[ WP ] A young police recruit is placed in riot gear and thrust to the front line against an escalating protest .

“ The crowd outside has reached bedlam. And by that I mean… it hasn ’ t. ” 
 
 
 Police Chief Petunia was stumped. He cradled his soy milk half-caf delicately in his manicured fingers. 
 
 
 “ When I first joined the force these kids meant business. They were up in arms, sticking rose petals in carbines or sitting at the counter of Woolworth ’ s…. sinisterly…. just waiting for a nightstick to the midsection or a fire hose blast to the sternum. Bring me the new recruit. ” 
 
 
 Police Chief Petunia took a sip from his drink, furrowed his brow, and then tore the lid off of a sugar dispenser filled with low calorie artificial sweetener labeled “ organic. ” He poured the majority of the contents into his drink. It immediately crystallized into some form of viscous sludge. A meek young man, just a few days removed from his 18th birthday, ambled towards him. 
 
 
 “ H… hello Chief. I don ’ t know why Officer Stacy thought my hands were down my uniform but I can assure you… ” 
 
 
 “ Enough. We have a job for you, Cadet Deefus. I ’ ve been Chief of Police here in Stagsack for 28 years, and never have I seen a protest like this. These kids are so… placid. So calm. They must be stopped. ” 
 
 
 Cadet Deefus stood there, small-armed and soft-bellied, his slack jaw hanging in direct parallel to his delicate unibrow. 
 
 
 “ S… stopped, sir? ” 
 
 
 Police Chief Petunia strolled over to a locker with a menacing looking exterior lock. He gently tugged at it and it snapped open. He reached inside the locker and pulled out various articles of clothing. 
 
 
 “ Here is your riot gear, cadet. You ’ re going out to the front lines. We can ’ t assure your safety… but we can assure you that a reasonably priced plaque will be hung in your honor. Haven ’ t you always wanted to be a hero, son? ” 
 
 
 Cadet Deefus stuck out his gaunt arms, collecting the riot gear from Police Chief Petunia. A pair of lensless horn-rimmed glasses. A green cardigan. A tight pair of khakis. And most importantly, wingtips. 
 
 
 “ Put these on. Report to the front lines. When I give you the signal, you charge. ” 
 
 
 “ Ch… charge the protestors, sir? But they ’ re just sitting there… ” 
 
 
 “ If I wanted you to charge them I would have said so! No. I will be out there with Officer Stacy and the better half of our K-9 unit. I want you to charge towards us! ” 
 
 
 “ S.. sir? ” 
 
 
 “ You heard me cadet! Now get moving. ” 
 
 
 A rotund lump formed in Cadet Deefus ’ s meager throat. He shrugged his shoulders, removed his uniform and placed the riot gear over his meager frame. The door lightly shook on its hinges as he attempted to slam it on his way out. 
 
 
 Outside of the police building the crowd had grown complacent. The rally cries of “ Mock our sins no more! ” ceased to ring out through the idyllic Vermont rolling hillsides. Nobody knew what exactly had precipitated the beginning of this pro-Wingtip protest, and nobody seemed to wonder why. A thin figure gawked at the crowd from inside the door, before being pushed out by a sturdy hand with well-polished fingernails. 
 
 
 “ Uh… uh…. Up with Wingtips! ” 
 
 
 A quiet rally cry returned the sentiment. 
 
 
 “ No more moccasins! ” 
 
 
 A second rally cry, quieter than the first, re-affirmed the notion. 
 
 
 Cadet Deefus cast a furtive glance towards the headquarters, as a squadron of heavily armed officers and hungry German Shepherds advanced towards the reclining protestors. Police Chief Petunia raised his riot shield in the air three times; the unmistakable international symbol for “ charge at me. ” Cadet Deefus removed a wingtip and tossed it towards the officers, the loafer covering half the distance between his limp wrist and the intimidating legion of officers. The sinewy legs of Cadet Deefus ran towards the battalion. 
 
 
 “ Fire up the tear gas, boys. ” 
 
 
 No fewer than three canisters of Civil Rights grade tear gas sprang out from the officers, landing upon the unsuspecting protestors like artillery fire. One round hit a small dog, who bit the crotch of the closest individual. The pro-Wingtip crowd began coughing, sneezing, choking, vomiting, oozing and crying. A thick fog formed over the crowd and visibility fell to zero. 
 
 
 “ You know what to do! ” 
 
 
 Cadet Deefus had no idea what to do. His eyes burned, his throat was dry, a burning rash was forming on his skin and his dry heaves were causing him severe discomfort. The police pounced upon him, their batons ready. 
 
 
 “ Here ’ s one right here! 200 points! ” 
 
 
 Fortunately for Cadet Deefus he did not suffer long, as he quickly lost consciousness upon reaching his pain threshold. He woke up several days later, in a plastic bed, a bronze plaque dangling from Police Chief Petunia ’ s supple hands. His name may have been misspelled… but his legend will live on forever. 

