THERE WERE SIX OF THEM in total, more than had been present in the bar (not that it mattered, they would have rounded up others, I was sure). The important thing is that it was them—the MAGA crew—of that I had little doubt. Three of them were crowded into the cab while three others rode in the payload—all of them wearing crudely-stitched burlap hoods—and each brandishing some form of weapon, whether that meant a pistol or a rifle or a rusty pitchfork. The truck, meanwhile, was right out of central casting—I’d seen others like it in the red states I’d already passed through. You’ve seen them too: those jacked-up tanks with the huge tires and pig-ear smokestacks (their way of saying “f**k you” to the environmentalists), and the twin flags crackling in their payloads—usually an American and a
