But shouts are coming from the back of the hall. A scuffle is breaking out, and he can make out a couple of blackshirts doing over a young thug with a beard. Everybody turns around, ignoring his speech. The scuffle gets rowdier; as does the shouting. There is little doubt that Bolsheviks have infiltrated the meeting! Time to fight them with words too.

“See here, gentlemen, the actions of the Communist…”

A few heads turn back to face him.

“…intent on violence and terror to disrupt our show of patriotism. We came to this town in peace and we intend to leave in peace. But if we are attacked, then we will show that Fascism is above all strong….”

But shout as loud as he can, the scuffle is turning into a fight. There must be at least fifty filthy Commies among them, intent on causing trouble. Well, they’ll get it all right; they’ll get it where it hurts. He steps down from the stage—he’ll show them that a man like him leads from the front, that he is more than a speaker.

He runs to where a couple of Bolshies are kicking a helpless blackshirt on the floor. He slides his truncheon out of his pocket, and with his left hand grabs the shoulder of a Bolshie and turns him around.

“Have this, you bastard!” he shouts, and swings the truncheon into the Bolshie’s face. Without the embedded nails, the truncheon might have just broken his nose, but with them, the damage is a lot worse. He must have got the bugger in the right eye as well, because blood is pouring out of it. The man brings his hands to his face and starts screaming—good. More and more blood, dribbling through the cracks between his fingers and down his arms. He kicks the Bolshie in the groin for good measure, whereupon he collapses.

The Commie’s mate stops kicking the blackshirt. He looks stunned at the ferocity of the attack and readies himself, his fists raised in front of him. Stupid fucker—thinks he’s so brave, such a little fighter. The truth is, no Communist can fight, they’re just a bunch of yellow nancy- and Jew-boys and this one will prove no exception.

He smashes one of those puny fists with the truncheon. He sees the skin over the knuckles split open and more Bolshie blood gets spilled. But this one’s a little tougher than he expects, and still he comes forward, shouting some nonsense at the top of his lungs. But before he can throw a punch with the remaining good fist, he gets a kick in his little Jew balls. He bends double, and then crack! Up comes knee under chin, snapping his head back. That sends him to the floor all right.