When Wolves Circle Their Prey

The bourbon Miguel slides across scarred wood catches light like amber archaeology—liquid history aging fifteen years in charred oak barrels somewhere Kentucky-side before landing in this basement sanctuary where time moves differently. Knob Creek Single Barrel, he says without me asking, barrel proof heat that'll burn clean going down, Mom. You're gonna need the fire tonight.

I don't ask what he means. Miguel reads atmospheric pressure like meteorologists track hurricanes, knows when storms approach before clouds gather. The drink smells like caramel smoke and vanilla heat, tastes like controlled violence when it hits my tongue—120 proof evangelism converting water into weaponized warmth spreading through chest cavity like I'm combusting from inside out.

"The Clash" hammers through newly repaired speakers—"London Calling"—Thames flooding while we're drowning in different waters, ice age arriving while we're fighting different extinctions. Ezra sprawls across their beanbag throne, blue hair electric against sunset crimson walls, nose still healing crooked from John's fist three months past. Phoenix and River occupy corner booth tangled together like vines refusing separation, ruby ring catching light every time Phoenix gestures. Renee dominates pool table, muscles coiled beneath tank top, chalk dust ghosting knuckles while Bubba watches from window seat with Georgia-granite solidity.

Remy's cigarette dangles unlit—new city ordinance bullshit—but it doesn't matter because the promise lives in how it rests between lips, potential fire waiting for outdoor permission. Miranda sits beside Keira reading Adrienne Rich, occasionally sharing quotes neither explains because understanding exists beyond words. Della emerges from kitchen carrying quesadillas radiating cilantro-lime fury, cheese stretching between triangles like bridge cables refusing collapse.

Tuesday night, eleven-thirty, everyone settling into that beautiful exhaustion where armor comes off piece by piece until we're just humans surviving together. That's when basement door crashes open with violence suggesting battering ram more than knob-turning, and Victoria spills down stairs trailed by seven others dressed like TERF missionaries fucked Margaret Atwood nightmares into existence.

Everyone stop where you are, Victoria announces like she's got authority beyond her own delusional conviction, blonde hair styled into weaponized suburban perfection, yoga pants and North Face jacket screaming "I'd like to speak to your manager" energy. We're here to protect women and children from predatory males invading female spaces.

The silence that follows could cut fucking diamonds. Even Pink Floyd fades between tracks—"Wish You Were Here" dying into static pregnant with potential violence.

Bitch, Renee says, setting pool cue down with deliberate care, biceps flexing beneath ink decorating muscled canvas, you got three seconds to turn your transphobic ass around before I forget I'm trying to be better person.

See? Victoria gestures toward Renee like she's prosecuting attorney presenting evidence. Violent aggression. This is exactly what we're talking about—threatening women for stating biological reality.

Keira's hand finds my wrist beneath table where no one sees, pressure communicating whole paragraph: Don't engage. Let them show who they are. We document, we don't perform.

But my blood's already singing that particular frequency that happens when someone threatens chosen family, when eliminationist rhetoric wraps itself in victimhood performance, when fascism wears yoga pants and claims feminism while erasing women like me from existence.

You need to leave, Miguel says, voice carrying bartender authority—twenty years practice cutting through drunk belligerence, but this isn't drunk belligerence, this is sober certainty that we're abominations requiring elimination. This is a safe space. You're not welcome here.

Safe space where you groom children? Woman beside Victoria pulls phone out like she's filming documentary exposing conspiracy, camera sweeping across room catching Phoenix's face before River physically blocks lens with body. Where you recruit vulnerable people into transgender cult? We have every right to document what's happening in public accommodation.

Not public accommodation, you absolute fuck muppet, Della emerges from kitchen still holding spatula like weapon, fury radiating off her in waves that make air shimmer. SAFE SPACE. Read the goddamn sign.

Safe Space excluding women, another TERF chimes in, clipboard clutched like religious text. Operating illegal discrimination against biological females seeking safe space from male violence.

