It wasn’t as though anyone knew Brogan had been the one who did it. After all, he was wearing a black hood like everyone else in the Sons of Cadmus—people called them balaclavas, and that always bothered Brogan because they’re actually Nomex hoods, the kind race car drivers wore under their helmets. Point is, no one could’ve known he was the one who’d punched that female protester in the mouth.

He wasn’t even trying to hit her. His actual target had been the ginger freak in the Portland Timbers jersey, the one who’d spat in his face. It’s just that after he’d wiped the gob from his eyes, he just swung reflexively—he wasn’t even really looking when that female stepped forward to spew whatever hateful thing he’d stopped her from saying. You can see the footage on X, which the left was still calling Twitter because words have no meaning to people who live lives devoid of meaning. He was clearly trying for the pasty snowflake in the soccer jersey.

Idiots were saying Brogan’s punch should be constituted as a hate crime, as the female was an Oriental—Oriental being the correct Western term for them. It’s like once race came into it, they completely forgot that Oriental was also female, which by their logic should’ve made it a hate crime anyway. But he didn’t mean to hit that female. He’d never hit a female. It was clear to anyone who watched the video, like Brogan and his S.O.C. brothers were doing while drinking beers at Leonard’s house.

Leonard was their leader and founder, having split off from that other organization after a string of scandals, the last of which being that former organization’s leader’s arrest for cohabitating with an underage girl, which Brogan never thought was that big a deal to begin with.

For Christ’s sake, he remembers saying in those pre-S.O.C. days, she’s practically seventeen already.

The joke online was they’d split off from the Company of Men, which was the old organization, because of the restrictions they’d placed on masturbating. Brogan hated that joke—keyboard warriors said S.O.C. stood for Sad-sack Onanists Cranking—which was admittedly lame but still pissed him off. Even so, he had to admit the self-pleasure ban was stupid, while at the same time, he understood why some thought touching yourself was inherently gay.

Splitting off was one of the best things that could’ve happened for Brogan. Leonard was a great leader. Under the Nomex hood, he taught high school Social Studies and coached varsity wrestling. He was a true leader of men, and Brogan often thought about how lucky those kids were to have such a great male role model in their lives. The Company of Men had mostly been a social club, a lot of weightlifting and lectures on proper male behavior—which was great at the time, but since they’d become men of action, the group has really begun to flourish. While Brogan was grateful for the sense of identity the Company of Men had given him, it was Leonard that gave him a sense of purpose. Some day, Brogan hoped to mentor a young man on his journey into manhood the way Leonard had for him.

Leonard took a sip of beer—Red Medicine IPA, the only beer they drank—and told Mick to rewind it, play it again. They watched the ginger spit in Brogan’s eyes, the only part of him that was exposed, and laughed at the way his eyes flamed with rage.

Pause it, Leonard said.

Mick hit pause on the remote, and everyone settled down. How many times was Leonard going to make them watch it? How many times was Brogan going to have to relive punching that Oriental? What was he supposed to get out of this? Had he done something wrong? Sure, he’d hit her, but it wasn’t like he’d meant to. So why was he making Brogan watch it over and over again? Was Leonard mad at him? There wasn’t any explicit rule about hitting female—a protester was a protester, an enemy an enemy—so what was it? Brogan felt a tightness at the base of his throat, as if a wet paper towel had lodged in his windpipe.

Here’s what pisses me off, Leonard said. The homo in the Timbers jersey leans back like he knows what’s coming to him, and that female just steps up like a goddamn hero, takes it on the chin like a champ. He wasn’t even man enough to step up.

What do you expect from a guy who likes soccer? Jim said. No offense, Dark.

Dark shrugged it off as the guys patted him on the back, told him he was cool, told him they weren’t talking about him, that they only meant dudes who called it soccer, that people who called it futebol were exempt, and Dark laughed. Figured Dark liked soccer, and not just considering where his family was from. Something about Dark just rubbed Brogan the wrong way. It wasn’t just the fact Dark called him Brogie, which he hated, especially when everyone told him it was out of love, no homo. Essentially, he just couldn’t understand why everyone liked Dark so much. The guy just had the kind of face you wanted to punch, even though no one else could see how punchable it was, which just made it even more punchable.

Seriously though, Leonard said, guy leans back like he’s Sugar Ray. Meanwhile, she sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong and Brogan clocks her.

