The streets were quiet, like a ghost town. I knew vehicles must be moving along the highway overpasses and through the surrounding urban maze, but I didn’t even hear a horn honk.
I strode toward the park.
I turned a corner and the square came into view. I crossed a street and stopped at the curb. A dust devil swept into the park and seemed to hover there, flexing and swaying like a living entity. I stood transfixed for a moment, with the impression that it was watching me, or taunting me.
In a few moments it dissipated. A gust of cold wind blasted through the streets, pelting me with sand and grit. A piece of paper slapped into my chest. When the wind abated, I grabbed the paper, prepared to discard it...then was drawn to some of the big, bold font on one side.
“CONTACT YOUR REPRESENTATIVE IMMEDIATELY,” it read, “AND DEMAND LEGISLATION THAT ABOLISHES THE ELECTORAL COLLEGE!”
In smaller font, it had contact info for the Congress-commie in this district. I resumed walking, wadded the notice, and tossed it.
The cloud cover blocked out so much light, it seemed as if dusk had already fallen. I saw a group gathering in the park. By the time I reached the grassy area, two guys were testing the sound system.
“Testing one, two, three… Make America great again… Testing one, two, three...”
The boomer at the microphone was husky and bearded, wearing a black hat with gold letters spelling out “US Navy” and “Vietnam Veteran.” His partner was a younger, Hispanic dude with a red MAGA hat and a leather vest emblazoned with an image of the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima, with the arcing statement: “These colors never run!”
“Keep talking,” the marine said, pointing toward the other end of the park. “I’m gonna check the back.” He trotted toward one of the big, tripod-mounted speakers across the field.
“I got somethin’ better than talkin’,” the bearded guy said, turning to a stack of sound equipment near the “stage” area.
He pushed buttons, manipulated sliders, and some rough, gritty old music blared through the square.
Everywhere I hear the sound of marchin’ chargin’ feet, boy.
‘Cause summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy…
“What is that?” asked a stocky young Millennial with a cowboy hat, nose wrinkled in disdain.
“The Stones, man,” Bearded Guy replied, with a grunting laugh and raised fist. “’Street Fightin’ Man.’ Dig it!”
I tried to discern the lyrics as I strolled past the people gathered around, but was distracted by my surroundings. New people were arriving in the park from all different directions, most humping rucksacks or civilian backpacks.
We had a mole in the police department who tipped us off to the plan. When the city approved the permit for this protest against hate crime hoaxes, they specified that all attendees park at a specific garage downtown.
Police had that garage buttoned down, so they could disarm patriots. Meanwhile, in what they thought was a brilliant secret plan, they allowed the Blackshirts to muster at the riverfront, fully armed with an assortment of weapons.
I had taken to calling the guys in my network “the Enforcers,” inspired by the role I once played in ice hockey. I instructed the Enforcers to avoid the designated parking garage and infiltrate the area from all directions, so the cops couldn’t render us all defenseless. The word must have spread around to other networks, too. The countermeasure seemed to be working. Men arrived in the park by twos, threes, and dozens, from all directions. They dropped their packs, pulled out improvised armor, shields, helmets, and weapons.
The street fighting men geared up. Some were strictly practical: ballistic vests or plate carriers; surplus tanker or chopper helmets; gloves and pads for the knees and elbows. Others were rather flamboyant: capes; frog costumes; round shields painted to look like Captain America’s famous frisbee.
The sound system was ready. I checked the time. The event should be kicking off in minutes. I retrieved my stash, slipped into the park’s public restroom and waited for an open stall.
Once my turn came, I closed the door of the stall and opened my sack. I temporarily removed my urban camouflage ACU-style pants to pull hockey pads on my lower regions. I already had my athletic cup in place. I pulled my XXL Cold War surplus flak vest over my torso. I had invested in some football shoulder pads after seeing a cinder block thrown at a patriot in the last riot (it broke his scapula). Mine were now painted a dark urban camo pattern. I cinched those into place. I put shaded military surplus goggles on (having learned the hard way that my shooting glasses would deflect a direct spray of Mace, but some of it could splatter or mist around the edges and get into my eyes anyway). Goggles also made identifying my face more difficult. I strapped on my new helmet—a coverless K-pot with an urban camouflage pattern painted directly onto the Kevlar. Finally, I smeared black and gray warpaint over the exposed part of my face.
I emerged from the restroom and several people stared or took pictures, but nobody communicated directly with me. Once I retrieved my hockey stick, however, they began to realize who I was.
The Enforcers already on station found me—plus a whole company of men beyond the number I’d been coordinating with via encrypted messaging. I had them stack empty packs near the sound equipment, and assigned a detail of older, less mobile men to guard the area. Our volunteer medics set up a first aid station there, which included stacks of small milk cartons, to be used when patriots got Maced in the eyes. “Based” demonstrators who were not Enforcers took advantage of the secured supply dump by stacking their stuff there, too.
The music (a succession of rowdy classic rock from a time before most of us were born) faded down and a bald, muscular man with sad eyes stepped up to the microphone. He introduced himself, then with minimal preamble, shared the details of a years-long imprisonment due to a false rape allegation and an activist judge.
The event had officially started. If our intel was accurate, that meant the cops would now be releasing the army of Blackshirts massed by the river. Zero hour was minutes away. I passed down the order to deploy.
Having more fighters on hand than I had anticipated, I split the Enforcers into three platoons. I would remain with the contingent posted on the east edge of the park’s perimeter. Deputy Dawg and Idaho Joe took their respective forces across the street to wait on either flank of the suspected avenue of approach.
After relating his personal experiences, the first speaker went on to summarize the fortunes of his accuser and the others complicit in framing him for a crime that never happened. It left me wondering why we give tax revenue to our “justice” system when this perversion of justice is what we get in return.
My hearing wasn’t great, but I could tell some of my guys picked up a significant sound. In a minute, I heard it, too: chanting. And marching, charging feet.