The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucking dangerous—women claiming victimhood while bringing actual violence into space specifically created because outside world treats us like target practice.

Mom, Phoenix's voice cracks with accumulated damage from parents who kicked them out, from alleyway beating three months back, from Victoria's previous visit threatening them specifically. Mom, I'm scared.

That does it. That breaks something fundamental in my chest that's been holding together through sheer force of will and chosen family glue. I stand, which in 5 inch heels means I stand like a giant, feeling titanium plates shift in shattered leg, sciatic nerve firing electric warnings up spine.

You want to talk about protecting people? Words come out quieter than intended, carrying weight silence sometimes holds better than volume. You come into a safe space—the only fucking place some of these kids feel safe—and terrorize them with your eliminationist bullshit dressed up as feminism? You weaponize victimhood while actual victims sit right here terrified you'll hurt them?

Victoria crosses space between us faster than expected, hand connecting with my face in slap that snaps my head sideways, copper-penny taste flooding mouth where teeth cut inner cheek. The room explodes into motion—Renee moving forward breaking her pool cue in half, Bubba rising like tectonic event, Remy's hand already reaching for pool cue—but I raise palm stopping everyone mid-movement.

No, I say through blood pooling on tongue. Let her play victim.

You see? Victoria addresses her followers like she's prophesying truth, spinning narrative real-time. They're so well-trained, so indoctrinated into this cult. He won't even defend himself because he knows our cameras will expose him.

She hits me again, harder, palm striking already-swelling cheekbone with wet meat sound that makes Ezra whimper from their beanbag throne. Blood runs from nose—not broken, I know that particular sensation intimately from K1 fighting days—but freely flowing, dripping onto flannel shirt while I stand there taking it because what the fuck else can I do? Fight back and prove their narrative? Retreat and abandon sanctuary to their invasion?

Wendy. Keira's voice cuts through chaos like surgical steel. you don't have to do this.

Yeah I do, I say, meeting Victoria's eyes while mine water from impact, while face throbs with gathering storm of bruising. Because the second I fight back, we become what they say we are.

Queen's "Somebody to Love" starts playing—Freddie Mercury's voice soaring through basement like prayer from beyond grave—and I remember Gizmo at six years old belting this in car seat, face scrunched with concentration hitting impossible notes. I tear trails my left eye, not because I’m in pain, but rather because of the memory. I have felt much more pain than this.

You're crying, Victoria sneers, winding up for another hit. Typical male manipulation. Crying to make women feel sorry for you while you invade our spaces, steal our identities, mock our oppression—

Third slap splits lip completely, blood sheeting down chin mixing with snot and tears I can't control because pain has specific way of breaking through whatever facade you're maintaining. My hands stay at sides, fists clenched so hard nails dig crescents into palms, but I don't raise them.

This is what bravery looks like, Miranda says, voice carrying that particular poetry making philosophy visceral.

Shut your fucking mouth Groomer, TERF with clipboard lunges toward Miranda but Bubba moves between them with grace suggesting violence barely contained, mountain of muscle and memory making it clear that restraint has limits even if we haven't reached them yet.

Woman filming shifts angle trying to capture whatever narrative supports their predetermined conclusion—that we're predators, groomers, threats requiring elimination. Her camera catches Renee's clenched fists, Phoenix crying in River's arms, my bleeding face, Miguel's hand beneath bar where pepper spray lives for emergencies we hoped would never fucking arrive.

You see the violence they want to commit? Victoria addresses camera like she's martyr bearing witness, completely ignoring fact that only violence happening is hers against me. The male rage barely contained? This is why women need spaces without them, why we must protect our daughters from this ideology infecting our communities.

Ideology, I spit blood onto floor, watching it splatter across concrete. Existing is ideology now?

She hits me again, this time closed fist catching orbital bone with crunch suggesting microfracture, vision exploding into stars and darkness. I stumble backward into bar, Miguel's hands steadying me while Della screams profanity-poetry that would make sailors blush.

