The Reds had launched a challenge:
Citizens who refuse to accept the uncontrolled flow of mass immigration imposed by the system would not be able to express themselves openly in the streets of Quebec City on November 25th.
The Far Left would physically “defend” governmental policies against the rising tide of popular discontent—a superficially surprising position as the antifas usually claim to be against the government.
The challenge of these cyberwarriors was heard by the young identitarians of Atalante, a local political organization based in Quebec City. For the young nationalists, it is clear that the capital city is White, and is nowhere close to being Red.
A few dozen activists answered Atalante’s call and gathered in the morning of November 25th. The excitement was palpable; everyone was waiting to go to battle against those who defile our city. The looks on the activists’ faces were confident. Almost all were young men in the prime of life. The atmosphere and faces were reminiscent of what it must have been like in an officers’ mess before the army began to adopt so-called inclusive policies. Suddenly the signal was given; it was time to hit the streets and reach the battlefield.
We arrived behind the city’s fortifications, hidden from the Parliament and therefore from the main protest and the red counter-protest. The walls which had been erected to protect the cradle of European civilization in America were once again used for this very purpose. Before we had reached the stone wall, the police had seen us from the sky. The surprise was spoiled. It was time to hurry up and get to our position.
Our steps went faster, and the death head masks soon covered the smiles of the identitarians. It became impossible to recognize a friend anymore, but anyways, in such a situation everyone is a comrade.
The hands seized the flags that were going to be used to show our presence and defend it if someone confronted us. The fine, icy rain was passing through our garments, and only the fire that burnt inside us kept us warm. Our feet beat the snow-covered cobblestones. With such weather, one was reminded of those who had fought on the Eastern front against an earlier Communist menace, reminding us that our fate would not be that bad.
We arrived at the top of the fortification, with a thought this time for Frontenac, the Governor General of New France from 1672 to 1682, and his defiance against past invaders.
It only took a few seconds, a single glance to understand the situation. Down in front of us, the Reds were gathering to try stop the citizens united under the banners of Storm Alliance and La Meute who were approaching.
Some songs and chants rose from our throats. They sharpened our senses us up and warmed us up, and above all, they announced our presence to those below the wall who were still facing the other way. “Shock and awe” is the expression that Bush would have used.
They turned around incredulously. They had planned to confront women, children and old men, and maybe a few young men, but these wolves standing on the wall to provoke them were not part of the plan.
Faced with the anti-immigration demonstration arriving on one side and the young identitarians on the other, several antifas decided the revolution would have to wait and that fleeing was a safer and sounder plan. Those that couldn’t decided that the safest thing to do would be to rely on the police, who are ruled by a code of ethics. Launching a flurry of snowballs against them, they sought safety in their handcuffs and the kid gloves with which the police arrest stroppy Leftists. Above all, they were careful not to infuriate the police too much, to avoid the batons coming out.
A third group, composed of some excited revolutionaries, braced themselves to answer the nationalists’ challenge. They headed towards the city wall with trepidation, but made sure to keep a safe and healthy distance from the identitarians. The risk was calculated. Hysterical, on the edge of neurosis, they lost control and began to act like kids doing the bacon dance. Doctors would have called it “epileptic shock.”
On the other side of the red flurry, a clamor rose. Our friends had recognized us. We, the cavalry, had arrived and we were just in time if subsequent media reports are to be believed. The leaders of the two citizen groups asked their supporters not to show us too much support—after all we are the terrible children of the Right—but looks and thumbs up from the protesters reminded us that our arrival was much appreciated.
From the ramparts, as we prepared to humbly join the angry citizens to support their message, one last thought: we felt some regret that the cowardice and mediocrity of our opponents had deprived us of our full measure of glory.