B. U. G. S.

Nick Griffin is the head of the British National Party.

At the National Renaissance Party Conference, I got to know his bodyguards.

I have been a merc. I have spent my life in redneck bars and rougher places.

These guys struck me as home folks.

So sue me.

Anyway, on to the text:

— Nick Griffin’s Body Guards

One of them is built like a Sherman Tank’s big brother. He is a solid square of muscle, like the Emperor Vespasian.

I know the type. His arms and torso are so huge that you wait for a punch at you and suddenly realize that he just did a kick and your head is gone. He doesn’t look made for movement.

He MOVES.

Then there is the other guard.

Chasing Griffin around all day would make anybody tired, yours truly included, but this guy almost always has a genuine smile and good humor written all over him. I asked him why he was always in a good mood.

He said, “I don’t know, I just am.”

As usual I can’t explain just why, but I know this jocular gentleman can knock someone into next Wednesday just like his partner, in whom the ability is more obvious.

But neither of these guys has a damned thing to prove, which is probably why I like them so much.

They don’t do the talking. They do the defending.

Which is a shame, because what they have to say is worth listening to.