Call the fucking cops! Ezra shouts, phone already out, but I shake head even as world tilts sideways, even as blood and snot and tears make breathing difficult.

Already did, blue-hair, Miguel says quietly. Second they came down those stairs. Erik's three minutes out.

Two minutes fifty seconds feels like geological epochs passing when you're bleeding and terrified and trying not to fight back against people who came here specifically to provoke violence they can document. Heart hammers against ribs like it's trying to escape chest cavity, sciatic nerve firing artillery up spine, face swelling into mask of pain I'll wear for weeks.

You're all witnesses, Victoria announces to her followers, pivoting like she's political candidate addressing constituency. You're seeing what happens when women dare speak truth about male violence. When we refuse to participate in delusion—

That's when TERF with messenger bag pulls out Louisville Slugger like she's baseball player approaching home plate, like property destruction was planned all along, like breaking things proves their point better than words. She winds up, aluminum bat catching light, and swings directly into the Jukebox.

Glass and chrome explode across floor, circuits sparking and dying, speakers cutting mid-verse—"Barracuda" by Heart dying with shriek suggesting murdered machinery—silence slamming down like coffin lid. Forty years of music history shatters into fragments, soundtrack of sanctuary reduced to technological carnage scattered across concrete.

WHAT THE FUCK! Della screams, spatula still in hand like she's about to beat someone to death with kitchen implement, Miguel physically restraining her because now? Now we're all on edge of breaking, of saying fuck restraint and fuck documentation and fuck high road, let's just remove these fascist motherfuckers from our sanctuary by whatever means necessary.

But basement door opens again and Officer Erik Washington fills doorframe—six-foot-three of Gay Black man in uniform carrying authority that comes from badge and also from understanding exactly what happens in underground sanctuaries. His eyes track scene with professional assessment: me bleeding against bar, Victoria and her followers clustered like they're victims under siege, shattered jukebox sparking its death rattle, chosen family frozen in tableau of barely restrained fury.

Someone want to explain what the fuck is happening here? His voice carries weight suggesting he already knows, already understands, already decided whose side he's on before arriving.

Officer, thank god! Victoria pivots immediately, tears materializing like she's method actor hitting mark. This man— gesturing toward me like I'm exhibit A in prosecution case, —this man sexually assaulted me. He put his hands on me inappropriately, and when I defended myself, his cult members threatened violence. We came here trying to protect women and children from predatory behavior, and we were attacked—

Be quiet. Erik's words land like physical blows. Ma'am, you need to stop talking immediately.

But I'm the victim here! Victoria's performance reaches crescendo, voice pitching higher with each word. He assaulted me! These men threatened us! We have evidence, we have testimony—

Miguel. Erik addresses bartender like they're old friends, which maybe they are, maybe every sanctuary needs officer who understands. You still got those security cameras up?

Every angle, Erik. Miguel nods toward corners where cameras blink red eyes recording everything, documenting truth when truth feels impossible to prove. Installed them after last incident. Every second since they walked through that door.

Watching Victoria's face realize she's been caught is almost worth the swelling orbital bone, almost worth blood still dripping from split lip. Color drains from cheeks like someone pulled plug on her conviction, eyes darting toward cameras she never noticed because people performing victimhood rarely think about documentation working against them.

Those…Those…Those…videos are doctored, she says immediately, pivoting from tears to aggression without missing beat. They've been manipulated. You can't trust anything from these people—they're liars, groomers, predators—

In real time? Remy laughs, cigarette bobbing unlit between lips while his Cajun accent thickens with disbelief. While you were standing here beating Mom to a fucking pulp, chère? You think Miguel's got magic video editing software working in real-goddamn-time, you absolute dumbass?

Everyone laughs—even Erik cracks smile that transforms official authority into something warmer—because the absurdity breaks through horror, because sometimes you laugh or you scream and laughing feels like claiming power back from people who came here to take everything.

