[h2][center]The Minutemen[/center][/h2]
[center][@Banana][@yoshua171][@Old Amsterdam][/center]

The old shopkeeper took out a small glasses cleaning rag from his breast pocket, then did some patch work cleaning of his spectacles. Once he returned the lenses to his face, the man addressed the Minutemen once more. "Sheila Jones? I'm afraid I don't know the name, but uh she might be one of my regulars. Oh dear, I have such a difficult time with names these days. You kids will understand that once you're my age, I'm sure." He took a moment to check the time via a nice antique watch he wore on his wrist.

"But if someone thinks that those horrible cretins calling themselves the Community will be causing a ruckus here, then I'm sure glad to have some nice Samaritans with your fancy powers by my side. Perhaps I could repay you with some home baked chocolate turtles?" He didn't make eye contact once until he had finished speaking, instead squinting his eyes on the timepiece. It seemed his glasses needed to be replaced if he were having this much trouble.

Meanwhile, a group of 8 youths, ranging from about 14 to 25, were approaching from around the corner. Half wore do rags, all had tattered jeans, and they looked and smelled of bad attitude. That said, they weren't wearing the colors of The Community. Instead many carried pickaxes... The signature weapon of the Rockers.