A little more than a year ago, 2,000 antifa tried to shut down my speech at UC Berkeley, according to police on the scene. The Berkeley police chief had ordered her officers to stand outside the building like mute ninjas, and make no arrests, unless they personally witnessed a felony being committed in front of them.
So barring a bank suddenly popping up on the sidewalk and an antifa attempting to rob it, I had no official protection from 2,000 violent, mentally disturbed thugs.
Thank God I had the Proud Boys.
There had been no warning of the antifa mobilization against me until an hour before the event, when they showed up, with a thousand of them at each entrance to the building where I was to speak.
Luckily, I’d invited about 20 Proud Boys from northern California chapters to attend my speech. If I hadn’t, I might not have made it to the campus at all. (If antifa had won, at least you would have heard about my visit to Berkeley, because the media would have reported on it triumphantly.)
The College Republicans had booked a private room for dinner in an Oakland restaurant earlier that evening, so I invited the Proud Boys to meet me there 45 minutes before the students arrived. We all had to recognize one another, in case they were needed to help deal with any violence during my speech.
College Republicans are absolutely fantastic, but generally are about as prepared for hand-to-hand combat as I am.
By contrast, the Proud Boys are brawny, tattooed brutes. Many are ex-military. Some worked security for a living, so my bodyguard planned to use a few of them as auxiliary troops, and the rest would get VIP seats so they could be spread throughout the audience in case of pandemonium.
As I was taking pictures with the Proud Boys at the restaurant, a freakish transgender in combat boots, fishnet stockings and a man-bun snuck into our private room via a back staircase. It seems that a rainbow-haired waitress had spotted me during the 30 seconds I was passing through the public part of the restaurant, and had called in my location to her antifa pals.
Poor Fishnet Boy surely had expected to burst in on 99-pound me having a nice dinner with a group of sweet College Republicans. Instead, he (she?) walked into what must have looked like a Hell’s Angels convention.
Not so brave, now, eh, Fishnet Boy? He/She bowed his head, pretended to use the cash register, and quickly made his exit.