He didn’t attempt any fancy show-off moves with the single-edged sword—probably because the handle was wet and if he made a mistake, that wicked blade might lop his own ear off.

We circled each other warily, and there was no more trash talk. He was going to kill me, if he could. My stick would be useless for blocking. He would hack it into fire kindling, rendering it useless for anything else.

The rumble had been raging all around us, but now I caught some Enforcers moving in on my peripheral vision. They were breathing hard, but upright and still game. Somehow, they must have prevailed against both the riot cops and Antifa’s elite troops.

“Anybody got some gear I can borrow?” I called to my allies.

Eager to help, somebody handed me a shield, and another Enforcer traded his steel pipe for my hockey stick. I felt a little better now, but was still terrified of that samurai sword and what it could do to me.

“Hold up! Hold up!” an Enforcer called out, and clamped a gloved hand on my shoulder. He pointed at Dreadlocks. “Is this a personal vendetta?”

I shook my head, warily. “I just came to recover the flag.”

“Then don’t be stupid, Hockey Man!”

He turned to his band of brothers and said, “Let’s finish this and get out of Dodge!”

Enforcers swarmed around Dreadlocks. One of them grabbed the flag and waved it through the rain. Others grunted victoriously. Two Enforcers with shields came at Dreadlocks from different angles. While he was undoubtedly deciding which one to attack first, somebody else chucked a rock that slammed him in the brow, just under his bike helmet. A squad of Enforcers took him down, confiscated his sword, and beat the living shit out of him.

The Enforcer was right. I had been acting stupid. Part of it was undoubtedly the fatigue, taxing my brain beyond rational cognition. Dreadlocks would probably have skewered me with that sword and I would have died on the spot.

For what? Pride?

All our objectives were met. It was time to go.

We formed litter teams and carried our wounded out of there. We didn’t leave anybody behind for the ambulances, knowing what to expect from the police and the rest of the city government. Stab wounds and other severe trauma would be evidence of involvement in the riot. Since patriots were the enemies of the state, they would be railroaded while the Blackshirts would only get some probation, if anything at all.

I fully expected the cops to interdict us on the way back to the park, so we withdrew by a different route, ready to divide, disperse, or rumble some more, as the situation dictated.

There weren’t many cops at the park, and I guess the few there didn’t like their chances of arresting us all, so they yelled through bullhorns but mostly waited for their reinforcements to arrive or for us to unass the area.

We vacated—but with a winner’s swagger.

That night and all the next day, social media and the idiot box reported a riot caused by “white supremacists” who attacked peaceful “anti-fascist” demonstrators protesting against hate crime. Those dastardly racistsexisthomophobes put many Antifa demonstrators in the hospital and even attacked police. Some of the diabolical haters were arrested, but the majority of them remained at large.

The grim-faced mayor held an emergency press conference and read a lengthy statement about how her city would not tolerate hate groups. She would hire more police, build a bigger prison, and prosecute hate criminals to “the fullest extent of the law.” Meanwhile: If somebody we knew mentioned fringe, radical subjects like the Bill of Rights, wore a MAGA hat, or shared alternative media links without condemning the content, then they were definitely affiliated with a hate group and we should report them immediately. She provided a web address, a toll-free phone number, texting instructions, and the name of an app for smart phones we should use to report those racistsexisthomophobes.

The next day I reported for work in my soyboy disguise, as usual.

Diamond bought a Get Well card for Jessica, who was recovering at home from a “horrific assault” at the riot. The card was passed around for all Jessica’s co-workers to sign. I really wanted to ask her how many “Nazi scalps” she collected, but thought better of it and just signed my name.

Somebody in the office took the initiative to design a wanted poster/flier and distribute it to everyone at work. It featured a digital photo of Hockey Man stalking down the street with other Enforcers in full battle-rattle. Hammerhead was cropped out of the image, of course. The text on the flier informed us that Hockey Man was guilty of assault, rape, and other hate crimes, and we should be on the lookout for anybody who might be the infamous Nazi behind the helmet and goggles.

I pinned the flier up in my cubicle, right next to the “coexist” sticker, like a good little Hive Mind Drone outraged by the social injustice of it all.

THE END