While the others have a spirited discussion about the ginger’s clear lack of masculinity, Brogan considered Leonard’s words. This was all avoidable. All that ginger had to do was step up and do what men do. Instead, he let her take what was coming to him. Why did that ginger step back? Why couldn’t he man up and finish what he’d started?

The hate crime shit, too, Mick said. That female’s last name is Francis. She’s practically one of us. I mean, she does have some Mongoloid features, but isn’t she basically white?

Mongoloid in this case meaning the Mongolian genetic footprint and not meaning retarded, although the S.O.C. was reclaiming the word and all its meanings. If Mick had meant she looked like a retard, no one would’ve batted an eye—batting an eye being the correct term, as opposed to the incorrect, and feminine, eyelash.

Truth is, Leonard said, Orientals are the most genetically compatible for race-mixing. The Japanese actually have Russian genes flowing through their veins. The Chinese even used to call themselves white until we started calling them yellow. Anyway, I know this girl’s Korean—half-Korean—but the point still stands.

Brogan wasn’t sure what Leonard’s point was—he often went off on tangents, turns of thought the rest of them would never fully understand, because he knew so much about history and culture—but Brogan had actually been thinking about the female, and her race, even when he didn’t want to. Why was she even there? The truth was the hate crime stuff bothered him. He had nothing against her kind. He even admired some of them. In his mind, if Orientals, and some Blacks, could see they were on the same side, so many of their headaches would just disappear.

So, going back to what you said, Mick said, I can’t understand why Brogan’s getting so much shit over this. When you think about what Soccer Boy did, it’s unchivalrous. He spit on Brogan like a coward, then basically hid behind her. That’s like a total dereliction of manhood.

Brogan took a sip of Red Medicine, his fourth can. Dereliction of manhood was such a deep thing to say, but that was Mick. He had a knack for using words in a way Leonard had once called incendiary. His father had once run for the State Senate, was the closest a Libertarian candidate had ever come to winning. It was indeed a dereliction of manhood. Where was this ginger’s punishment for that? What lesson was going to be taught because of his cowardice? As he scanned the room, he couldn’t help but notice Dark staring at him. He’d seen that disdainful look in Dark’s eyes before, but something felt off. Maybe it was because without the Nomex hood, Brogan could see the face behind those eyes he’d seen so many times before. Maybe it was that goofy smile. He wasn’t sure—just felt different is all.

This is the problem, Jim said. They come after us for wearing masks, but we don’t hide behind females, so what’s up?

Jim was right, absolutely right. They might have worn masks, but it was everyone else who hid. Everyone pretended to be so virtuous and pure when they were no better than anyone else in this room. They were every bit as hateful as they accused the S.O.C. of being. After all, Brogan hadn’t spit in anyone’s face. They were the ones who spit in faces. They were the ones who accused people of being Nazis, the ones who tried to pull their hoods off, the ones who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. All the S.O.C. wanted to do was march peacefully and remind people of Western cultural supremacy, and there was nothing wrong with that. There was nothing wrong with loving your own culture, wanting a single culture to unify around. Most of the S.O.C. weren’t even racist—one of the racists had even been expelled from the group two days before that protest—so that baseless smear held no water with Brogan. They never started anything—all they did was finish whatever those hateful protesters started. Did those idiots think Brogan wanted to wear that hood, lug that heavy shield? If they’d just let his brothers march peacefully, they wouldn’t need those shields, or batons, or baseball bats, or brass knuckles, or blackjacks, or butterfly knives.

Truth was, the S.O.C. were exactly who they were, whether they wore Nomex hoods or not. It was everyone else who wore a mask, a mask of respectability they’d never grant the likes of Brogan, a mask of respectability that was a lie because they knew nothing of respect—respect for themselves, for culture, for natural order.

Amen, Brogan said. He and Jim bashed their forearms together.

Don’t let it get to you, brother, Jim said. That female got in the way of men doing battle. These things happen.

I’m good, man.

Naw, come on, I know how you are.

The fuck does that mean?

Hey man, I say this with no homo in my heart. You have a big heart. You’re full of love for everybody. So I know you’re hurting.

