A different voice boomed over the sound system, urging applause for the first speaker’s brief testimony. Hundreds behind me clapped and cheered. I didn’t feel much like applauding—the guy’s experience pissed me the hell off.
“That’s just one case in what’s become an epidemic of hate hoaxes across our country!” the event organizer said. “You’ll only hear about them here, though, because the partisan press and the communist social media overlords have completely suppressed any real news. Nothing that casts doubt on their Narrative is allowed to be heard."
“As our speakers tonight share their stories,” the host continued, “I want you to remember this question: Whose interests are being looked out for? Who are ‘our representatives’ really representing? Whether it’s foreign policy, or immigration, or voting, or privacy, or free speech, other First Amendment issues...or hate crime hoaxes: who benefits from what’s happening? Who benefits? Is it normal, hard-working, law-abiding Americans like us?”
A thunderous “NO!” sounded across the park.
One of the Enforcers down the line stretched out his arm, pointing with index finger, hand turned at the wrist so that his thumb extended down. This was a fairly common hand-arm signal among marines and infantry for “enemy sighted.”
I left my post and found a better position where I could observe down the street extending east from the park.
Here they come. They advanced along the route our informant warned us they would.
At first all I could see were picket signs bobbing rhythmically in the distance. But in time, the black-clad bodies carrying the signs appeared beyond the crest of the hill up the street.
I pulled the cheap radio out of a pocket in my flak vest, and thumbed the push-to-talk button. “Idaho Joe and Deputy Dawg: this is Hockey Man. All Enforcers listening: this is Hockey Man. Over.”
They acknowledged my transmission. I told them to put eyes on the adjacent streets, just in case somebody had deviated from the plan.
My lieutenants dispatched small recon parties to the parallel streets north and south of the one I was observing. Reports came back within minutes that only a few stragglers were off the designated avenue of approach.
The cops had cordoned off the side streets, assuming they would trap us between themselves and the Blackshirts. But we had no intention of escaping, and so far as I saw it, they were helping us by funneling the enemy right into my center, where my forces were concentrated advantageously.
Depending on when and how the contact initiated, we had compensation for their numerical advantage over us.
About a third of the Blackshirts carried signs. The rest bore weapons. As the malignant black mass drew closer, it surprised me how deep and thick their massed column was.
“Bruh,” an Enforcer off to my right said, evidently also surprised. “How many of them are there?”
“Thousands, easy,” somebody replied.
“Keep in mind,” advised an Enforcer somewhere behind me, “these are keyboard commandos with nothing better to do than play video games in Mama’s basement on most days. They’re getting bused in from everywhere for this thing. You know: totally spontaneous grass roots opposition to our hate.”
Some of us chuckled at the snark. But the closer the Blackshirts got, and the more of them I saw, the humor in the situation dwindled.
“Flash mob,” somebody said.
“Jeez—they stretch out past 14th Street,” said a guy holding binoculars to his eyes, “and I still don’t see the end of them.”
“They just keep coming!”
“Never seen a flash mob this huge—even in a movie.”
“There’s not this many woketards in the whole city!”
“I told you: they bus them in from all over.”
“George Soros really pulled out the stops this time.”
One young Enforcer decked out in paintball gear, probably still a teenager, swallowing hard as he stared at the approaching mass, quipped, “So many NPCs. Where will we bury them all?”
The tension was temporarily broken as we laughed and back-slapped the kid.
The event organizer continued orating behind us—possibly oblivious to the angry hordes marching his way.
“...But we’ve still got a lot to be thankful for. We’re fortunate to have been born and raised in the America that existed before all this. And the fact that we’re here today, and not hiding somewhere, afraid of losing our jobs or being doxxed and arrested, means that there’s still a sliver of hope for our country. America can be great again! Where we go one...”
“WE GO ALL!!” the crowd in the park roared. Their raucous cheering took a minute to subside.
“Those of you not already standing,” the organizer said, “please stand for our National Anthem if you are physically capable.”
The Enforcers were already standing, of course. We didn’t need to turn around to face the pole behind us, either, because hundreds of patriots had brought their own flags—now flapping in the cold breeze all around us.
“The Star-Spangled Banner” echoed through the square. Veterans all over the park slammed their heels together, assuming the position of attention and saluting Old Glory...or, rather, the republic for which it stood.
As the lead ranks of Blackshirts crossed the last street between themselves and the park, it became impossible to ignore their chanting.
“Fascists, Nazis, full of hate
America was never great!”
It was infuriating that they would interrupt our National Anthem this way, but symbolically, it told us everything we needed to know about those people and what this struggle is about.
They closed the distance. Some continued chanting while others screamed solo, and others mocked us, our flag, and the Anthem. They began slinging rocks, bricks and other objects.
I heard projectiles whacking the shields of Enforcers along the line. I tilted my head down so that a block of wood with a protruding nail bounced of my helmet. Many of the veterans just couldn’t bring themselves to break discipline while the Anthem was still playing, and remained at attention, stone-still. While the last strains of the music echoed off the buildings around us (“...over the land of the free, and the home of the brave”) a couple masked Blackshirts jumped an old boomercon down the line on my left, and stole his flag.
The music ended.
The victim, enraged, pursued the thieves with a small group of his buddies. Most of the Enforcers maintained discipline, waiting for my signal, but a rumble broke out right in front of us.
The small group of indignant patriots were hopelessly outnumbered, and nearly surrounded within seconds, but dished out more damage than they seemed to absorb. Still, the flag thieves escaped from their pursuit and carried their prize across the street where a clearing in the mob opened around them. They threw Old Glory down on the asphalt where Blackshirts from the horde spit and stomped on it.
One soyboy with a pierced nose dropped his pants and squatted over the flag, while one of his comrades produced a lighter, and sparked a flame that he held against the hem of the Stars and Stripes.
I brought the radio back to my mouth. “All Enforcer units: this is Hockey Man. Engage at will. I say again: engage. Out.”
I dropped the radio back in my vest pouch and raised my stick, looking up and down the line.
