Death Wish 3 (Seven Things I Love About….)

7. Swiffer This, Motherfucker

Any fool can strap a firearm to his hip, just as any nimrod can hide a switchblade in his sock. And any rotten sumbitch having just served 3-5 for aggravated assault can grab a Louisville Slugger and hit the bricks. But it takes true ingenuity – mad genius, if we’re being frank – to rifle through the god-awful mess of a hall closet, or take a quick peek at whatever happens to be resting comfortably next to the shitter and say to themselves, “Now, I am ready.” When the battle cry fills the air, or the blood lust of a generation comes to call, it is better to have by your side that which doubles as a housekeeper’s best friend.

Yessir, a rumble is best served by a broom. Or a plunger. All that’s missing is a mop. But when the neighborhood is set aflame and that morning’s mess is swept into the bin, hit the streets with whatever you can. Bullets might ensure lethality, but when you’ve got a man on his back, dizzy and begging for air, the same device that relieved your aching pipes of an unholy clog can, in a pinch, send a man to Jesus. And when someone dares climb a nearby tree to take a crack at an upstairs window, you’ll know what to do. Just let ‘em hear your war cry.

6. An Honest Fascism

When it comes to 80’s Action, nothing grates quite like a neutered police force. You know the type: cowardly, effete, more beta cuck than alpha warrior. The kind who minds the p’s and q’s of legal precedent, ensuring only the iron rule of the criminal class. Judges who surrender to emotion, wag a finger, and let the creeps run wild while parking tickets get nice and enforced. The NYC of Death Wish 3 is just such a place; more Keystone Kop than the blunt force of Pinkerton, hopelessly harried with shoulders permanently locked in a shrug. That is, until Shriker. Richard Shriker, for those who love the taste and feel of a boot on the neck.

Given the job only after a dozen sackless men turned tail, Shriker is a new breed. A better breed. A breed that sees slabs and wants bodies atop their spit-shined surfaces. How they get there is beside the point. Constitutional rights are for pussies. Communities who seek to be conquered. Shriker, however, sees a new way. A partnership. A straight shot from chaos to order. Yessir, a wink and a nod at the vigilante. Get him on the payroll, no questions asked. Just give me a head’s up. Let me have a headline or two. But keep the corpses coming. And no, I won’t ask if you’ve whispered Miranda as they lay dying. Just between us, like the old days.

5. Kumbaya Criminality

MLK had a dream. A nice dream, a fine dream, but always, a dream deferred. Men together at the table of brotherhood, sharing a drink from the cup of justice. Put into the ether in 1963 yet unrealized until 1985. At last, men and women – all colors of the rainbow – working side by side for a common cause. Sure, the cause was wanton murder, but King never really set the terms. Because even he, I believe, would be gratified by what came to pass. A city, several square miles, united under one whip. Teamwork at last. A pecking order, sure, but we turn away no one.

Black, white, Hispanic, Native American, even an Asian for kicks. The ultimate gang. Crime does indeed pay, and it’s never been more integrated. The huggable side of DEI, manifesting at last in a war zone. The leader, of course, is Fraker, and while his is a heavy hand, his team is plucked straight from the heart of Jesse Jackson. Tall, short, fat and thin, with a few bruised chicks along for the ride. Everyone plays a part, so long as they pay tribute. And that they do. Robbing for drug money, sure, that’s par for the course. But these folks have fun. Cruelty for sport. The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards sadism. 

4. A Dirty, Poorly-Lighted Place

Say what you will, but when I go shopping at 10pm in a part of town approximating Beirut the night before the Marine barracks bombing, I want an element of risk. Let’s start with the parking lot. If there are lights – an “if” I’d put somewhere between “unlikely” and “get fucked” – most are broken, with the rest having not been serviced since LaGuardia left town. So, it’s dark. Uncertain. Ideal for being victimized. Once inside, a mess. Chips in the meat aisle, soda next to the tampons, that “we just fired our last stocker” kind of vibe. And yes, you will be bagging your own shit.

And bring cash, because the panhandlers and muggers need to eat, too. And while there aren’t laws on the books saying so, it’s encouraged – if you’re pretty and female, that is – that you shop solo. And for chrissakes, wear something provocative. Don’t be afraid of cleavage. And please shower first, as you’ll be forced onto a dirty mattress later. Just what we have to endure to get that evening’s dinner. The cherry on top, of course, is the security guard on duty. Or not on duty. Because “smoke break” is his default position. He clocks in, checks out, and returns only at shift’s end. But actually scanning the scene for trouble? Above my pay grade, kind sir.