Ma’am, Erik addresses Victoria with professional courtesy barely masking contempt, one hand already moving to handcuffs on duty belt with practiced efficiency suggesting he's done this dance ten thousand times. Victoria Brennan, you're under arrest for trespassing, assault and battery, and— looking toward TERF still holding bat like she forgot it's evidence, like aluminum weapon became extension of her arm she can't release, —destruction of private property.

Don't you fucking touch me, Negro! Victoria jerks backward, stumbling over her own feet, North Face jacket bunching as she tries creating distance between herself and consequence materializing in uniform. I'm the victim here! He assaulted me! You can't arrest someone for defending themselves—

Turn around, Erik says, voice dropping into that particular register cops use when patience exhausts itself, when professional courtesy meets its limits. Hands behind your back. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.

I will NOT— Victoria's voice pitches into shriek territory, hands coming up defensively like she's prepared to fight officer of the law rather than accept arrest. This is discrimination! You're arresting a woman for protecting other women from male predators! I have rights! I have—

You have the right to remain silent, Erik interrupts, moving with surprising speed for man his size, getting behind her while she's still mid-protest, one hand securing her left wrist while she tries twisting away. His voice carries that rehearsed cadence of Miranda warning recited so many times it becomes liturgy: Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME! Victoria thrashes, yoga pants and privilege unable to prevent metal cuffs clicking around left wrist, that distinctive ratcheting sound suggesting finality she can't spin into victimhood narrative. This is assault! Police brutality! I'm being arrested for being a woman who dares speak truth—

You have the right to an attorney, Erik continues like she's not screaming, professional detachment maintaining itself through her resistance, his larger frame blocking her attempts at escape while securing right wrist, bringing both arms behind back with controlled force that's firm without being excessive. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.

The second cuff clicks home—that metal-on-metal sound of freedom evaporating into state custody—and Victoria's resistance amplifies into full-body struggle, twisting, bucking, trying to drop her weight like dead-weight arrest resistance training taught her somewhere between yoga classes and TERF organizing meetings.

I'M NOT RESISTING! she screams while actively resisting, while Erik maintains grip on cuffs keeping her upright, keeping her controlled, keeping her from hurting herself or him or anyone else in basement bearing witness to consequence arriving right on schedule. You're all seeing this! Police violence against women! State-sanctioned attack on female safety—

Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? Erik's voice never wavers, never rises, never gives her ammunition for later claims of abuse or excessive force. With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?

Fuck you! Victoria spits, literally—saliva arcing through air toward Erik who dodges with practiced ease, probably not his first arrest involving projectile bodily fluids. Fuck all of you! You're protecting pedophiles! Groomers! Men who prey on children and vulnerable women—

I'll take that as you understanding your rights, Erik says dryly, maintaining professional courtesy despite her performance, despite her flailing, despite her followers filming everything trying to capture police brutality narrative where none exists. Ma'am, you need to stop struggling. You're only making this worse for yourself.

But Victoria's beyond reason, beyond strategy, beyond anything except raw panic of someone whose victimhood performance just collided with actual consequence. She tries dropping her weight again—full dead-weight arrest resistance—forcing Erik to adjust grip, to support her while she makes herself liability, makes herself difficult, makes herself martyr in her own mind.

You're hurting me! she wails, though Erik's hands haven't tightened, haven't done anything except maintain control while she manufactures injury through her own resistance. My wrists! You're cutting off circulation! This is torture!

The cuffs are regulation tightness, ma'am, Erik responds with weary patience suggesting he's heard this particular song before, knows all the verses, isn't impressed by performance. You need to calm down before you hurt yourself.

Her followers surge forward—clipboard TERF and camera-woman and three others whose names we never learned—like they're preparing to interfere with arrest, like mob justice might save their leader from accountability.

Stay back, Erik commands without looking at them, voice carrying authority that freezes them mid-surge. Anyone who interferes with this arrest will be arrested themselves. I suggest you all step outside and wait for backup to arrive to take your statements.

