I sat straddling his unconscious body for a moment, trying to catch my breath. The next wave of skirmishers passed my position, but I was too exhausted for my pride to be hurt by them taking point.

Redbeard stooped beside me, gripping the back of my flak vest. “You okay, Boss?”

“I’m good,” I said, rising to my feet. I swayed a bit and almost lost balance, but he steadied me. Two more waves of skirmishers passed us while I sucked wind and tried to get my fatigued muscles moving.

Redbeard handed my stick to me and said, “This is really getting disorganized, Boss. You should probably hang back for a minute and direct traffic while somebody else takes a turn on the spearhead.”

I trudged on, beside Redbeard, gasping for breath and hoping my depleted oxygen levels would soon be restored.

Another black man stepped around the corner of a building and I almost ran into him. His eyes widened in surprise and he shouted something. My adrenaline surged and my hands tightened their grip on the stick.

Just before I clouted him, my gaze caught a shield emblem on his batter’s helmet. The shield was red, white and blue. I checked myself in mid swing.

“You Patriot, or Antifa?” I asked, with barely enough breath to form the words.

“What the hell you think?” he retorted, pointing to his shield emblem. “Does Antifa wear this, genius?”

“Okay,” I said. “But be advised: you’ll avoid friendly fire if you make your colors bigger—more conspicuous.”

“You’ll live longer,” Redbeard added.

The guy stared at my stick as if just realizing what it was. “Hey...are you Hockey Man?”

I nodded. “That’s what some people call me.”

“Yo, what’s up, my guy? You can call me Hammerhead.”

We bumped fists. “Nice to meet ya. Are you solo?”

“’Fraid so,” he replied. “Antifa broke through the police line and went down the alley. It looked like one of ‘em was hidin’ somethin’ under his shirt, so some of us went after. I got separated from the guys I was with and figured I better get back here with y’all before I got cut off.”

“Are you an Enforcer?” Redbeard asked.

“Huh? Naw, brah. Just a average, everyday, normal dude—pissed off about Jussie Smollett, Brett Kavanaugh, and all this communist bullshit.”

He and Redbeard shook hands.

“Unless you wanna head back to the square,” I said, “you should stick with us. We lost a man, and could use you.”

“Count me in, then,” Hammerhead said. “You tryin’ to get the man’s flag back, right?”

I nodded.

“Damn straight,” Redbeard said.

“Then yeah: I’ll roll with you. Consider me a Enforcer, for today.”

I took Redbeard’s advice and hung back while I got my second wind. My unit had devolved into a churning gaggle, but I directed them as best I could, and fortunately the enemy was even less organized. They still had us outnumbered by a considerable margin, but because of their haphazard deployment along the street, we were able to concentrate overwhelming force on each pocket as we bounded from one skirmish to the next, mopping them up piecemeal.

Airhorns—like the kind fans blasted at hockey games—echoed through the streets. Police sirens pealed in the distance. Blackshirts lit strings of firecrackers that sounded much like small arms fire. I heard multiple reports from some unknown ordnance, but couldn’t tell where the detonations came from. Thunder rumbled in the dark clouds above. An eerie, ominous atmosphere hung over the city.

Each new Antifa swarm we encountered threw stuff at us until they ran out and had to face the Enforcers directly. Some of them were game and some could even fight, but most of them retreated when they saw one of their comrades laid out, or themselves took damage. This wasn’t as safe as talking trash on social media.

The women in Antifa’s rank-and-file caused some consternation. Men on our side didn’t want to unleash violence on females, and the Blackshirts used that to their advantage. When we did have to push a flailing female aside, she would scream, “Rape!” or some such. Even guys with nerves of steel hesitated, then—creating opportunities for the enemy to exploit.

The trouble with bypassing hostiles—even females—was that it allowed attacks on our flanks and rear. Some of the women lit fireworks and threw them at us. One of them managed to knife a patriot who was too worried about not hurting her to look after his own safety.

After a bypassed Womyn Warrior smashed a bottle of bleach mixed with ammonia (homemade chlorine gas) on the pavement in the midst of our third wave skirmishers, we ran to clear the area and I called a quick muster. Yes, it was a tactical sin to do so while in contact, but we had to deal with the reality facing us.

“No more bypassing the Blackshirts!” I commanded. “I don’t care if they’re female—this ain’t Medieval Europe or the Old West! If a Blackshirt ain’t unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, then make ‘em that way...or chase ‘em off. If you got a problem doin’ that, fall back in a following wave and mop up our leftovers. I only want merciless sons a’ bitches in the first wave. Got it?”

I reorganized the unit with the help of my lieutenants. With me back on point, Redbeard and Hammerhead on my left and right, we resumed our advance.

Because I knew how reluctant patriots were to fight girls, even after acknowledging what I said in my impromptu speech, I singled out the women myself to make sure the only Blackshirts to be mopped up behind me were male.

It turns out that none of those strong, independent womyn cared much for being treated like true equals. I could make out most of the insults they shrieked at me, in between the fireworks and airhorn blasts. All of them had variations on the same standard message: how dare I abuse women; I was a poor excuse for a man; probably a latent homosexual kiddie-diddler, and so on. The accusations they chose were interesting, considering the belief system they subscribed to.

I made no reply, just put their lights out, as needed.

After three women were knocked out in quick succession, I guess the word spread through the enemy ranks that their tactic was no longer working. There were no more delaying actions by would-be Amazons. Most of the soyboys fled the field with them.

One of the Blackshirt casualties I stepped over looked a lot like Jessica Singh, but with a broken nose and a black eye (one of xer birth-issue biological eyes, I should specify—not the pasted-on “third eye” which had evidently been lost in the brawl, after failing to perceive the aura or chakra or other mystical portent that Jessica was about to get xer ass kicked).