By David Dumouriez

By golly, it was warm. Warm, verdant in all directions, and with a purity of air that made breathing an act of joy rather than simply a physiological process. Yes, there was no doubt about it, Bernard had more than lived up to his pledge of providing the finest living conditions for his citizens. For surely none but the most abject of fools would have argued that the twenty-plus years of the great leader’s rule had not delivered prosperity and security on an unprecedented scale. 

But as we know all too well, abject fools have never been in short supply in the course of human history, and that was true even in a place like Paxoria. In fact, they were out again today, and they’d brought their dissenting voices with them. Voices like that of Eileen.

“WE WANT POVERTY, IGNORANCE AND INEQUALITY!”

And that of Tom: “WE DEMAND THE RIGHT TO FIGHT!”

The ingratitude of it was scarcely believable. 

Bruce believed it, though. That was his job.

“The nuts have fallen off the trees again,” he said to Trevor, who was poised next to him behind the phalanx of riot shields.

“Some people,” Trevor replied. “Never bloody satisfied!”

“Stand firm!” urged the voice behind them. “Keep your positions!”

“Yeah, yeah …” thought Trevor. Because, honestly, what was going to happen? A bit of shouting. A little jostling. Then the protestors would trudge home — or wherever else it was they came from — and he and his colleagues would repair to the station for a few mugs of that turbo-charged veggie juice.

Bruce focused on the scene in front of him. There were, what, seven of them? No, eight. Eight of the crackpots, holding placards, carrying megaphones, waving sticks and spades in the air. Actually, he recognised half of them. The same old die-hards. That fella with the shapeless hat (Tom). That woman who was unusually tall (Eileen). Plus those two thugs who looked like they’d been pulled face-first down a ravine. 

“Come on!” Tom bawled. “Show us what you’ve got!” 

He kicked a couple of shields before propelling himself into another one and bouncing off onto the ground. “Pathetic! PATHETIC!” he howled manically.

Then another of them swung a pole at Bruce, who raised his shield and deflected the blow. The pattern repeated itself until the joker needed a break. And that was it really. All they were authorised to do. Just stand there, soak up the punishment, and push forward where necessary. It was absolutely forbidden, on Bernard’s express orders, to engage protestors in violence of any sort. That was not what the Conciliators were for. 

But just when Bruce thought he’d seen it all, he discovered that he really hadn’t. For instead of rushing at them, Thug A decided to turn his attentions to Thug B. Dropping his rudimentary weapon, he swung a fist at his cohort, catching him flush on the jaw. Thug B briefly went down, then raised himself off the ground and grinned like a soppy cartoon dog. 

Bruce looked at Trevor. Trevor looked at Bruce. Then all of the officers began to exchange glances. But it wasn’t done yet. Now the entire eight began to tear into each other, including the women (who clearly didn’t care who they picked on or who picked on them). Pretty soon, an orgy of self-destruction was unfolding before their eyes, and they didn’t have a clue how to respond.

“Back! Move back!” Captain Graves shouted, for want of anything better. This they did, in slow, deliberate steps. Nonetheless, nothing could shake their fascination with the whole barbaric spectacle. And the most amazing part of all was that the protagonists seemed to be enjoying it!

They’d go down at regular intervals, then get up bloodied and damaged, before going at each other again with even more relish. And when they weren’t pausing to spit teeth, they were actually laughing.

“Come on!” Tom shouted in their direction. “Join us — it’s fun!” Then he got whacked again.

“We can’t arrest them,” Trevor said. “Can we?”

Well Bruce was darned if he knew. It was a public order offence, but those usually went unpunished. In any case, the only damage being done was to the protestors themselves. Bruce and Trevor looked at Captain Graves for guidance but he was as lost as they were. Things like this just didn’t happen. 

And neither did the thing that happened next.

First to break the line was Stan. He’d always been a bit of a live wire, but there’d been nothing to suggest that his discipline levels were anything less than exemplary. Well, not until now.

He put down his shield, took off his helmet, went towards the combatants and just waded in. To be fair, he put up a pretty good showing. He was fit and fresh, whereas the eight had already thrown their best punches.

Stan turned towards his brothers and sisters. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

The answer was nothing. And one by one, his fellow officers divested themselves of the symbols of their position and launched into what became an almighty ruck. 

Finally, only Bruce, Trevor and Captain Graves were still standing there in full uniform, though now they were merely leaning on their shields rather than raising them. 

“If we go, then it all goes,” Bruce thought to himself. But he couldn’t hold back. 

He walked up to Trevor and smacked him in the mouth. 

Trevor responded in kind.

Then they jumped on Captain Graves and thrashed him.

***

After a month of similar events up and down the country, and worse, Bernard had resigned.

The air continues to become less pleasant by the day. 

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