Everyone began coughing homo into their fists, and Leonard held a finger in the air to shut it down. The coughing stopped, and the hardness left Leonard’s eyes, but it didn’t leave Brogan’s. They all smiled at him. Dark chuckled and shook his head. Bunch of fucking children.

Jim’s not wrong, Brogan, Leonard said. You’re a gentle giant. Nothing wrong with that. Courtesy and kindness define a man—you know that.

Yeah, man, Jim said. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want you next to me in a scrap. You balance loving people and hating people in a really nice way. Most of us can’t do that. We’re all full of anger and hate. I try to fight it, but it’s true. And you’re not like that. I admire you, dude.

It’s like on Star Trek, Dark said. As far as Brogan knew, they called him Dark because his family was from Brazil, even though it didn’t make sense. His last name was Schneider and he wasn’t dark at all. It occurred to Brogan that maybe they didn’t call him Dark because he was from Brazil at all, but for some other reason he’d never considered. He just didn’t like Dark. His English wasn’t great, and he was always saying stupid shit like this, things that only connected in ways he could decipher, things that helped him pull conversations into things that only he found interesting.

The hell are you talking about, man? Brogan asked.

That Star Trek episode where they go on that planet where physical combat is more pleasurable than love. They couldn’t find a bal—

What’s that have to do with anything? You’re always doing this shit. No one cares about Star Trek, you dork. We’re busy chasing girls.

Shit. It was a slip. Dark smirked his little stupid smirk while everyone yelled at them to calm the fuck down.

I bet you chase girls, Dark said. Can’t keep pace with females unless you punch them in the face.

Brogan rose to his feet, glared at Dark, who stayed seated, calmly sipped his beer. Leonard raised his finger, and Brogan slowly took a seat, looked over at Leonard to let him know it was out of respect and not fear.

I think I remember that episode, Leonard said. You talking about that one with the mining treaty? The one with Julie Newmar, right?

I guess, Dark said.

Used to watch Star Trek when I was a kid, with my dad. It was a decent show, but that one was written by a female. A lot of them were, sadly.

I didn’t know that.

Well, now you do.

Brogan and Dark took pulls of their Red Medicine, their eyes locked on one other. Brogan didn’t just feel stupid for saying girls. Bragging about chasing females to Dark was a huge misstep. He could see it in everyone’s eyes. That guy had a way with females none of them could understand. Not that he was a bad looking dude, no homo—he was actually very handsome, no homo—it was more females seemed to enjoy his accent. It never ceased to amaze Brogan how much the female mind seemed to love inexact pronunciation, the degradation of language. Maybe they thought he was a Mongoloid—Mongoloid in this case meaning retarded and not the Mongolian genetic footprint—maybe they thought he was cute just for trying.

Leonard told them to shake hands, and they refused, and he said they were worse than toddlers, and demanded they shake hands or step into the Octagon. At that point, shaking hands just seemed like a coward’s way out. He was sure Dark agreed.

 

The octogan wasn’t an actual Octagon. It was actually Leonard’s perfectly manicured back yard, the area just beyond the Weber grill and pizza oven. They never used the grill or the oven. Or the hot tub. Or the trampoline. Those were for when Leonard’s kids came over from Yakima every other weekend.

At any rate, it was a quick fight. Dark charged him, and he flipped Dark onto the grass and let loose, pounding his fists into Dark’s face until they pulled him off. As they yanked him away, Brogan thought of the Oriental, how he admired her courage, even though she had no business being out there. He wondered if things might have been different had she been surrounded by real men instead of cowards. If only someone could fix the world so females like her didn’t feel the need to step up. If only the world had more men who cared about the safety of females. The group gathered around Dark, asking him if he was okay, except they were calling him Dirk.

Wait, was his name Dirk? So that’s why they called him Dark. Brogan wondered if he’d always known his name was Dirk. He had to know. How could he not? Dirk lay on his back, his mouth and chin muzzled with blood. Jesus Christ. What had he done? How could he do this to a brother? All this because that Oriental and her ginger friend didn’t understand the natural order of things. Brogan fell to his knees, clasped Dirk’s hand. Dirk smiled.

I think you broke my nose, Dirk said.

I’m sorry, Dark, Brogan said. I shouldn’t have—listen, can I call you Dirk from now on?

Sure. It’s my name.

I’m in a bad place right now, Dirk. It’s not you, man. I’m really sorry.

