The squatters occupying the precinct are lead by Hattie Rockworth, a thirty-two-year-old woman from Palm Beach, Florida, and a family of real estate money. Lots of money. Money that makes other money stop and stare.
Hattie’s the heir to the Rockworth Real Estate Corporation, which owns sixteen percent of Montana, a chunk of Florida, over fifty buildings in Manhattan, and a small city in Luxembourg.
Her solid upbringing is exhibited by her fantastic teeth and her habit of speaking in compete, clear sentences. But she professes to have turned her back on all that, abandoned her family and its money right after her year traveling abroad. She’s no longer Hattie Rockworth; now she’s Hattie Skunk. Her fellow squatters—The Skunks—are her family now.
Hattie came up with the Skunk surname not in reference to the way they smelled—which they do—but as a shout of protest, a salvo at the City, a cannon blast at New York. The City and its policies stink. Hattie hates the City, hates everything it stands for. She hates the people that live here, the people that run-line to the hype, every drone in a suit or khakis or black turtleneck with a Jack Spade bag. She hates the people who wait in line for brunch to gladly pay twelve dollars for two eggs and toast. She hates people who think rebellion is getting drunk and dancing on a table, or having sex with their roommate’s boyfriend, or sneaking into a second movie without paying. She hates the awful new buildings, the crumbling old ones, hates every inch of the poured concrete, tar, and rebar that hold the island together.
She wouldn’t live anywhere else.
She refuses to leave. Hate is her and the Skunks’ purpose, their calling. Without it, the Skunks’ manifesto is void. In a city that stinks, the manifesto calls for the Skunks to stink right back, stink twice as much.
After this morning’s battle, Hattie expected the riot police, the National Guard, and tear gas to come tearing through the front door. She expected flashing lights, sirens, and media coverage. Fox News, the New York Times, NPR. At least someone from the Village Voice. She was ready for the precinct to be stormed, the front door broken down. It was going to be a fight. The Skunks would make a stand, make a name for themselves.
But nothing happened.
All day, she and her Skunk crew stood guard, waiting for the imminent. The barricade was rebuilt, booby traps set. They stood on high alert. Now, at eleven p.m., their vigilance is wearing thin.
“This is bullshit,” a Skunk named Torc tells Hattie. He’s agitated, spoiling for action. They wait in the dark, on the top floor, watching out the windows. The street’s busy though nothing’s happening. No police, no media, no National Guard.
“They’re not coming back.”
“They’re coming,” Hattie says, inspecting the street. Maybe they’d send snipers, she thinks, then dismisses the idea.
“They’re not coming,” Torc says. “They pussed out and—”
A soul-shaking screech roils through the building. Torc blanches, the noise so inhuman. “What the fuck was that?”
A spike of fear taps Hattie’s spine. “It’s them,” she says, steeling herself. It was starting differently than Hattie had envisioned. The police were to cordon off the block, use bullhorns and floodlights.
The noise rips through the precinct again, causing both Torc and Hattie to jump. “No cop sounds like that,” Torc says. “It sounds like—”
“Revenge,” one of the two black-clad men yells, bounding down the metal staircase from the roof. He shrieks again as he lets loose a barrage of paintballs. Blues and yellows and reds explode across Torc and Hattie’s their torsos and legs.
The second attacker, his laser pointer dancing a red dot on the ceiling and walls, doesn’t fire. All he does is repeatedly sneeze.
For Hattie, all courage collapses. Fear takes over and she leads the rush to retreat, calling for the other Skunks to follow suit.
She and Torc stumble down the staircase, seeking exit as the sting of paintballs strikes their backs. In her haste, Hattie accidentally triggers one of the booby traps, spilling a box of glass and splintered boards on Torc’s head. A bay of pain echoes through the building.
The other Skunks join them. “What’s going on?” one asks. They all want orders, directives.
“Remember the Alamo, assholes,” the attacker shouts, coming up behind the group. He executes a dive and roll before tapping a Skunk with three paintball rounds, two yellow and a blue. Spinning, he hits another Skunk in the back of the head with a red paintball. The Skunk snaps forward, looking like his brains have exploded. He squeals like a squeezed cat as he hobbles down the stairs.
“Abandon the squat,” Hattie orders, her eyes tearing. The Skunks pile out the way they originally entered, via a second floor window and down the fire escape.
Chapter 17
The Trouble with Bliss Page 17