I was 18 years old in Regina going to University and we were at a bar, I got kicked out because my fake id wasn’t good enough, thanks Trevor, and as I was waiting for a cab about 6 Indians walked up to me alone in the parking lot. They weren’t wearing their traditional clothes and no one had a head dress on so I wasn’t sure who would formalize our exchange. They must’ve been really upset that we paved over their traditional land because it was only a few seconds of being under that streetlight, that came from a mine, made from a steel forge, cast, and transported by machines, erected on that location, lit up with a bulb by the magic of electricity, because he punched me right in the face without saying a word. The traditional wagon burners, with a literal history of burning Europeans wagons, all laughed in unison. It reminded me on the time I was fox hunting on turtle island with my father, memories flooded my mind. I snapped back to reality. No blood, didn’t lose my footing, face didn’t even hurt. Just like an East Indians grip strength this was weak. Now what? I’m clearly outnumbered and there is no “prairie boy” honour system here. I didn’t see any bows or quills so I assumed they had used obsidian to make pocket spears. Likely not a smart move to try to fight back, however I am far from any type of help. All of a sudden the silent darkness is broken. BRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPP! Good lord, is that…….. blue bottles installed backwards……? I could tell when he punched it that it had the 5.3L and I could feel through my feet “Enter Sandman” hitting those dual Rockford Fosgate woofers. The reverberation told me this was a regular cab shortbox truck. These were my people, Sask farm kids. They must have felt my distress signal like all farmkids are born with. I could see the momentum of the hay bale shatter as they slammed the brakes on, reminiscent of Stone Cold Steve Austin’s entrance music. Even better than farmboys these kids were ranchers, just rodeo’d enough to give absolutely zero fucks! They popped out of the truck as soon as Enter Sandman peaked, I thought “fucking boys are pros” They never looked at me, we didn’t talk or exchange any information back and forth and they didn’t wait for an explanation from team reservation either. The driver goes immediately for the guy in front of me, perhaps he knew he was the chief? BAM! He hits the chief and down he goes. The other guy comes around the other side and start beating down one of the friends. Fists are flying like drinks at an off-colony Hutterite party. BAM! Another goes down, that’s 3. I think to myself, do I jump in? Or do I stay out? BAM another down, that’s 4. If I do jump in I have to catch a ride from these guys so I’m not stuck with them after. BAM 5! If I don’t I better make a plan assuming I’m going to be left with this tribe. BAM! That’s 6. The 2 boys retreat to leave, now running back to the truck. They must only give themselves the length of the song because Enter Sandman was nearly over. The doors were still wide open, that’s how I knew they were well vetted, and hopped in, immediately slamming down the chrome accessory covered gas pedal. The Blue Bottles singing again like a victory horn. Watching I noticed 2 natives had jumped in the back, likely needing a ride back to the reservation. The other 4 quickly scattered knowing their two friends likely aren’t going to end up at their uncles house by the end of the night. I can still see that truck swerving back and forth in my mind, trying to get those savages out of the box of their newly Canadian Tire’d spray in box liner. I don’t know what happened to any of the people in this story afterwards, but I do know that there were no buried children graves found that night or the next.