Orange shards of sparks flew upwards over the campus quad. This bonfire, like the many other college campus bonfires across California, raged. It melted media like candles: the books and DVDs, the CD-ROMs and plastic flash-drives, the unbound stacks of printed-paper theses.

Cali-Nacht was born: The night when the Great State of California would finally break the Glass Ceiling and rid itself of the few remaining conservatives, libertarians, and Constitutionalists once and for all.

The Master Party would rise up and defend the Motherland, making it all one, big, sanctuary state. California’s destiny would be politically pure. It was the only solution, the much-needed final solution.

These multifarious California college-campus fires were flooded with flailing young adults. They chanted and cursed. Some shouted slogans through bullhorns while holding their soy lattes. Neon hair glowed before the fires, brighter than Easter-basket grass. But no amount of hair dye could hide all the student-loan debt that clung to them.

Those biologically bound male students with traditional, patriarchal hair colors were all finely and prissily manicured; none of the biological females had groomed themselves whatsoever.

The last patriarchal student had been found hiding in a shadowy corner of a locker room—no doubt conspiring against the campus itself—another one of those who had been anonymously accused of once harboring a BIBLE in his backpack, not to mention the copy of the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights — which was physically found on him at the time of capture.

Now he was forcibly frog-matched at the barrel-end of the rifles aimed at the back of his neck. A firing squad of ten diverse and inclusive students took him to the fireside tribunal of magenta-and-bubblegum-blue-and-lime-green-haired, overweight, tattoo-covered, female-presenting, student-body judges and their Birkenstock-sandaled, topknot-ponytailed, priss-beaus who kindly held the lattes of their strong-and-independent, body-positive girl friends.

These brave-and-stunning, vaginal-presenting, social-justice warriors meted out justice and equity on the campus now, and all across the other campuses within the Golden Motherstate, greatly furthering the struggle for the long overdue and hysterically needed, ideological cleansing of the Motherstate.

The largest of the feminist social-justice-warrior judges stood on a black-and-red platform under an abstract blending of rainbow hair. Her thick forearms darkly tattooed from the shoulders to the wrists, dual dual-nostril rings, and other and sundry facial hardwares glinting in the fast-setting California sun. She stepped forward to the makeshift podium and sneered righteously down at the captured Patriarchal-dressed oppressor. Silence overtook the proceedings.

“State your name for the record,” snarled the large social-justice-warrior chieftain.

“Chad Thunderstroke,” the young man defiantly responded, fists on his hips and feet planted firmly on the ground the width of his wide shoulders.

“Let’s start with an obvious one,” said the bubblegum-haired presider of events. “Tell us now: What does your sick Chauvinistic mind think of the racist and unjust SECOND AMENDMENT?!?”

The single-minded voice of the crowd roared upwards with hers at the mention of this most obvious of the ruinous and brutal old laws of the Patriarchy. When the upheaval died down, the young man answered without emotion: “I am a Constitutional literalist. I believe the Constitution protects our God-given rights that exist with or without the document that supports them. Therefore, We, the People, have the right to own guns and bear arms.”

The throng howled. On the platform, the quivering of her double chin demonstrated her outrage; the social-justice warrior sneered righteously down upon the man. Then she shot her boyfriend a side glance that made him tremble and almost spill her pumpkin-spiced latte with cinnamon spritz that he was double-fisting with his own, not because of old, chauvinistic chivalry, but to somehow take a small baby step towards making up for his white-male privilege. Her stern look caused him to nod vigorously and placatingly back up to her.

She looked back at the captured Patriarchal oppressor. She glared with monstrous outrage and spoke again: “You and your gun-toting kind are a menace to society, completely ignoring the epidemic of gun violence on school campuses nationwide. You are an enemy to the principles of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. You are a racist, bigoted, homophobic, colonialist HATER!”

“Tell me what you really think.” He shrugged and lifted his eyebrows oppressively at them. Indeed, his traditional, patriarchal grooming oppressed them all.

Two hair-dyed feminists, almost as large as the lead speaker, marched up behind him. They grabbed him by the balls and bent him over. Before the entire crowd of screaming social-justice warriors and their male-presenting partners, these leaders made him raise his arm up sideways and swear allegiance to a Styrofoam statue-head of Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

The crowd roared at the unveiling of the beautiful Art 102 donation from a progressively woke student (who only received a C- because the recently purged teacher was in fact a colonialist and a misogynistic bigot). They all screamed for him to swear allegiance; the chant broke out in unison: “RBG! RBG! RBG!”

Another twist of the young man’s testicles caused him to confess to a long litany of shockingly fascistic crimes against the principles of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.

“I read Jack London and Rudyard Kipling! I watch action movies with male protagonists! Fathers should be head of the household! Trans-women are MEN!” On and on it went, a torrent of confession.

He was then ordered to recant of all it, all his previous, grievous crimes of toxic masculinity. Another twist of his testicles and his eyes bulged and twitched, his trembling lips formed the shape of a convex “O” and his howling became louder than the din of the collective. His fisted hands grew limp; he slumped forward in obeisance and rapidly begged for mercy. “Please. I’m sorry. Please let me have my balls. I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Stunning and brave Ms. Blue-Pink Hair gave the order, despite being noticeably winded from her struggles against the Patriarchy so far that night. Her tattooed arm swung down in a mock-tomahawk motion. As she did so, waves of fat on her pendulous tricep wobbled above her elbow at her rounded side.

Ten shots rang out in unison, firing down at the prostrate man. The firing squad of manicured men and woolly women had finished the job for their Fue-Her–though it was declared to be the Patriarchy’s fault that three social justice warriors were wounded by bullets ricocheting off the concrete steps.

The body collapsed on its side in a heap. All around the fire, citizens of the new People’s Republic of California raised their arms in salute to the Fue-Her. It was a real Triumph of the Will for these young social justice warriors, fighting as they were for Living Room in the Motherstate.

Todd Anderson is a Christian and conservative Constitutionalist currently living in the foreign, fallen, pagan nation of Gomorrahfornia. He enjoys fishing, gardening, and figuratively documenting the disintegration of society. One day when the Lord gives him the go-ahead, Todd will flee to the Ozarks or the Southern Plains and will surround himself with as many hillbillies and hound dogs as possible, if they’ll have him.