Antifa Call for Help

I’m in a bus. I drink hot tea from an open mug, and thank the driver for driving carefully. He hits a series of bumps, and hot tea scalds my nads, and splashes across my moobs. I swear at him, and we both laugh. I tell him I look like I’m in a wet t-shirt competition to seduce Elton John. 

Oh how we laughed. 
At a bus stop, through the window, I try to communicate with a woman on a bench. She has the word “written” written on her boot. We try to lip read, but there’s a miscommunication. She thinks I’m saying something about Kiev and flooding, I’m trying to explain that that’s not so. 
I descend the stairs on the bus, then go up stairs that leave through the back of the bus, into an attached building. I grab my jacket and bags. Off the bus, I’m walking along, when a group of youths pushes past, grabbing other young guys in armlocks and marching them down an alleyway. They carry St George’s flags. They are a right wing group. I decide to call the police. My phone is useless, the texture like a bag of frozen peas, slowly defrosting. I can’t find a way to get help. I can’t call 999. 
I see a wise friend, in a robe and cloak, muttering to himself as usual. I walk with him into the pub on the corner of Great Portland Street. Outside, a mixture of fascist and anti fascist groups mingle. Inside, it’s all antifa. This  is their base for the evening. I wander through, greeting those I know. 
My wise friend, now looking more like Darth Vader, strikes me hard on the chest twice, as we disagree about some point of philosophy. I punch him in the balls, and he falls to the floor. I leave him, and ask the nearest person, if I can use their phone to call for help. 

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