Thanks, Brogie. I’m sorry too. I don’t think you hit that female on purpose. You’re a good guy.

Well, you’re a great guy. I’m sorry I lost it. I just thought of something, though, and I’m gonna make this right, man. I’m gonna get my head right, so I don’t do stuff like this anymore.

Sounds great. Good luck. I believe in you.

Thanks so much, Dirk. That means a lot.

Dirk rolled over and puked on the grass. Leonard pointed at the flesh-colored blob steaming on the lawn and yelled at Brogan, told him Dark probably had a concussion.

Somebody get the goddamn hose, Leonard said. And you, go home and cool off.

Brogan got to the side gate and turned around. Leonard was still pointing at him. Mick dragged the hose through the grass. Leonard snatched it from him, but the hose was caught under the wheel of the Weber, so when Leonard pulled, the grill toppled to the ground, spilling ash and white briquettes on the lawn.

Motherfuck, Leonard spat.

 

 

The ginger’s name was Greg Simpkins, and as fate would have it, he lived a block over from Brogan’s dad. Brogan pulled into the gravel driveway and cut the engine, got out of the car. He felt the pebbles crunch beneath his boots. Hailee ran from the door into his arms.

Want to hear me practice my songs? she shouted.

What songs?

The concert for school. You said you were coming, remember?

Of course I remember. I was just messing with you.

Brogan scooped his little sister into the air and gave her a bear hug, and she laughed as he squeezed the air out of her. She always enjoyed that.

Hailee ran to her room, said she’d wait for him. Brogan’s father was sitting on the Barcalounger, sipping a Coors, groaning as an Oregon linebacker scooped a Huskies fumble off the turf and raced down the sideline. Brogan wracked his brain, realizing he hadn’t come up with a reason to stop by.

Where’s Terri, Brogan asked.

There’s Hamburger Helper left in the fridge, he said.

I’m not hungry, Brogan said.

Good.

His father glowered, which had been the way he’d regarded Brogan for as long as he could remember. He looked him up and down, examining him, which only meant the fat jokes would start soon enough.

The hell happened to your hands? his father asked.

Brogan looked down at the blood on his knuckles. He told his father it happened at work, and his father chuckled in that jeering way he always chuckled when they talked.

Really, he said, at work. So this was all some cashiering mishap at Albertsons. Of course it was.

I don’t know what to tell you, man.

You can tell me why you’re here.

To grab something from my room.

Grab what?

My bat. Gonna play softball with friends.

Your friends realize you’ll be sucking wind halfway to first, right?

Good one, dude. I’m sure everyone in line at the disability office thinks you’re a regular Rodney Dangerfield.

He saw his dad’s hand grip the recliner’s lever, ready to pull it and go upright. Brogan strolled over and stood over him to let him know things were different now, that he could make all the fat jokes he wanted, but he wasn’t going to lay a hand on him, that he wasn’t fourteen anymore, that he could clean-and-jerk 260 pounds with very little effort. He stared at his clenched fists, then back at his father, who let go of the lever.

Go grab your bat, Bambino, he said. Be nice to your sister and get the hell out before Terri gets home.

He went to his room and grabbed his bat, which he’d use to teach Greg Simpkins a lesson on manhood. He wrapped his bloody knuckles around the handles and swung the bat slowly and carefully.

What happened to your hands? Hailee asked.

He turned and saw her standing at the door. She asked him why he didn’t come to her room, and he told her he was actually on his way, and she smiled and said it was okay, that they could do it in here. Brogan smiled and sat at his desk, rubbed his hands together, told her he was very excited.

Hailee sang three pop songs: Taylor Swift, some K-Pop bilingual bullshit, and finally a song by Ace of Base. Brogan couldn’t stop thinking about something Leonard had told him, how the founder of Ace of Base was once in a Nazi punk band, how there was once a German U-Boat base in France known as the “Base of Aces,” how the song “All That She Wants” is about a woman who wants to get knocked up so she can lie on the beach while sucking the welfare teat, how when they show her in the video, she’s wearing Star of David jewelry. He then pivoted to the women in ABBA having been part of a Nazi eugenics program to produce Aryan-Scandinavian children.

He’d once asked Leonard if he was a Nazi, which was laughed off with another rant about Nazi philosophy being a mishmash of Indo-European and Norse beliefs and how the Greco-Roman way of life was a higher-level ethos.

