When America’s newest floundering fathers showed up for dress rehearsal, nobody could have picked a winner.

Big Bob wore a black balaclava mask and an ankle-length yellow cape with a coiled rattler and the words “Don’t Tread On Me” emblazoned across the back. Cammie shorts and blue rubber flip flops because his feet hurt rounded out his protest uniform.

Vic went Italian-American defiant all the way with a freshly shaved head and a Sam Browne belt pulled tight over his left shoulder from which hung a vintage holster into which he stuffed a loaded German Luger pistol Big Bob loaned him for the occasion. Polished boots, bloused tan pants and a matching uniform shirt made him look like Mussolini’s twin brother.

Buck proudly wore a new thick Hitler moustache and now combed his hair in a style that made people stop and stare on the street. When they did, he clicked his heels and fired off a straight-armed salute.

America’s newest anti-government patriots would be hits at the Godstock rally, maybe even make the FOX newscasts.

All three men carried long guns. Bob flashed a top of the line AR-15. Still unaccustomed to weapons of any kind of war, Vic and Buck clutched traditional deer rifles, a Winchester Model 70 and a German-made Mauser M98.

Before their close-order drill got underway, a deadly serious Big Bob questioned his partners in patriotism.

Did you see the Chinaman in the truck?

I thought my eyes were playing Kung Fu virus tricks on me, Vic said.

Buck narrowed his mind.

You think he’s a spy?

They dumped all that medical shit behind the mausoleum, didn’t they? Put a poisoned surgical mask on my dog. Spread the bugs all over Betsy’s funeral. That gook terrorist is worse than a spy.

Gooks are Viet Congs, right?

Gooks are anything with a different slant on life than ours, Big Bob said. I learned that in the Marines.

So what do we do about it?

Stay on guard at all times.

When all three saw the prison captain pull up in his Ram 1500 half-ton truck, they stood in stunned silence as the industrial strength prison guard cut the motor and approached Big Bob.

Betsy would counsel me to apologize, Capt. Henry Jones said.

Big Bob trembled with anger.

You gave her the COVID, he said.

No, I did not, Jones said.

You stole my girl, Big Bob said.

We were drinking, Jones said.

A perpetually slobbering Clancy bounded off the porch and headed for Jones, who kneeled to greet the pooch. Big Bob stood by silently as the mutt licked and cried and licked all over Jones’ face.

Capt. Jones looked up at a hulking Big Bob.

You get the dog checked out at the vet after him wearing that diseased mask?

I don’t think his spit got infected, Big Bob said.

All that paranoia’s just Democrat propaganda to strip us of our liberties, said Vic.

Jones looked at Buck who immediately clicked his heels and saluted.

That’s pretty good, Jones said.

Big Bob’s limited attention span kept him from even carrying a grudge.

You going to the Set-US-free rally, Capt. Jones?

Me and Lt. Smith from the prison are going to protest a lack of security on the cell blocks. The jigs are rioting ever since their two homies died from the COVID. I found two big Molotov cocktails they hid in the prison staff car wash. I got the bottles and wet rags soaked in cleaning fluid in the pick-up.

God, guns and guts made America free. Pay any price to save all three, Vic said, slapping his holster.

Buck saluted again.

Capt. Jones returned the salute.

On his way home the prison officer passed the medical waste truck going in the other direction. Sonofabitch, he said, spotting Bobby Wong, who Jones decided was a Chinese coronavirus carrier and his Mexican buddy, Angel Rivera, who, if you remember, was actually of Puerto Rican descent. Both born-in-the-USA American citizens and under the serious influence of alcohol, after a long day of illicit deception they headed for a couple of drinks at the Veterans of Foreign Wars post before officially ending their shift and heading home.

Jones hit pay dirt.

Illegals.

After three phone calls to ICE nobody answered and an hour of hate-filled surveillance, Jones left. At midnight Jones headed out for cigarettes. Passing the VFW he saw the truck still parked behind the hall. Jones figured the two drunken aliens left the truck and would pick up their work vehicle in the morning for another criminal delivery of infected medical waste.

Not on his watch.

Jones decided to disinfect the truck.

Pulling over to park he hopped out of the RAM two-ton. Taking the Molotov cocktails from the truck, he flicked his plastic disposal lighter and ignited the first rag, easily lobbing the first fire bomb through the open passenger window. Flames erupted faster and higher than he expected as flammable chemicals that dampened the towels and masks and other medical waste made the contents of the truck more combustible.

The two comatose drunks passed out in the back of the truck went up in a ball of fire as well. If the smoke didn’t get them the flames sure did. You couldn’t blame the coronavirus for these fatalities. Then again, if you consider negligent homicide the same as collateral damage, maybe you could.

Three words flashed in Capt. Jones’ head as he drove away laughing.

Build the wall.