You can't silence us! Camera-woman shouts, phone still recording everything, still trying to capture narrative where they're victims instead of aggressors. We have First Amendment rights! Freedom of speech! Freedom of assembly!

You have right to remain outside this private establishment, Erik says, finally losing veneer of courtesy because patience has limits even for saints. This is not public accommodation. You're trespassing. You assaulted someone. You destroyed property. First Amendment doesn't protect any of that, and if you don't leave immediately, you'll be joining your friend in custody.

Victoria tries one more full-body twist—serpentine resistance move designed to break holds—but Erik's got thirty pounds and six inches on her, plus training, plus experience, plus absolute lack of interest in her performance art. He maintains grip, walks her toward stairs with controlled force, her feet barely touching ground when she tries going limp again.

This is kidnapping! she screams as he guides her up stairs, her voice echoing through basement like wounded animal, like martyr ascending to crucifixion she volunteered for. False arrest! Constitutional violation! You're all complicit in erasing women—

Ma'am, Erik says one final time before they disappear through doorway, I really do suggest you exercise that right to remain silent. Everything you're saying is being recorded and will absolutely be used against you in court.

The door closes behind them, muffling her continued protests into background noise that fades as Erik presumably loads her into cruiser waiting in alley. Her followers scatter like roaches when lights flip on—clipboard drops, camera stops recording, messenger bag with bat still inside becomes evidence someone tries hiding behind dumpster before remembering they're already on video, already caught, already complicit in violence they came here to commit.

When they're finally gone—Victoria screaming threats about lawsuits and media exposure and truth prevailing, her followers filming their own arrests like it's martyrdom rather than consequence—silence settles heavy as snowfall on sanctuary. Blood still drips from my face, the Jukebox sparks final death-throe, Queen's ghost voice echoes in memory: Can anybody find me somebody to love?

Mom. Phoenix approaches carefully like I'm wounded animal might bolt. Mom, are you okay?

No, I say honestly, because what the fuck else is there? No, I'm not okay. But I'm still here. We're still here.

Miguel pours another Knob Creek—doesn't ask, doesn't charge, just slides it across bar while Della brings ice wrapped in bar towel pressing against orbital bone that's already swelling shut. Keira's hand finds my wrist again, pressure communicating everything words can't: I'm here. You're safe. We survived this too.

That took serious fucking strength, Renee says, voice carrying particular weight of someone who knows violence intimately, who understands how hard it is not to fight back when every instinct screams for retribution. Standing there taking that shit without breaking. That's not weakness, Mom. That's warrior-level restraint.

Warrior-level stupidity, I mutter through swelling lip, bourbon burning where flesh split but warmth spreading through chest anyway because they're right—restraint costs more than violence sometimes, proving your humanity to people who deny it requires strength most people never need accessing.

Ezra emerges from beanbag throne, approaches cautiously, blue hair electric against crimson walls that witnessed everything, that held sanctuary space even while violence tried breaching it.

You looked like holy person, they say quietly, piercings catching light like prayer beads. Like those Buddhist monks getting beaten by police but never fighting back. Like you were teaching us something about how to survive without becoming what they say we are.

I don't feel holy, I say, pain throbbing through face in waves. I feel furious and scared and so fucking tired of people wanting us dead just for existing.

That's what makes the restraint holy, Miranda says, poetry in her voice that makes philosophy visceral. You're angry enough to fight back, scared enough to run, tired enough to quit—but you stood there anyway. You showed them and us what resistance looks like when violence is easy answer but wrong one.

Bubba rises from window seat, Georgia-mountain moving with deliberate grace, stands beside me without speaking because sometimes presence communicates more than words. Remy joins him, cigarette still unlit, both of them flanking me like chosen family does when one of their own bleeds.

We need to talk about security I guess, Miguel says, professional mask sliding into place because someone has to think practically when emotions run hot. More cameras, better locks, maybe metal detector at door. Victoria came prepared for violence—next time they might bring more than baseball bat.

Next time, I repeat, tasting blood and bourbon mixed together like communion wine. There's always next time. They don't stop coming until we stop existing.

