Cop Story
A few years back, I was at a family party when I made an off hand joke about my genetic predilection for charging shield walls. An aunt on my mother's side who LOATHES me overheard, and came up with a cunning plan. She worked for DHS at the time, and knew of a training event being run for a semi-local police agency that needed volunteers, so she told me about it.
It was going to be a riot control training, where cops would be trying to kettle and contain a protest that was starting to go bad. The volunteers would play the part of protestors who would try to resist the cops. Because of who I am as a person and the decisions I have made, I leaped at the chance. My wicked aunt was overjoyed, because she knew how hard these training events were on the protestors.
So the day of the event comes, and I lace up my fash stomping boots and put a shine on my SHARP head. Dressed to the nines to go resist some cops under the guise of helping them. I have a grin and a jaunt in my step as I show up and go through my own little training event, detailing what was to happen. The first event was to have the police close on us and try to direct us using a riot shield line. The second would involve them kettling us. The final event, and one we had to sign a waiver for, was to have the cops use a semi-mild tear gas on the crowd to see how they reacted. My smile got bigger.
The first event was stellar. We line up at one end of a simulated street, with the cops at the other. They were supposed to push us out the back. I talk to a few people, come up with a plan. My smile infects them as they listen and nod. I start at the back, as the horn sounds to begin the event. The crowd starts chanting the famous protest song HELL NO WE WON'T GO as I catch the eyes of my co-conspirators. They begin to move people out of my way, and once I have enough of a lead, I begin to run. It is maybe 70 yards to the cop line and closing as my feet begin to slam down. My rage and hatred for cops pushes my already titanic legs to new efforts, and generations of berserkers sing in my blood as I see the whole crowd part before. I am grinning so hard it is hurting. I look and find their center man. As our eyes meet, I see him miss a step, and I know that my victory is assured. With a cry that surpasses and supplants languages, I drop my shoulder and connect. 300 pounds of 15 years of American football playing, tree fighting, Viking fury slams into this cop's shield and he just vanishes. I don't think I ever saw him again. The force knocks back everyone behind him and I have a clear line to break through. But that was not my goal. Since I had lost all momentum, I needed to get space around me. I reach out and grab the two closest cops by the back of their belts and hurl them, as far as I can. Which isn't far, because I was aiming at other cops. I repeat this, again, and again. By this point there is a gap in the center of the line a little wider than my normal reach and the entire cops are in disarray. Their line is shattered and they aren't even within 10 yards of the rest of the protestors. The horn sounds to end training and I, dazed, am still holding a cop in the air as he gesticulates angrily. They help each other up and mutter something I cannot hear as I go back to my fellows, to be met with high fives and embraces.
The next event follows on schedule. The first was to have taken significantly longer, so we had a nice rest. This time, the coordinator comes out and tells me I am not allowed to get a running start, but must instead stand at the front of the group. I agree, still grinning. My face hurts, but I cannot stop. This was the kettling event, and the cops come in from both sides of the street to contain us. I stand still, making what eye contact I can through shields and facemasks, looking for the weakest link. I find him quickly, the tell tale shuffling feet and shaking hand giving him away. I move to stand in front of him, and wait. I can tell he sees me, and he knows me, and the shaking grows some more. My face is numb now, a rictus of pure violent joy. They push in slowly, feeling the crowd. Since the protesters are just volunteers, and not fighting for anything, they give some ground easily, but not I. The pride I cultivated through decades of mosh pits would not let me take one step back in the face of the filth. I plant myself and lean in. The scared cop pushes back, but his fear betrays him, and he comes to a stop. With the way they are moving, the two cops beside him begin pushing me as well, but I just lower my head and dig deeper, pushing back. Soon 5, 7, a dozen are trying to match my strength, but as their numbers grew, so did mine. The support I had from behind grew. Their numbers kept them from fully utilizing their strength. Our line stops advancing entirely. Then we begin to push back, just a little, and one cop trips, taking down his closest neighbor. Before we can capitalize on this, the horn sounds again, and the event is complete. The cops back off, getting in a few shots and shoves that are beyond acceptable behavior between friends, but we protesters emerge victorious once again.
The third event has fewer protesters, as some volunteers didn't want to be tear gassed, but that's ok. This one I knew would be the culmination of the greatest work of my life. For I had a secret that was hidden from the cops. During my time in the Marines, I was at the bottom tier for available training hours, but I still needed a certain amount. So I had repeatedly done the gas mask training, which exposes you to just so much CS gas. I had learned to control myself through the pain and nausea.
The horn sounds and a few grenades come in, trailing smoke. I see some people laugh nervously and one turns to flee. Soon I can't see any of my partners, as the fumes grow. The feeling hits me like an old friend. Instantly my sinuses are empty, my eyes are weeping, and my throat is scratching. The cops had probably used more than was necessary to punish us for showing them up in front of the Feds. Every inch of my skin burned, but I stood my ground. It was a pain I knew as well as any.
The cops were coming through slowly, without shields. They were expecting to zip tie weeping people, learning how to move in their protective gear. They were not expecting a 6'3" ogre with reflexives quick enough pull the mask from their face, giving them lungs full of gas. The first one just drops and tries to purge his mask, so I pull it out of alignment as he coughs. Another comes through the gas at the sound, and I move up and repeat my motion. Two rolling on the ground, mask useless due to snot and tears. My quickness made me pant, and I start coughing myself. Two come out of the fog and see me, but in their haste to subdue me, one trips on a downed friend. This gives me the chance to twist the mask of the other as he looks back to see what happens. I hasten off into the mist, still coughing.
It isn't long before I come across a downed friend. After checking to make sure they are doing ok, I move on. I had nothing on my to break his bonds, or else I would have seen if he could stand with me. So I move again. My smile is gone now, replaced by coughs and sobs. I come up behind a cop as he is forcing a protester's hands behind his back. I don't like how roughly it is done, so I let the elastic on his mask smash it hard into his face before twisting it. By this point, the gas is starting to drift on the wind, and the observers start seeing the pile I had left behind. The horn sounds an end to training as giant fans blow the fake street clear. Support personal rush outward, but hesitate when they see cops down as well as civilians. As one, though, they turn and begin to clean the pigs. Two are right next to me, seeing me standing proud over the weeping body of those they thought protected them, and can't look at my face. I walk, slowly, proudly, my every stride perfect, to the aid station, where I begin to wipe my face clear. As the wipes clean me, a new grin breaks across my face. I had done good work.
