June 23rd, 2019
Multnomah County Courthouse
He started moving towards the car, seeing inside as his wife was frantically beckoning to him. As she did though she screamed as one the Antifa members surrounding the car smacked the windshield with their hand, shouting at her that she was enabling a rapist. At that point he’d had enough.
Tate was not a violent man, he didn’t care to fight and he didn’t care to raise his voice most times. But when it came to those he cared about being assaulted or threatened in any way it was just too much to take and his temper flared in an instant. As he looked around at the people shouting at him, yelling at him, and throwing all types of verbal abuse in his direction, all he could really see was his wife sobbing inside the car as several members of the Antifa group and even a few other protesters threw their weight against the car, rocking it back and forth on its wheels.
That was enough to make him snap.
This wasn’t a movie, he knew that he couldn’t Chuck Norris or Bruce Lee his way out of this mess without take a few lumps, but as he noted that a few of the protesters were carrying long, wooden poles with Antifa flags affixed to them it gave him idea at least.
Pushing forward he was met, as expected, with stiff resistance as they pushed against him. And then one person holding a pole did just what he’d wanted, they tried to prod him back. He was a big man and in decent shape and therefore it wasn’t too hard to reach forward, yank the pole out of his hand, and then get to work. He didn’t swing the pole around as some might have expected, but he did slam it as hard as he could into the face of the first person that dared to step up to him, then the second, and a third. He didn’t care if they were women, he didn’t care if they were younger than he was. This was a mob, and he knew that he had only a short time before he went down.
But a funny thing happened as he attacked, the mob started parting in front of him, as though no one wanted to stand up to this suddenly berserk individual that was swinging a pilfered club and doing so with murderous force. Hands tried to reach for him, to grab the pole, his clothing, anything to take him down, but then Tate did what they’d expected and started swinging for the fences, clubbing fingers, arms, faces, shoulders, anywhere and everywhere he could see to keep the mob from pressing in on him. It would only be a matter of moments before they took him down, but he was going to make them all feel just a little but of what he was feeling.
Thankfully it didn’t come to that as he heard the unmistakable ‘whump’ of a gas canister being ignited just before it landed at his feet. Not long after that an arm was around his throat and hands were reaching for his arms to knock the club away and pin them behind his back. Before he was taken to the ground though he at least got to see that the protesters had been backed away from his wife’s car, and that they were quickly being dispersed.
That was something at least.
(to be continued)