Month 2 of the Trumpenreich.
Bands of Rednecks, organized into well-armed fascist militias, stalk the streets of Milwaukee. They are on the hunt for undesirables. Bad hombres, trans folx, black people. They've been given lists of names and adresses, and at the top of those lists is someone the resistance forces consider a living legend:
Patrick S. Tomlinson.
In the first days of the Reich he used his writing talents to call on the masses to resist, and his covertly distributed political pieces have since become a major problem for the Trump Regime. Merely posessing a Tomlinson work is punishable by death. But Commander Tomlinson, as the resistance has come to call him, is as much a man of the sword as he is of the pen.
A fascist patrol, consisting of a tank surrounded by four proud boys, turns a corner into a quiet Milwaukee neighborhood. From the shadows, a water balloon comes arching over their heads. It hits the tank's optics and covers them in thick black liquid. The trump supporting fascists start to panic. That was a "Tomlinson Cocktail", and the tank is out of the fight.
Then, it goes quiet. Too quiet.
A well-aimed bullet clips the ear of the Proud Boy leader, blowing his head clean off, before hitting the militiaman standing behind him square in the chest. Two down.
Tomlinson breaks concealment, discards his PS-90, and draws his machete. For someone who's 200 pounds of pure muscle, he's surprisingly light on his feet. The remaining two fascists have no chance to hit him as he sommersaults towards them, decapitating one mid-flight and rearranging the teeth of the other using his fists.
He wipes his machete on his shirt, and turns to the fascist scum lying on the ground before him:
"This is why your life is already over, stalker. Enjoy hell."
