By Harry Peat
“There’s too many of them, Sarge!” Cahill wailed. Always the first to whinge.
“He’s right, Sarge.” Brews stuck his oar in. Et tu, Brewté?
“Cowards!” I bellowed. “All of you! The thin blue line has never looked so anorexic! Would you die like cornered rats, or march forth and show these subhuman scum what we do? Pick up your baton and smash it through skull after skull until none remain!”
I reached for my baton and raised it above my head. “Behold, the sword of righteousness!”
A perfectly thrown brick burst through the window and struck my temple. The barricades fell.
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