Presently a few harried-looking young men summoned us to the front of the park, just in front of the Lee statue, where a certain makeshift set of barriers had been set up. Behind us, the streets continued to teem with a roiling sea of angry, screaming, jeering counter-protesters, led by bottle-chucking antifa agitators.
Meanwhile, the Charlottesville PD, as previously mentioned, flanked us on the park’s eastern border. They all stood in a line and did absolutely nothing to attempt to contain the increasingly violently chaotic atmosphere, which—again, it must be pointed out (since it is a truth which flies directly in the face of all of the mainstream media’s propaganda concerning Charlottesville)—was entirely fomented by the lefty, “anti-racist” antifa-led counter-demonstrators, and NOT by the participants in the “Unite the Right” event.
We reported to the appointed spot, and for a moment I began to think we would begin to see the “show” which had been advertised all along. Richard Spencer-- whom I had once known and even called a friend, but who had essentially become a stranger to me by now--was up in front, dressed to the nines in a swanky suit and vest, flanked by several other men, including Nathan Damingo and Augustus Invictus, as well as a few others I didn’t recognize. Clearly, these were to be the speakers of the event. Again, however, there was little time to relax, reflect, or contemplate the present state of things, nor even to wonder what was about to happen… because now an entirely new sight was greeting our peripherals.
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On the western edge of the park, we gradually became aware, an armored van had pulled up. From the back of the vehicle emerged something like ten or twelve men (no one, in the heat of the moment, thought to count exactly how many there were). All of these men wore SWAT gear: helmets and visors, bulky body armor, and thick black boots. They strode, Robocop-like, to the peak of the park, forming a semicircle just in front of granite General Lee. Their Stormtrooper getups made for ominous optics indeed, but perhaps they were there to finally provide some much-needed security, the sort that Charlottesville’s “finest” (those standing idly by as violent assaults broke out all around them) were proving conspicuously loathe to offer.
However, we were soon disabused of the notion that these hulking goons had arrived to help ensure that the rule of law was followed. One of these men removed his helmet, and, reading off a piece of paper, delivered a terse, prepared address into a bullhorn:
“This gathering (he announced) has been declared unlawful by the Commonwealth of Virginia. You must disperse, or you will be arrested.”
It was at this moment that I lost my cool.
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Up until now, I had pretty much behaved as a largely impartial observer. My sympathies clearly lay with the event attendees, but I have never been a rah-rah kind of guy when it comes to politics. The antifa had shown themselves to be utterly despicable (as per usual) but I had no interest in “mixing it up” with them or anyone else… I did, however, support the preservation of Southern heritage, and even more than that, I supported freedom of speech. And now here these geared-up goons had just shown up, swaggered in, and abruptly pronounced that this lawfully scheduled rally, for which a permit had been secured from a federal judge, had “been declared unlawful.”
By what authority were this gaggle of petty tyrants ordering those present to “disperse” or else “be arrested”?
I vociferously expressed myself to such an effect to this legion of jackbooted goons. Unsurprisingly, the goons evinced no inclination to hear me out. The man with the bullhorn repeated his address, making the exact same rote pronouncement as before. When he again stated that the event had been “declared unlawful,” I shouted “WHY?” but got no answer.
Richard and the other well-dressed men were busy making their own appeals. “You don’t have to do this!” one of them declared to the helmet-heads, seemingly attempting to establish his pro-cop bone fides. Richard, for his part, strove for a sort of futile diplomacy. “We aren’t going to fight you,” he announced, “but we’re not going to leave.” The state-hired SWAT stormtroopers weren’t amenable to this proposal, either. Instead, they began to march forward, in lockstep, toward us.
Without even thinking, I linked arms with the others. We hunched down did our best to stand firm, but eventually, using brute force and a few well -timed kicks at certain exposed legs, the goons soon broke our human chain. I fell backwards, my glasses flew off my face, and as I hit the ground, I felt sure, for one dreadful moment, that I would get trampled and possibly crushed. Luckily, someone grabbed my hand and pulled me up. In all of the confusion, I wasn’t sure who provided the helping hand, but I’m pretty sure it was Augustus Invictus. I am still thankful for his intervention, as it saved me from possible grievous bodily harm.
Having recovered my footing, I pulled my glasses of the ground (it was a small miracle in itself that they remained unbroken) and strode right back into the heart of the goon battalion. This time I faced off against one goon in particular, who grabbed ahold of me, and told me through clenched teeth that I needed to leave. As before, he began pushing me back, in the manner of a steamroller, with an aim to flatten that which was in its path.
“Get your hands off me!” I yelled indignantly, adding that I wouldn’t leave until he could tell me why this event, for which a permit had been secured, had been “declared unlawful.” Of course, he had no counterargument (one such as him was assuredly not the type to philosophize about the uses and abuses of state power). Instead, he merely continued to shove me backwards, until I finally buckled under his armored girth and fell to the ground yet again.
I stayed down for a moment, then again rose, and rushed towards their position, my head still awash with rage and defiance. I noticed, absently, that Matt Parrott had advanced to the Lee statue, and was now calmly taking refuge next to the General’s horse, a sight which would have struck me as amusing under different circumstances.
Then-- whoosh!-- one of the goons interrupted my reverie by hitting me directly in the face with a full blast of pepper spray.
Immediately my eyes and throat felt like they were on fire and I dropped to the ground a third time, overcome with a fit of coughing that I felt would never cease.
I hugged the earth desperately, sure that I was about to vomit my guts out, but presently the effect wore off—it could have been anywhere from two to five minutes that I spent curled up on the grass of “Emancipation Park,” but when I finally clambered up, blearily, I noted that the goons were gone and the would-be attendees of the “Unite the Right” rally had been pushed into full retreat, forced to run the gauntlet through screeching antifa hordes, with no protection whatsoever from any representatives of law-enforcement.
Thanks to the violent counter-protesters and the do-nothing Charlottesville cops, things had gotten quite needlessly out of hand. But soon things would get even uglier. Before August 12 was over, three people would be dead.
Andy Nowicki is the author of several books, most recently The Insurrectionist . Visit his author page, altrightnovelist.com, and his Youtube channel.