They hate Jews and adore swastika swag, but don’t you dare call them that . . .
Dallas — ‘Window ninja, what’s your twenty?”
The militia is here, in the park next to city hall, on patrol, pretty decently armed up with 7.62×39mm rifles, pudgy faces concealed behind olive-drab keffiyehs, radios crackling with status reports, eyes presumably alert behind the polarized aviators they’re not quite ready to give up in spite of the weak light of the early dusk, and they are ready — and by-God eager! — to stand tall in Texas and enforce justice for the law, an eagerness that is kind of hilarious even if it is something a lot less than amusing to the actual law-enforcement officers here, standing stiff-necked and rigid behind steel-tube barricades with their riot batons and helmets casually arranged on the thick August summer grass behind them, watching as the setting sun sends the long shadow of Robert E. Lee falling across the various and sundry wackos, prodigal sons of the Confederacy, sad little left-wing collegiate tomboys playing radical dress-up with red bandanas over their faces like spaghetti-western bandits and Smash the Fash! placards, conspiracy theorists who want you to know what the Federal Reserve — the creature from Jekyll Island! — is really up to, old-fashioned rednecks whose T-shirts proclaim them Stone Cold Country by the Grace of God, weird skinny twitchy guys who mention in every other sentence that they served in the Marines and who probably didn’t actually serve in the Marines, self-described free-speech activists, that inevitable dude with the mullet waving the Confederate flag, guys in home-made riot gear slapped together from dusty hunting and motorcycling equipment, acres of sad dreary desert-camo cargo pants over coyote-tan boots from the Army-surplus shop, Communists, anarchists, extravagant beards, TV cameras, dreadlocks, ponytails, banana magazines protruding from matte-black Kalashnikov’s knockoffs, cases of bottled water by the City of Dallas for your dissident convenience, Antifa and Antifa wannabes, Democratic-party organizers, cotton-candy vendors, at least three kinds of police, including Dallas mounties on big fine gray horses, the whole mess kind of milling about counterclockwise, a slow-motion hurricane of human angst and rage and boredom and more rage.