The Dogman came at dusk, clad in black with a red anarchist patch sewn to his jacket, eyes glowing with hostile glee. He prowled through the trees like a shadow with teeth, kicking over garbage bins and scratching anarchist symbols into the siding of the shed. His target was clear: the quiet house nestled on the edge of the woods, where warmth and order still lived. But before he could breach the backyard, something stirred in the gloom. A hulking figure stepped from behind the pine trees—Sasquatch, massive and unwavering, the bill of his red MAGA hat catching the last rays of sunset. He cracked his knuckles, snorted once, and stood between the creature and the porch light like a wall of ancient muscle and conviction.

The Dogman growled something about decolonizing the forest, but Sasquatch was done listening. He had seen this before—creatures twisted by chaos, masquerading as rebels while leaving only ruin behind. With a single thunderous roar that sent birds flying for miles, Sasquatch lunged forward. They clashed in a blur of fur and fury, Dogman’s scrappy rage against the old beast’s righteous might. When it was over, Dogman lay in the brush dazed, his bandana torn and ego bruised. Sasquatch adjusted his cap, looked back at the house, and with a grunt of satisfaction, disappeared once more into the trees. Order, for now, had been restored.