"Through every Middlesex village and farm"

“Through every Middlesex village and farm”
by David Benjamin

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”
— The Bill of Rights

Grosscup answered the door. He was in his pajamas. His coffee was brewing. He had morning breath. He found on his doorstep a tall, fit, granite-jawed figure, heavily armed, wearing Tactical Assault Camouflage and a pair of vicious-looking boots.

“Oh my God,” said Grosscup.

“ G. Grayling Grosscup?” asked the stranger in a clipped, resounding drill-sergeant baritone.

“Well, yes, but who — ”

“Captain Grosscup, it’s an honor to make your acquaintance.” The stranger saluted, almost violently. “I am Platoon Command Lieutenant (PCL) Gerhard Flick of the First National Volunteer Militia Brigade.”

Grosscup rubbed his eyes. PCL Flick stood at ease. “How soon,” he said, “can you be ready, Captain Grosscup?”

“Captain?” said Grosscup, feeling the first twinges of alarm. “Ready for what?”

“Well, sir,” said PCL Flick with a brief, flinty smile, “we know you pretty well. You’re the proud owner of 19 guns, both rifles and handguns, revolvers, semi-automatic and automatic, a classic Thompson submachine gun, thousands of rounds of ammo (including a secret drawer full of dubiously legal hollow-points), a rocket propelled grenade launcher (with ammo), and even a flintlock that you found at an antique-gun show in Albert Lea, Minnesota. And you’re an outspoken member of the National Rifle Association, and a delegate to the annual convention of Gun Owners of America. That’s you, isn’t it, Capt. Grosscup?”

“I guess.”

“Well, then, you’re our boy.”

“What boy? And why do you keep calling me ‘captain,’ fella?”

“Well, with the kind of arsenal you’ve accumulated, sir, you’re automatically elevated to officer status,” said Flick, with a note of admiration. “Frankly, I’m a little bit in awe. I’d love a chance to handle your sawed-off Beretta A400.”

“How do you know about that — ”

Well, sir, I’d love to chat. But we are on a tight schedule,” said Flick, patiently. “You’re due to report in less than two hours.”

Grosscup was beginning to feel a vague sense of alarm. “Report?” he cried. “Report what? Where?”

“Headquarters, sir. Of the NVMB, right here in town. It’s a great little unit,” said Flick. “As you can see from my comrades-in-arms.”

Suddenly, eight similarly attired men of varying ages, heavily armed but not as svelte as PCL Flick, emerged from behind Grosscup’s shrubs and assumed the parade-rest position.

“Oh my God,” said Grosscup redundantly. “What’s all this about?”

PCL Flick smiled indulgently, looked at his watch and sighed. “It’s about the Second Amendment, sir. I’m sure you know it.”

“Of course I do!” said Grosscup, stiffening his back and glaring up at Flick. “It’s the most important document in U.S. history. It’s the reason we’re free. It’s my personal, God-given shield against home invasion, terrorist attacks and urban thugs. It’s — ”

“Yes, we know, Captain. That’s why we’re here.”

“Wait!” said Grosscup. “Are you the jackbooted thugs sent by the government to seize my weapons and render me helpless against liberal tyranny?”

PCL Flick shared a chuckle with his platoon, “Au contraire, Capt. Grosscup. We are your troops. We are the embodiment, the apotheosis of the Second Amendment!”

Grosscup fell speechless and simply stared. Flick asked a question: “Captain, what’s the fourth word in the sacred Amendment, the one that comes before the mention of ‘arms’?”

Grosscup thought for a moment. “Oh. Um, ‘militia’.”

“Well, there you go,” said Flick.

“Go where?”

“Exactly,” said Flick. “How about you get dressed and gather up seven or eight of your favorite guns. We need to fit you for your uniform before you man your post.”

“Post? What post?”

“The post you’ve earned, sir. Indeed, the post that cries out to you because of your loyalty to the Constitution and the NRA. We are, Capt. Grosscup, the well-regulated militia enshrined in the Bill of Rights, the militia to which every devout follower of the Second Amendment, as a matter of duty, as a matter of patriotism, as a source of towering martial pride. Sir, you — with your personal armory of well-oiled guns, rifles, ammunition and explosives — you are our hero. We are your militia. We call upon you to step forth and regulate us.”

Another crisp salute followed.

“Or else,” said PCL Flick. “We’ll have to grab you up and drag you away.”

“You mean, I have to go? Now?”

“Well, sir, you did ask for this,” said Flick. “All that ranting and raving you did, at the bar in the VFW Hall. Those petitions you signed. That nasty thing you said about Gabby Giffords.”

In the face of overwhelming force — a concept he had always cherished — Grosscup relented. Soon, he was in a troop van, with his Beretta A400 in his lap and an ammo belt over his shoulder. He turned to Flick.

“You said something about a duty post?”

“Yes sir, Captain sir,” said Flick. “You’ll be going to Desolation City.”

“Sounds homey. What will I be doing there?”

“You’re assigned to the Desolation National Swamp, sir, to protect the beavers.”

Grosscup looked puzzled, and slightly crestfallen. Flick explained.

“Against Mormon beaver poachers,” he added.

“Really? I had no idea Mormons did that.”

“Oh, Captain, my Captain, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. Mormon beaver poaching in our national swamps is one of those threats that we must rise against and stifle — mercilessly — even before it actually exists! Like Shariah law in Oklahoma. Voter fraud in North Carolina! Zombie apocalypse in the Beverly Hills Mall!”

The van lurched to a halt. Troops piled out, followed by Grosscup, who discovered that they’d been stopped for inspection by an NVMB militiaman waving an AR-15 and firing into the air. Grosscup recognized him.

“Oh my God, you let him into the militia?” he cried. “That’s Mad Dog Melvin, the kid from down my block who tortures animals and cooks meth in his basement. He’s nuts. He’s dangerous.”

“That’s right,” said PCL Flick, saluting Mad Dog Melvin. “He’s our boy.”