Everybody on our block agreed that the people living next door to me were a threat to the neighborhood. It was common knowledge that Mr. X was a tyrant in his own house; consequently, his two teenaged boys were menaces. They sped recklessly around our streets in their EuroRacers, blasting loud music from their boomboxes at all hours. When they were younger I once saw one of them carrying a switchblade, and a few years ago they shot a hole in my mailbox with a pellet gun. I called the cops on them for that, but the cops did nothing.

Strange cars pulled in and out of their driveway in the middle of the night, and the homeowner on the other side told the neighborhood association that Mr. X was dealing drugs. Furthermore, that neighbor's uncle, Sam, claimed to have direct knowledge of a cache of weapons that Mr. X and his family owned. The authorities had been notified, and the rumor was that inspectors had infiltrated the residence in various guises--a cable TV guy, a septic tank truck driver, a telephone repair woman--but no weapons were ever found. We knew they had them, though, just because of the type of people they were.

Something had to be done. Actually, I'd been thinking about it for a few years before I brought it up at the neighborhood meeting. Not surprisingly, most of the neighbors were against the plan, wanting the authorities to deal with the problem. A few of the neighbors were very vocal in their opposition--the snooty Mr. French and the rigid Herman Aleman--but we were able to get a small coalition willing to go along.

The X family never knew what hit them. We tossed concussion grenades into their front yard, and while they were all looking out there, we stormed through the back door with guns blazing. It really shocked and awed them. Unfortunately, an infant girl and an elderly woman (Grandmother X?) were killed instantly, but that's the kind of thing that happens when you're liberating people. We didn't realize how large the family was, but we had enough plastic wrist ties to cuff them all. Mr. X, who was particularly belligerent, had to be chained in the basement. After we had the house secured we looked everywhere for drugs and weapons, but all we found was a small bag of marijuana in the younger boy's dresser drawer.

Although we found no weapons after digging up the entire backyard, we still felt pretty certain they were on the property. So we asked Mr. X to tell us where. He was uncooperative. We needed information. We used some interrogation techniques we had heard about--nothing rising above the level of fraternity hazing--to get answers. We stuck a lighted cigarette in his ear, pulled out a couple of his fingernails with needle-nosed pliers, sodomized him with an old metal flashlight we found on a shelf. The guy was stubborn, though, and he passed out after defecating on himself. We made one of the boys clean up after him, and we got the family to clean the whole house, too, which had been a pigsty. Then we tried to instill some semblance of social order. One of the neighbors, a guy who'd lost his wife and kids in a divorce, took a fancy to Mrs. X, so we made him the new father of the family. The family didn't like it, but it was for the best.

Shortly after we'd gotten things organized, the drive-by shootings began. At first they were sporadic, and we figured disgruntled drug buyers were behind it. Soon, the numbers increased: two, five, ten every night. One of the teenage boys said the shooters were family members. We telephoned some of the neighbors who were not part of the coalition--asking that they try to get license plate numbers to report to the police--but they didn't want to get involved. The police were no better. We called them several times, and each time they said they'd check out our claims; but they never did.

One night a bullet came straight through a window and killed Mr. Roma, one of the good neighbors. Afterwards, some of the members of the coalition wanted to pull out. I tried talking to them. "Did you think it was going to be easy?" I said. "Anything worth doing is hard work." But a few left anyway.

Because the utility bills had gone unpaid, services to the house were cut off. The Good Neighbors were able take turns going to their own houses for food and water, and to take care of personal needs, but the X family had to make do with whatever provisions we could supply. We did the best we could, but sometimes the family had to do without. Because the toilets were unflushable, family members had to take turns relieving themselves in the basement. It wasn't the best of situations, but at least they had a place to go.

We're kind of stuck here now, and nobody wants to help. That's a shame, too, because we've done a lot of good. Try telling that to the elite liberal media, though. Yes, word got out about how we've been handling the situation, and TV and newspaper reporters showed up for interviews. But all of their reports simply focus on the negatives, never pointing out all the positive things we've done. After all, we did this for the X family, to give them the freedom they've always wanted. And we got rid of a brutal tyrant.

Speaking of tyrants, some funny things are going on at Mr. Y's house now. We haven't pinned anything down yet, but it's just a matter of time. Soon, we may have to show the Y family what shock and awe is all about.

Robert Rowley is a freelance writer living in Las Cruces, New Mexico. His work has appeared in The American Scholar, High Country News, New Mexico Magazine, and Texas Parks & Wildlife.