I want Phil to get a gun. Doesn't matter what kind. Just a gun. The sheer amount of self-absorbed ego he would exude would out-do his own natural odor. He tuck that thing into his pants just to walk from his bed to the kitchen, whipping it out and pretending someone was coming through the door. He'd idolize it, put it on a pedestal...and sure as shit he'd be at the next really, going out of his way to start shit with people because this time he's got a gun. First chance he get he'll whip it out (wishful thinking is it slips out of his hand, hits the ground and misfires, hitting someone) and try to seize control of the situation.
Then he just get's the ever loving piss beat out of him. His cheap, shoddy mall ninja gear does nothing to protect him. The helmet cracks, the 'body armor' does nothing; all of his aintifa friends have already fled...Phil fulfilled his duty as jail fodder.
That's why you always bring someone dumb, slow and fat to a rally. Easiest to catch, funnest to beat up.