They took three today.

The mayor summed it up perfectly. “Those are neighbors. We saw their faces a couple of times a week, depending on our situations, but they were familiar faces. Then strangers show up, and under whatever rules they follow, come and take them away.”

I saw them. Maybe six of them. Fat-ish men, black polo shirts, guns in holsters, in cargo pants or jeans, standing outside the courthouse. I walked through the crowd of them, feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “F*%king fascists,” I thought. Their cheaply-embroidered ICE patches on ill-fitting, Chinese-made polo shirts—only the finest for America’s finest. I tried to discreetly snap a picture, but caught more of my own face than I’d like.

I passed the news up the chain and within 10 minutes, there were eyes in the park. We took plates and stood around, tuned to anything suspicious. Someone had already made some calls—the press, local business owners, friends—thankfully, the network was working.

Then they filed out. Massed their cars behind the courthouse and with one of them jumping the curb, they were off, Lisa on her bicycle behind them. They didn’t go far. Eleganté again. We reckoned on revenge this time.

I walked right up to the door—locked—Officer Thatcher walked out and I said wryly, “No pizza today, huh?” He wasn’t amused. I sat at the coffee shop, thinly veiled behind a chai, phone and camera at the ready. There wasn’t much to see for a while. One of the (alleged) officers came in and out a few times, bringing in totes and supplies into the restaurant, a woman in a “Back the Blue”-type sweatshirt signed some papers. 

After a while, there were several of us outside, front and back. I kept my cafe seat—can’t stop someone from sitting at a cafe, right? The guy doing most of the footwork was a young-ish black man, likely in his 20s. He wore sneakers with red soles—real official—and a tan body armor vest. His tag read “Gregory”—though I doubt that was his name. He wouldn’t talk to Liam when asked about credentials and kept things trite with an occasional “Don’t interfere.”

They claimed to be ICE, DHS and the IRS. That things were “Deeper than we knew.” That there was fraud and corruption for years. They blocked the sidewalk. They took three. Two in cuffs, one seemingly unrestrained. I only saw the two enter the car from the back. They didn’t look scared. I saw later on a friend’s video that they both actually mustered a smile. I admire that dignity so much. I will remember them.

And at 3:37, just like that—poof—as if nothing ever happened, the hideous spectre of fascism disappeared seamlessly into the backdrop of everyday American life. Its tinted-and-barred SUVs pulling into an endless stream of traffic, leaving nothing behind except restaurant windows shaded out by taped-up paper bags and a closed sign that will linger for god-only-knows how long. God bless America.

It’s a strange world where the guy making your pizzas for the last 25 years is a sub-human gangster terrorist, and the masked man with a gun who shows up in an unmarked car to take him away is the good guy. 

Nico Bleu lives in Wayne County, PA. They have been granted anonymity by the River Reporter.