This is part two… shared from the perspective of a live streamer…
The chat was already lighting up before I went live. “Guard all over 14th,” someone typed. “They’re kettling by Freedom Plaza.” Another just posted: “Be careful.”
The August heat in DC is its own kind of riot control — it slows you down, weighs you down. But the crowd was still thick, banners and hand-painted signs catching the sunlight between the tall government buildings. Chants bounced off the walls: “Whose streets? OUR streets!”
This rally was different. Trump’s “Public Safety & Security Executive Order” had dropped three days ago, and the ink was barely dry before the Guard rolled in. Armored trucks at intersections. Full combat gear. A city under federal occupation.
I panned the phone across the avenue for the viewers. “National Guard holding at two blocks out,” I said into the mic. “Protest holding firm on Penn.”
That’s when I saw them.
About forty guys on a side street, not Guard, not cops. Flag t-shirts, motorcycle helmets, tactical vests, improvised shields. Some had flagpoles, some had pistols under loose shirts. Far-right regulars. They were forming up, waiting for a cue.
And that’s when I noticed her.
She was leaning on a lamppost beside me like she’d been there the whole time, no camera, no sign. Just scanning the street like she was making a map in her head.
She caught my eye, then nodded toward two brass players — a trumpet and a trombone — who’d been hanging back near the tail end of the march. She said something I couldn’t catch, and they both grinned and started walking toward the side street.
By the time I swung my phone that way, she was gone.
The brass players planted themselves ten feet from the counter-protesters and started blasting a jagged, glorious riff — part protest song, part pure noise. It ricocheted between the buildings, swallowing the shouts from the far-right crew.
Then, out of nowhere, a convoy of food delivery cyclists streamed right through their formation. “On your left!” they shouted, swerving just enough to break their lines without making contact. Half the counter-protesters spun around, yelling, totally losing focus.
From above, a massive banner unfurled down the face of an office building, wide enough to block the street. I couldn’t read all of it from my angle, but the words “NO QUARTER” were painted big enough to fill the frame.
The Guard slowed their advance, radios crackling. You could see the confusion in their body language — they weren’t sure whether to move on the music, the cyclists, or the rally.
Meanwhile, the march slipped away down 12th Street, two blocks over, safe from both Guard and counter-protesters. Most of the crowd didn’t even know how close it had come to going bad.
I kept my stream running for another hour, following the protest to its dispersal. When I finally went back to pack up my tripod from where I’d left it, there was something folded and taped under the clamp.
In block letters, hand-scrawled:
“Play louder than the war they’re bringing.”