Sometimes, Brogan wondered if Leonard wanted to keep him confused.

Brogan smiled as his sister performed the choreography, pointing at her eyes, her knees bouncing, her head bobbing. She was adorable, but he knew that soon, she’d be of age, and a man would find her, and Brogan prayed that man would guide her, provide for her, protect her, that she’d never meet a man who wouldn’t take a punch for her. He prayed Hailee wouldn’t take on his father’s moral and spiritual weakness, his step-mother’s willfulness, prayed she would someday find a man like Leonard, who would cure her of the modern world’s stupidity and cruelty.

He then thought about that half-Oriental, wondered if she had a brother who loved her, looked out for her. If she did, that poor guy must have been in hell because of what Brogan had done. What about her father? How helpless must he have felt when he watched the footage of his daughter getting punched in the face. The rage he must feel toward the coward Greg Simpkins. It honestly hurt Brogan’s heart, knowing he’d hurt so many people.

Brogan clutched the bat to his chest, told himself he wasn’t just doing it for him, but for that Oriental’s father and, if she had one, her brother. Greg Simpkins needed to learn men don’t abandon their duties, had to learn dereliction was never an option.

 

It had to be strange for Greg Simpkins, seeing a man in a Nomex hood holding a bat at his front door, but he seemed to take it all in stride. As a matter of fact, it was as though he’d been expecting it.

Come on in, he said.

As they walked into the home, Greg Simpkins told him dodging that punch haunted him, that Amy didn’t deserve what she got. That he knew he’d messed up, that Amy—

Who’s Amy?

The girl you punched in the face.

Oh, yeah.

Brogan looked around the house. It was a nice home, really kept up, very clean. He was shocked someone like Greg Simpkins would keep such a neat home—people like this usually lacked the pride and discipline demanded of cleanliness. In all honesty, he was expecting Bob Marley posters and marijuana cigarettes strewn across a latte-stained coffee table.

She’s a really good person, man, Simpkins said. She told us she forgives you.

Forgives me?

She’s a Christian, you know? Weird, right? Well, maybe not to you.

I didn’t ask for her forgiveness.

Well, sorry that hurts you.

It doesn’t fucking hurt me.

Sure it does, man. Otherwise, why are you here? Anyway, let’s get this over with.

Wait, what?

Honestly, I was kind of praying for this to happen, which is funny because I’m an atheist. But I was, like, seriously praying. As hard as it might be for you to believe, I’m really glad to see you.

Simpkins closed his eyes, his chest filling with air. He slowly released the air through a tiny opening in his pursed lips. Brogan couldn’t believe how peaceful he looked. What kind of man just accepts a beating—especially one that was never coming in the first place? It only hardened Brogan’s sense of resolve. He knew what needed to be done.

Dude, Brogan said, you don’t understand.

Brogan gripped the wide end of the bat, pointed the handle toward Simpkins, nodded. Simpkins stared at the handle, then backed away. He finally looked scared.

Can I ask your name? he asked.

Mike.

Mike, do you want me to hit you with that bat?

Yup.

No way, man. I’m not doing that shit.

Why not?

I don’t believe in violence. That’s why.

You spit on me, Greg. That’s violence too.

I know, and I’m sorry for that.

Prove it.

By hitting you with a bat? That doesn’t even make sense.

It makes perfect sense.

Greg began to shake, actually shake, like he was going to cry. Brogan tried to hide his disgust. Why couldn’t this idiot see he was trying to help him? Why couldn’t this idiot see they could help one another? All he had to do was take the fucking bat. Greg jabbed the end of the bat toward Greg. Take the bat, Greg. Take it.

Come on, Mike, let’s not do this. We’re human beings. I know you don’t see me as one, and I know I failed to see you as one that day, but you are. We could just sit and talk this out, dude, like human beings. Could we see each other as human beings? I’m begging you, dude. Can you take off the mask? Can we please fucking try to be human?

Brogan pulled the opening of the hood over his eyes, making sure his face was completely covered. He couldn’t see a thing, could hardly breathe. He dropped to his knees, pointed the handle toward Greg, began poking the air with it before realizing it probably made it harder for Greg to take it.

He told Greg to take the bat, first in a cold flat tone, then a series of desperate, pleading shouts.