“Back off, Nazi,” a masked Blackshirt warned, stalking toward Redbeard. “I’ll kick your redneck ass!”

“Come get some, soyboy!” Redbeard retorted.

The soyboy led with pepper spray and followed up with a length of pipe. Redbeard’s goggles protected his eyes, and he parried the pipe with the taped broom handle in his left hand. Then he bashed soyboy with a right cross that dropped him on his ass.

To my other side, Surfer Tim was still having trouble seeing, and a Blackshirt took the fight to him with a bat. The unmasked woman grabbed Tim on his blind side and tried to restrain his hands so he couldn’t defend himself or strike back.

I couldn’t help Tim, because three Blackshirts advanced on me.

I singled out the smallest one and hooked his ankles with my stick, pulling him off his feet. He sprawled backwards, smacking his head on the sidewalk, and was trampled by some of his comrades.

One of the two still standing swung his baton at me. I deflected the blow with the stick and whacked him back. But I didn’t have time to follow up on him right then, because the other Blackshirt bore down on me, wielding a stun gun.

Both hands on my stick, brandishing it like a pugil staff or rifle with bayonet, I brought my trail foot forward to the lead and swung the butt end of the stick into the hand that held the stun gun. It sounded like his fingers cracked. The stun gun went clattering away down the street. I then brought the butt of the stick up and thrust it forward, ramming him in the mouth.

While that Blackshirt recoiled, pulling his bandito mask out of his ruined lips, spitting blood and teeth, the other one, furious from the stinging blow that left an angry red welt across his face, charged me in a rage. I planted my stick butt in his stomach, brought my trail foot forward while rotating at the shoulders, and slashed him pretty good with the business end of the stick, on the side of his head just above the ear.

He reeled to the side and I caught him with a crescent kick to the head that put him out of commission.

Surfer Tim was down, behind me, but another team of Enforcers had moved in on that flank. They dispatched the hero with the bat, and let the ugly overweight broad waddle away to join another flock of Blackshirts. When we turned and advanced on them, she screeched obscenities and retreated from that pocket, too.

With Surfer Tim down, it was just Redbeard and me, now. We kept close to another team so we couldn’t be easily surrounded and cut off.

We closed with the next group, and I found myself facing two buff homeboys with chains. A quick glance told me that most of the opposing force in this particular group were black. While I was briefly preoccupied surveying the enemy demographics, one of those chains nearly separated my head from my shoulders. I shuffled back and ducked just in time, the chain whacking my helmet.

The other dude swung his chain but I positioned my stick so that the chain wrapped around it. Assuming the dude was very strong, I yanked back with savage force. The move tore it out of his hands. He glared at me, eyes betraying shock and pain, and voiced his displeasure rather vehemently.

By now Redbeard had traded his broom handle for an aluminum baseball bat plundered from a fallen enemy. He knocked a line drive home run right into the temple of the man I had just disarmed, then pivoted to fend off two more guys.

I had my own problems.

The other guy’s chain flicked out and hit me in the arm near the old scar from a 7.62X39 round I caught near Ramadi. It hurt like a blind mother. Some kind of arm protection would dampen blows like that; but would cause me to overheat and dehydrate faster. Pick your poison.

With Enforcers engaging all the other Blackshirts in this pocket, I could concentrate on this one guy.

We faced off.

With a sadistic grin probably meant to intimidate me, he spun his chain in a propeller-like blur. I kept my distance for a moment and just watched him.

“C’mon, white boy,” he taunted. “You want summa’ dis?”

“What’s that,” I asked, “quality time with yo’ mama?”

This remark inspired him to begin showcasing his impressive vocabulary. He seemed to prefer words that began with “M” and “F” most of the time. My heritage came into question, and he changed the pattern of the spinning chain into something more wild and dangerous as he veered to one side, then the other.

Fortunately, he telegraphed his next strike. I sidestepped and lowered my stick so that the chain coiled neatly around it. But he had taken the precaution of wrapping the chain around his gloved hand, and was as strong as he looked. I did manage to yank him off balance, and took some advantage via an elbow to the cheek.

He popped me in the chin with his free fist.

Joined through the chain and stick on one side, he grabbed me on the other side, entangled his legs with mine, and took me down.

I almost panicked. This was not going according to plan. The dude was powerful and had energy to spare.

While we grappled on the street, I lost hold of the stick. I needed to come up with a Plan B fast.

Wheezing for breath, I maneuvered myself into the half guard and commenced a ground-and-pound drill. He shifted his head side-to-side at first, slipping my punches. But after I landed one solid strike on his jaw, he became much easier to hit.

I banged him out, but was nearly smoked by the time I did.