his own heavily filtered face preaching to the camera.
“Turn that off,” Julian hissed, his voice trembling with a toxic mixture of adrenaline and rage. He glanced nervously at the line of cars idling behind his SUV. A few drivers had rolled their windows down, straining to see what was causing the holdup. The canyon acted like an acoustic funnel; voices carried.
The man did not turn it off. He let the clip loop. *”We cannot preach community while hiding behind wrought iron.”*
“I said, turn it off!” Julian lunged forward, grabbing for the device.
The man didn’t flinch. He simply shifted his wrist a fraction of an inch, letting Julian’s manicured fingers grasp nothing but hot, smoggy air. With a slow, deliberate motion, the man slid the phone back into his jacket. When he finally spoke, his voice was like grinding stones-dry, calm, and utterly devoid of intimidation.
“I’m just taking you at your word,” the man said. He patted the asphalt beneath him, right over the electronic gate sensor. “This is your sanctuary. I’m joining the collective.”
Sweat dripped into Julian’s eyes, stinging them. The oppressive heat of the afternoon sun was baking him inside his designer polo, the dark fabric absorbing the canyon’s rising temperature. A sharp, blaring horn from a delivery truck five cars back shattered the tense standoff. The chorus of traffic returned, louder and more agitated.
Julian pulled out his own phone. It was vibrating frantically. The crypto-staking firm. He was three minutes late to the consultation. Millions of dollars in management fees depended on this video call, which required his secure desktop setup inside the house.
“Look,” Julian said, dropping his voice to a desperate, breathless whisper. He bent down to pick up the dropped hundred-dollar bill, smoothing it against his thigh before pulling another four bills from his steel money clip. Five hundred dollars. He shoved the wad of cash toward the man’s chest. “Take the five hundred. Get a hotel. Get a steak. Just move your body off the sensor. Right now.”
The man looked at the cash, then back up at Julian. “Your video said charity is a toxic byproduct of capitalism. You said direct action is the only cure.” The man leaned back slightly, resting his weight more firmly against the metal tracks of the gate. “I need some direct action. I need to rest right here.”
“You’re trespassing,” Julian snapped, the last thread of his performative empathy snapping. The camera was off; the audience was gone. Only the inconvenience remained. “I will call the police, and they will drag you off this hill, and I will press charges.”
“Call them,” the man said simply. He closed his eyes, tilting his weathered face up toward the sun. “Tell them a man is sitting on the street outside your gate. I’m sure they’ll prioritize it.”
Julian’s thumb hovered over his phone’s dial pad, but he froze. If he called the police, it would take them at least forty minutes to navigate the canyon traffic. Worse, a police cruiser arriving with flashing lights would draw every neighbor’s attention. The optics of Julian-the internet’s loudest advocate for the unhoused-having LAPD physically drag a dust-covered veteran from his luxury driveway would be a catastrophic PR nightmare. It would be filmed. It would trend.
And someone was already filming.
Julian caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision. The driver of the Tesla directly behind his G-Wagon had stepped out of her car. She was a woman in her late twenties, wearing oversized sunglasses, holding a phone horizontally, the dual lenses pointed squarely at Julian and the man on the ground.
Panic, colder and sharper than before, seized Julian’s chest.
He couldn’t use the police. He couldn’t use money. And he couldn’t stand in the heat a second longer without losing his mind. The crypto firm called again, the phone vibrating violently in his palm. The noise of the canyon was deafening. The exhaust fumes were making him nauseous.
He had to move the man himself. Before the woman with the camera got any closer. Before his career evaporated in a viral clip.
Julian shoved his phone into his pocket, clenched his jaw, and stepped over the man’s heavy boots. “I’m warning you,” Julian whispered, projecting a tight, fake smile for the benefit of the approaching camera, even as his eyes burned with pure malice. “Get up.”
When the man didn’t move, Julian bent down, digging his hands into the thick canvas of the man’s jacket, gripping the shoulders with all his manicured strength to heave the intruder off the sensor pad.
In a blur of motion too fast for Julian to process, the man’s hands shot up.
Julian didn’t even see how it happened. He only felt the sudden, agonizing torque on his right wrist, followed by a sharp kick to the back of his knee. The breath left Julian’s lungs in a violent rush as his legs buckled. He slammed down onto the searing asphalt, his knees scraping raw against the pavement.
He was on his knees, effectively bowing in front of the seated man, his right arm locked in a joint manipulation that sent blinding white flares of pain shooting up to his shoulder.
The woman with the camera gasped, stepping closer. The man leaned in, twisting Julian’s wrist just a fraction of an inch more, keeping Julian pinned to the burning ground.
“You said the streets belong to the people, Julian,” the man whispered, his breath smelling faintly of stale coffee and road dust. “So, let’s wait for the people.”