3. In Case of Fire, Do Take the Stairs

Death Wish 3 finally put pen to paper for what had always been an absurd hypothetical. Taking the stairs – inside, but especially the fire escape variety – is lethality defined. As that foot hits that first step, the die is cast. Your fate is sealed. Taking a chance with the frequently serviced elevator as flames licked at your hindquarters? Seemed the greater of two evils at the time, but in hindsight, the only way to stay alive. Because if you want to get in your steps, you’re going to die. Usually by gunfire. Because you’re naked and alone on that rickety contraption, and you have nowhere to hide. And once the shot is fired, you have two options: face down and stone dead, or flying back like you’d scored a jetpack.

And please, for all of us, let out a womanish yelp to let us know you’re in a wonderful state of shock. Disbelief that you’d meet your maker as you huffed and puffed for a safer venue. Even our good buddy Hermosa (Alex Winter), usually so wise, so nimble, and always the survivor, slipped up one time too many and got a swan dive to oblivion for his trouble. He deserved better, but you’ve got to take notice of your surroundings. With bodies flying about like a housing complex had decided all at once to be shot out of a cannon, you’d think you’d lay low until the smoke cleared. No sir. Let flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

2. Cruel and Unusual Punishment

Ever since that pesky Eight Amendment somehow slipped into the final draft of the Constitution, courts and cops alike have been careful not to take the sadism too far. A beating, yes, or solitary in a pinch, but for god’s sake, keep them alive. Or at least alive enough for a machine to take over. And after an arrest – well before we’ve actually determined that you’re guilty (which you are) – the spotlight is even greater. Yes, you have rights, but in the world of Paul Kersey, they’re more the spirit of the law than the actual letter. Let’s just say the rules are flexible. So, as we put you in a holding cell awaiting a chat with the chief – packed like sardines, but who’s counting – you will not be able to go to the bathroom.

It’s rarely a good idea to have your dick in your hands with murderers and rapists about anyway, but even taking a shit – normally a time to relax and catch up on the day’s news – becomes a time fraught with peril. Still, for both options, you need a toilet. Preferably one hooked up to plumbing. Because the shits of a dozen, accumulated over a long morning, tend to stink up a joint. And then the natives get restless. And batons meeting skulls become the only real method of control. So, when some loveable lug tears out the only receptacle for release, you’re not about to allow the floor to become a sewer. So men hold it in. For hours and days, if need be. Deal with it, son, I didn’t make you rob that liquor store. 

1. The Foulest of All Crimes

In 2022, I had my car stolen. Right there out in the open, under a sunlit sky, before many a door, window, and well-trafficked stairwell. Never thought it was possible until I ambled down to the parking lot to grab a bite to eat and saw that my vehicle – two payments from being paid off, mind you – was gone. Now I’ll be frank: the process, involving calling the police, the insurance company, and oodles of paperwork, wasn’t as bad as I expected (and I had a generous check in hand within 30 days), but it still acted as a turning point. From that day, there was a before, and once victimized, an after. A more cynical, less empathetic after. I had flirted with Nixonian Law & Order as a youth, but here was my true trial by fire. Here I was, quite literally willing to put a match to the Bill of Rights in order to punish. Justice? An antiquated notion, best served to little old ladies and deluded liberals. I wanted revenge. Cold, sweet, and meted out with maximum pain. Turns out my car was taken by a gaggle of drug addicts, so it’s fairly likely that they died soon after (or, at the very least, are dead and buried right this minute).

But at this stage, since they rarely do a goddamn thing about auto theft, my fantasies were all I had left. And boy were they bloody. I won’t lie, I sneaked in an erection or two as my imagination had the perpetrators locked in a windowless room, tied down and helpless, with available pliers, a hammer, and all the accoutrements for a fun-filled waterboarding. I say all that to say all this: Kersey got there first. “It’s my car!” coursed through my veins as the mantra it needed to be. You, the criminals; me, the long arm of retribution. Shot in the heart for making off with an automobile? You betcha. Now, more than ever. I watch the very scene ten times a week just to keep me from swinging towards Low T. Better than any pill on the market. Forever and always the man I longed to be. If only I’d been given the chance. Caught the bastards in mid-steal, backs turned. With my own Wildey, bustling with those sweet African game cartridges, ready to set the earth back on its axis once again.