Not this time he promises himself, their Gestapo tactics won’t work on him this time. Every year they get him, like an annual attack or some sort of twisted anniversary celebration.
Surprise is their ally. Unable to narrow them to calendar days, he is unprepared for them. Not like ti matters, there is no hiding from them. Like disciplined guerilla fighters they are everywhere. Your friendly neighbor one day, stealthy commando the next, only to return to their previous demeanor, cheerfully waving hello in spite of what they have done to you.
Well he has not forgotten, and today… here… now he makes his stand. Today he will defy them. And not just for himself, but for all people everywhere who has been victimized by them.
At least he can identify them. That uniform they are so proud of makes them stand out. He would swear they goosestep in those pressed uniforms when no one is looking. They probably wear jackboots behind closed doors.
They use psychological warfare at a level not used since the Nazis. Hitler would have been proud, in fact had Hitler used these little commandos, his dream of a thousand year Reich might have been a reality. They might be speaking German in England today.
But his SS were too soft. Warm and cuddly compared to these heartless monsters. Old, young, handicapped or able, none are safe from their onslaught. Few have the strength to resist.
Good cop, good cop is their interrogation style. A tactic unheard of in law enforcement circles. It is one, in theory, doomed to fail. Yet somehow they make it work…. Every single time.
Sure you may resist one, but the next; oh the next is upon you as you are reeling. You can’t lash out, there is no target for the hostility. The “bad” cop, the one you use to keep your defenses up, the one your direct your frustration on is just not there. Just good cop after good cop.
You can’t vent on the good cop, it just isn’t done. So they break down your resistance. You give in, sometimes before you even know you have done it. You break and don’t even know you have broken. And when you do, it’s too late. No take backs in this game. At least none anyone has ever heard of. No one has ever had the guts.
Walking in, he sees them. They pretend not to notice, but he knows they see him. Already sizing him up, plotting his downfall. If they only knew, if only they knew today was the day. Today is the day that their reign of terror will end. No more will they prey upon the innocent.
So they allow him entrance, smiles on their lips. Knowing as well as he does that just like an Indiana Jones adventure, getting in is easy it is the getting out that is tricky. He makes a mental note of their positioning. As he expected, they have every exit covered, he can’t avoid them. Even if he had run when he first saw them, it wouldn’t have worked. Like I said before, they are everywhere.
How do you hide from the wind? You don’t, and he is not willing to be a prisoner in his own home every year while they freely roam the earth until they return to the depths from whence they came.
No a stand must be made….here….now!
It is almost impossible to accomplish anything knowing what awaits him outside. How could you enjoy a boat ride if you knew you would be picked off as soon as you stepped onto the dock? Yet another one of their ploys, the anticipation can drive a man mad.
But he bides his time, psyching himself up, revising a plan that will catch them off guard. He doesn’t need to destroy them, just distract them long enough to get some distance. Their attention will focus on weaker prey, or if nothing else, something closer.
Yes, that’s it, the perfect plan. He plays it in his head a couple times, rehearsing it in his mind until he has it down cold. Then and only then does he emerge, exiting into their sight.
As he closes the distance, nonchalantly striding towards them. He has carefully chosen his route, for it steers him away from the smallest one.
The smaller ones are the ones to fear the most. They have the most to prove, unlike the bigger one who can be jaded, weary of the process. The smallest ones are still fresh in the game, fanatical almost. Like new soldiers thrust into combat for the first time, they either freeze up or take to it with an enthusiasm long discarded by the battle hardened veterans. Sure the old timers get the job done, but to them it is just a job. The new ones, they embrace it like a calling.
But this isn’t combat, not in the literal sense. It is more like chess. And in this little chess game, they are always white. Thus the advantage is theirs. But black also wins, and today black will triumph.
Slowly they maneuver closer. With the speed and ferocity of a pack of wild dogs, they are upon him. Even when you are ready for it, the abruptness of the viscous attack can be overwhelming. But he is ready, more prepared than he has ever been before. Today will be a day of reckoning.
As he walks away, box of tagalongs in hand he thinks to himself, “this round goes to you girl scouts. You have won the battle, but the war, the war shall be mine.”
Dejected he gets into his car, bent but not broken as he plots and schemes and prepares for their next engagement. Their evil banter still echoes in his ears. Not quite a question, not fully a comment, with underlying demand in six little words.
‘Wanna buy some girl scout cookies’
Yet another piece written while bored as a stay-home-dad. The idea amused me so I wrote it down.