"Wish You Were Here" starts playing from someone's phone—Pink Floyd filling silence where the Jukebox used to reign—and Gizmo's ghost sits beside me singing harmony she learned at six years old, before world got complicated, before my truth became her trauma. I close eyes listening to Gilmour's guitar weeping through speakers, remembering Saturday morning grocery runs when love felt simple, when sanctuary meant car seat and harmonized lyrics and believing we'd always have each other.

You did good, Keira says quietly, hand squeezing wrist where pulse hammers against skin. You showed everyone—them, us, yourself—what it means to not become what they fear. What it means to claim humanity they try denying without proving their narrative.

Then why do I feel like Hammered Shit, I question.

Outside, sirens fade into distance carrying Victoria and her eliminationist rhetoric toward consequences. Inside, chosen family gathers closer around me—not touching much because that's not how we work, but present anyway, surrounding me with solidarity that doesn't require physical contact to communicate: We see you. We've got you. We'll keep standing with you even when standing costs everything.

Miguel refills bourbon without asking—Knob Creek barrel proof burning clean, converting pain into something almost manageable. Blood dries on flannel, face swells into mask I'll wear for weeks, sciatic nerve fires artillery up spine, but I'm still here. Still breathing. Still refusing to become monster they insist I am.

So, Della announces, emerging from kitchen carrying quesadillas like nothing catastrophic just happened because sometimes maintaining normalcy is resistance too. Who's hungry? Because I don't know about you fuckers, but I always eat better after watching fascist assholes get arrested.

Laughter erupts—genuine, relieved, slightly hysterical—because she's right, because eating together is ceremony claiming space back from violence, because continuing to exist, to nourish ourselves, to gather in sanctuary despite threats is victory they can't take away.

The night settles around us like weighted blanket, exhaustion mixing with adrenaline crash, everyone processing what just happened, what could have happened, what we prevented by refusing to give them violence they came hunting for. Tomorrow I'll deal with swollen face, with court proceedings, with media coverage painting me as either victim or predator depending on who's telling story. Tomorrow Erik's camera footage will circulate, Victoria's assault documented in high-definition reality she can't spin into victimhood narrative.

But tonight? Tonight we survived. Tonight chosen family gathered around me while I bled proving our humanity doesn't require their approval, our existence doesn't depend on their acceptance, our sanctuary holds strong even when wolves circle because we built it together with love and defiance and absolute refusal to be erased.

Audre Lorde wrote about survival as continuous choice, about resistance requiring daily recommitment to existing authentically despite systems designed to eliminate you. Tonight we chose existence over erasure, documentation over violence, restraint over retribution. We chose to be sanctuary even when sanctuary meant standing there bleeding while hate tried beating us into fighting back. We chose each other over easy vengeance, chose community over individual fury, chose future over present pain. That's not weakness—that's revolutionary love practiced under fire, that's resistance to eliminationist rhetoric proving itself through refusal to confirm their fears. Tomorrow they'll say we're groomers, predators, threats requiring elimination. Tomorrow we'll wake up and choose existence anyway, choose each other anyway, choose sanctuary anyway. Because that's what you do when you're queer family in world that wants you dead: you show up bleeding and defiant and absolutely refusing to stop claiming space, claiming each other, claiming humanity they keep trying to deny. You stand there taking hits without fighting back not because you're weak, but because you understand that sometimes the strongest resistance looks like refusing to become the violence they accuse you of embodying. You bleed and you laugh and you eat quesadillas and you keep existing, keep loving, keep building sanctuary one night at a time despite wolves circling and world burning and hate trying to beat you into submission. You survive together because survival alone is impossible, because chosen family means showing up for each other even when—especially when—showing up costs everything. That's sanctuary. That's resistance. That's love practiced as revolutionary act in basement bar where plastic cups hold sacred meaning and blood dries into testimony and chosen family gathers around one of their own proving we were here, we existed, we mattered even when world insisted otherwise.