“My name is Mike Clemmons. Conway gave me permission to host his newsletter this month.
Word is that in August or September each year, Conway drafts up a tedious seasonal message about the end of summer and the winding down of camping season. Maybe a riveting blog about how him and his fantasy football bros are gonna buy their wives pumpkin spice lattes or whatever such nonsense white folks do in the fall.
I actually have something a little more interesting to talk about.
I’ve been camping in Sandusky for a few weeks now. I retired from the U.S. Army years ago and thought that traveling the country in an RV would be more compelling than building birdhouses or gardening in some geriatric condo development.
I am camping alone. Yeah, kinda creepy, but I don’t have a family. Well, I do, but haven’t seen them in years. I went through a…rough patch after I lost my daughter and never figured out a way to dig myself out of that pity rut.
So, I limped along during the last few years of my enlistment and quietly retired, barely preserving my pension. I was a rock star for most of my career, on track to be a sergeant major; a combat vet with all the right skills and training. But I let that slip away, trying to drown my misery with cheap booze.
Sorry, I’m rambling, you don’t need to know my whole life’s story.
Anyway, although I am a southern boy, raised in Smyrna, Georgia, I do enjoy camping in the Midwest during the summer. People just seem to appreciate summer more here, they don’t take the good weather for granted like most southerners do.
Sandusky sounded interesting, so I thought I would spend a few weeks camping on the lake and then bounce somewhere else. Maybe Michigan or even Canada.
I definitely didn’t come to Sandusky looking for trouble. I like to maintain a low profile, as much as a solo black man can at these campgrounds. I keep to myself, usually just building campfires and downing strong mixed drinks after dark until it’s time to hit the rack.
Camping is a pastime for white people, like scuba diving, ice hockey, and pumpkin spice-flavored bullshit. Some of the campground moms clutch their purses and pull their kids close when I pass by, but I just smile and nod at them. I have no interest in stealing your money or your babies, Karen, why don’t you wash down a Xanax with a big red Solo cup full of boxed wine and mind your own business?
Apologies, sometimes a bit of my drill sergeant bravado escapes.
Unfortunately, I stumbled onto a sticky situation here at the Sandusky Shores Campground. I found some discarded papers that showed a neighbor of mine was being surveilled, a guy named Brady Sullivan. Come to find out, there are some bad people operating at this campground. Criminals who engage in drug dealing, blackmail, prostitution, and whatever other shady shit that small-time criminals tend to do.
I told Sullivan what I knew over drinks beside a campfire. Even with that knowledge, he wasn’t sufficiently paranoid enough to avoid making some really bad decisions. To be fair, his head wasn’t exactly clear; he is a family man estranged from his wife and family, living at a shabby campground and drinking too much while he tries to get his shit together.
Unfortunately for Brady, shady people don’t give a rat’s about his personal struggles. The ringleader, Randy Gorey, set him up and blackmailed him.
If I was smart, I would pack up my Airstream and get out of Dodge pronto. I could drift to that next campground and drown my problems around a peaceful campfire, happily minding my own damn business.
But Sullivan is a veteran and a desperate man. While I don’t owe him anything, the “leave no soldier behind” hooah shit is on my mind.
For Sullivan to dig his way out of this, he needs to stop being reactive and go on offense. A counteroffensive. Stop thinking like a soft suburban dad and pivot to military strategizing.
I have some thoughts on how to turn the tables on these degenerates. If Brady goes along with my plan, together we will wreck Gorey and his crew. They won’t know what hit ‘em.
I’m willing to do most of the dirty work. I’ve done the dirty work before in uniform, as ordered by Uncle Sam. While I don’t revel in it, I do it really well when the mission calls for it.
So, congratulations, Sullivan, salvaging your broken life has become my new mission. If all goes well and we don’t end up dead or in jail, I will quickly haul ass to the next campground and get back to minding my own business…”
(Get to know Mike and other compelling Sandusky campers in Book 1 of the Sandusky Darkness series, Sandusky Burning!)