Vic showed up Tuesday morning at the supermarket wearing his homemade mask.

The cammie bandana tied over the bridge of his nose gave him an air of confidence with an edge of malice, making him look like a cowboy bank robber riding some very unhappy trails. In this cruel new world image meant everything.

Stepping into line, Vic stretched, flexed and put his order on the black conveyer belt. Rolling his shoulders like a mixed martial artist before a cage fight, he inhaled deeply. Promoting himself to black belt after watching a year’s worth of Steven Seagal videos, Vic exhaled loudly and practiced a slow-motion chop.

The teenager working the register shook his head.

That’s it?

I got a dozen packs of coffee filters I’m gonna use for germ masks.

That’s some mask you’re wearing today.

Best I could do under the circumstances. A coffee filter with a rubber band will protect me like them doctors on E.R.

Now that you mention it, you look like you could use a brain surgeon.

What are you a wise guy?

Aw, lighten up. This job’s getting to me.

Let me speak to your supervisor.

I am the supervisor.

Jesus.

I’m putting my life on the line each day during the senior citizens’ 7 a.m. toilet paper dash and you want to get me fired over making a joke?

Just as Vic started to dismiss the kid as a Generation Z punk, a firm hand grabbed him by his bony left shoulder. Slipping the assault like a ninja master, Vic spun and assumed his best fighting stance. State prison captain Harvey Jones took one step back, pulled his industrial strength stun gun in one smooth training academy motion and fired. The dart caught Vic in the areola of his left breast. The probe burrowed under the skin and attached to the left nipple, sending shock waves into Vic’s nervous system.

Capt. Jones jeered.

You want a piece of me, boy?

After a few more involuntary gyrations, Vic passed out from the electrifying current that made his brain hum like a meat cooler in the back of the store. Capt. Jones easily restrained his captive with zip lock-style plastic cuffs he carried because nowadays you never knew what might happen. Grinning, he called 911 on his cell phone and stepped on Vic’s neck with a black spit-shined paratrooper boot.

Goddamn looters, Capt. Jones said.

The clerk cheered.

USAUSAUSA!

The dispatcher answered after a dozen rings.

Looter in custody, Capt. Jones said.

Looters?

Roger that.

Back-up’s on the way.

Vic started to come around.

Capt. Jones got preachy.

We refuse to let the terrorists win. Not in my America,

Vic moaned.

Gina.

Gina.

Help me, Gina.