Trulbert! Part XXXVI – The Fat Lady Dons Her Helmet

– 2:45 PM, November 7, 2015 – Outside Forever 21 Stadium, Downtown Minneapolis, MN

The column of 40 socials came off the freeway exit from South Minneapolis, and rendesvouzed with Ilktost’s force in the parking lot of the new Viking stadium.

Close to 80 socials were now lined up and ready to press the offensive into downtown, along with a few hundred infantry that would support the trucks up close.

Ilktost stood as tall as he could in the back of the lead truck.

“Methodists!  There is no turning back!  If we lose, we lose everything!  So advance to victory – or death!”

The Methodists cheered, as Ilktost’s truck started moving up Chicago Avenue the other trucks falling into line behind, the whole column turning left on to Washington to begin the final push downtown.

– 2:55 PM, November 7, 2015 – Outside the Federal Reserve, Downtown Minneapolis, MN

Fleen spoke into a bullhorn.

“OK – everyone with military experience, please come up here and talk to my assistant”, he said, pointing to a waving Marcus Broadman, who was wearing his old Air Force BDU jacket – snug, but it still fit.

“Everyone with firearms, but no military experience, please gather at the north end of the plaza”, he said, pointing to Trajan Codriciu, who also waved.  People started moving among the small crowd – which had grown from a few dozen to over hundred in recent minutes.

“OK – all DC-milieu superheroes without firearms, please assemble by the ‘No Loading’ sign.”   A group of twenty-somethings, dressed in capes, masks and costumes, started walking toward the street.  “All Marvel-milieu superheroes, over by the big planters”.  More people in masks and costumes – some in their thirties and forties – began moving.  “Superheroes from other mileus…” Fleen rolled his eyes, “take your pick”.  A few more costumed citizens, shaking their heads in frustration, slowly picked their groups and began to move.

“Finally, everyone who has no military or law-enforcement background, who’s not a superhero, please meet me here on the steps”.

The crowd began picking its destinations.

“OK”, Fleen muttered to himself.  “Time to make this into an actual resistance”.

Up until half an hour ago, maybe twenty people had filtered over to the plaza in front of the Minneapolis Federal Reserve Bank. And then, over the last fifteen minutes, the trickle grew into a rivulet, and then at least a babbling brook; dozens arrived, many of them armed.  And over the past few minutes, it’d picked up still more. And now, perhaps 300 people stood milling about in front of the Fed.  About a dozen, men and women who moved with a purpose, gathered by Broadman.  150 or so more, armed with everything from assault rifles and World War 2-vintage rifles to hunting weapons, shotguns and handguns, gathered to his left.  About 100 others, some with crossbows, samurai swords, and even track-and-field javelins and slingshots, rocks, and just sharp words for all Fleen coudl tell, milled their way toward the steps.  An even dozen superheroes gathered around the signs by the street, contemptuously eyeing the other milieus.

It’ll have to do, Fleen thought, as he saw a suvney pull up, and Hendrickson and the Codricius climbed out, paying the driver another five cud.

“How’s it working?”

“It’s OK.  But it’ll never be enough.  It’s all right turnout, I guess – but there’s just…”

Fleen scanned the mob on the plaza with dismay.

“There’s just no way it’ll be enough, in time.”

Hendrickson eyed the crowd.  “It’s gonna have to be”.

They conferred, fast; the plan they had wasn’t much, and it was going to have to stretch a little.

 – 3:45 PM, November 7, 2015 – Washington Avenue at Nicollet, Downtown Minneapolis, MN

“Wesley Six, This Is Wesley Scout”, the radio crackled.

Dave Oswaldson, his six-drink buzz from the President’s Suite dispelling fast, keyed the mic.  “This is Wesley Six – Go ahead, over”.

“We’re approaching Hennepin.  We’re seeing people…”, the voice paused, sounding confused “dressed a superheroes”.

“Any gunfire?”

“Negative, Six”.

“Take up a blocking position at Second Avenue North.  We’re coming up behind.  Six out”.

Oswaldson gave the microphone back to the radio operator, a teenage Methodist who looked barely old enough to shave.

Good lord.  I hope we can end this thing soon.  

Behind Oswaldson, holding onto the pedestal of the machine gun mount, Ilktost stood, surveying the streets.  A few civilians, awed by the display of firepower, watched mutely.  In the distance, up several side streets, he saw several people in superhero costumes, flitting into alleys and storefronts, many of them talking on cell phones.

Fat lot of good it’ll do them, he thought.  He reached for the radio microphone; Oswaldson handed it to him.

“This is Wesley Six Actual.  First Brigade, continue up Washington, and approach the Fed from the west.  Second Brigade, move to the right, and cut of Hennepin from the river.  Third Brigade, follow me up Hennepin.  Fourth Brigade”, he said to a separate group proceeding south from Northeast Minneapolis, “Cross the river at Hennepin.  We’ll attack the Federal Reserve from all four directions.  Remember – no quarter.  No prisoners.  Wesley Six Actual Out”.

This will be done soon, Ilktost nodded with satisfaction.

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