Mission Accomplished

The operative stood tall and moved forward. He toyed with the device in his hand. He knew what it would look like, that to the well-trained eye of the Buffalo Police he would appear to be scanning them, blocking their radio transmissions. The first rule of Antifa was Never Underestimate Your Opponent. Of course here in Buffalo they would be able to differentiate a sophisticated technical attack on essential police frequencies from an old man standing peacefully with a cell phone.

He watched as they advanced. Remember your training, he thought. The second rule of Antifa. So much could go wrong but he had put himself in this place at this time through decades of discipline and deep, deep cover. Some days, weeks, years the cover was so deep he almost believed it himself, that he was nothing but an elderly local peace activist. But now here he was, an embedded Antifa agent finally ready for his moment. All the days spent in those tedious ridiculous meetings, pretending to peacefully protest at this gathering, at that sit-in, soup kitchen, committee, church group. It had been so boring, so confounding, all of them just sheep in the game, Antifa playing eight dimensional chess while the rest of them played beer pong. And somehow, miraculously, just as they had planned some fifty years ago, it had all led to this moment.

The earpiece, embedded deep in his tympanic cavity so as to be invisible, another ingenious invention of the Antifa Science and Technology Department, crackled to life. “Operative” was all it said.

Could it be? He recognized that voice but… “President Soros?” he said.

“It is I,” the familiar voice said. The Operative flashed on all those meetings, the webinars and annual conventions and Facebook groups, the very real and organized training sessions and planning documents and his own slow but sure movement up the organizational structure that was Antifa. All of it had been guided by that voice, a remote and reassuring presence. Finally that voice was speaking directly into his Antifa-issued Operative Earpiece. “And now it is the time of your sacrifice. It is time to make the Falling. Do they believe you to be scanning?”

“I….” he regarded the approaching force. “I think they have made me. Yes, Sir.”

“Trust in your training,” the voice said. “Do it for Antifa. Take your Fall, Operative.”

He heard a click and then all was silent except the shouting and the marching. They shouted “black lives matter” and “no justice no peace” and “justice for George.” They were well intentioned, yes, but not a one of them had the faintest idea they had placed themselves smack in the middle of a classic Antifa Fall Op. They were useful idiots, all of them, here to help him spread the Antifa Agenda, which would be coming out any day now probably.

The officers were approaching and he held his ground. He continued to pretend to scan them with the device. Trust in your training, he thought. Take your Fall.

He thought of all of those nights in the apartment, throwing himself into the futon, willing his body to move faster than gravity would allow. Fall. Push. Faster. Faster. The backaches and the bruises and the inquiries from the downstairs neighbor, the quizzical looks from generations of cats as he trained his body to fall faster, harder, to push his head out and back so that it might bear the most impact. He would lay there on the futon, breathing with difficulty, staring up at the water stains in the ceiling, wondering what it would be like to take his Fall, to feel the blood spreading in a satisfying antifascist pool, to know that finally he had fulfilled his mission. 

But what if there was nobody to push him? There were so few bad apples, he knew, so many good ones devoted to protecting and serving. But there was no sense worrying now. Trust in your training. And then one was coming toward him. He stood his ground. They all looked like such good apples, with their riot gear and billyclubs and machine guns, their faces hidden behind helmets and masks, badge numbers covered with black bands. Maybe this one would take his arm and lead him to cover, offer a bottled water, call him later to check in and make sure he had gotten home okay. Never underestimate your opponent. He stood tall. And then he was falling, falling gloriously faster than he had been pushed, tricking gravity and willing his head back back back until he had delivered himself to the pavement, blood pooling around his head, successfully concussed, mission accomplished, listening to the rhythm of their boots clicking ever forward as everything melted away.