Click to Subscribe
▶  More from Harm City Guerilla Masculinity
Being a Woked Devil
Notes on Gauging the Length and Depth of Your Evil Shadow
I began practicing woke deviltry out of pallid urban necessity.
Once ebon wrangling became inculcated as a sorcerous skill set I began to notice that not only were ebon braves aggressing against me more circumspectly, as a respected enemy rather than as a soft pale mark, but that decent ebon folk began to regard me either as a non-racial celebrity operating beyond the color-struck bounds of their tiny cosmos, or as a stalking devil beaming icy eyes into their superstitious whorl. Henceforth, beyond this epiphany, I was able to gauge the deterrence level of my sorcerous aura among ebon braves by noting the more obvious effects among the noncombatant class of that population that is the expression of social torment.
Also, as I have rapidly diminished in predatory ways, I have noted my peril among hunters as an old bull, when decent ebon folk at bus stops immediately elect me as their confidant, guide and advisor. Nothing goes unpunished so much as benevolence in the ghost devil-made ghetto, inhabited by its ebon occupants from rabbit-hearted nerd to stone-cold killer.
Recently, while sitting in a mixed-ebon, mud and ghost bar, in a small town in Pennsylvania, I took the only seat, the one between the young Dominicans and the Old Muricans. The stud to my right was friendly and the ancient to my left polite. I decided to mark my hunters, if any there be, be nodding over my beer in a sleepy way, something easy for me to do as I am always tired since I broke my circadian clock in 2006, staying woke for 4 days and fighting 41 rounds on day 5.
Soon a 60-something Murican of evil aspect, who appears to have once been dangerous but now far below even my wrecked physicality, glanced narrowly at me thrice, then texted on his bar top phone, he being on the short leg of the L described by this bar. This is the same bar, on the same night as that outside of which I conversed with the Leveller in the video linked below. I noted the predators sniffing my scent while awaiting his arrival some hours into the night.
Within 5 minutes an Aryan Brotherhood member or possible biker [I know such things instantly as they are an old subroutine of my ghost sorcerer protocols] came in the door dressed heavily, bearded, multiple tear drops tattooed under his left eye, and hunched up next to the old ghost who whispered in his ear as his henchmen eyed me narrowly. The henchmen then nodded in the affirmative, took his cup of coffee from the barmaid and came over and stood next to me, engaging the big Dominican in conversation as he looked to see if I was armed and even checked the contents of my wallet as I opened it like an idiot within his grasp so that he could see the twenty wrapped around as many ones, to which I returned a one dollar bill, indicting my intent to leave after this, my second beer.
Satisfied that I was worthy of his vile intent he then cut the Dominican mid conversation and stepped out the side door, not looking again at his master. This man was 40, 5’ 7” and 170 pounds, broad-shouldered and overall well-designed for taking me down on his own, though he would surely have help.
I then spoke to both of my bar mates and as the old man left and the master of my demise eyed me narrowly, I pulled out the twenty dollar bill and asked for two beers, announcing my stay, to which the old devil scowled and slid from his seat in what seemed like bitter disgust. He soon returned from outdoors and sat there regarding my narrowly from smoldering devil peepers and kept his vigil upon me until my young friend arrived and I told the bouncer that I’d like him to summon YoungBlood, a young stud who bought me all my beer the first time I showed up here and has demonstrated an interest in sparring with the local men I train.
The crime coordinator then vacated the bar for good, the old, sleepy out-of-towner having turned out to have two dangerous-looking young friends…
Fast forward to this afternoon, as I left Megan arguing over the sirloin steak price with the meat-room clerk who had mispriced those cuts and, as most young people, greatly desire a gatekeeping roll and eagerly serve as the oppressors and betrayers of their elders. Having found the cheese and horseradish I then began to walk back and forth across the front of the store looking down the aisles for her. On my third time striding purposefully towards the bakery, which was at the head of the first aisle, I noticed the pretty young cinnamon princess checking the dates on the baked goods and eying me with widened eyes and parted lips of terror, as if I was poised to slaughter her and her coworkers. I saw this look on the faces of people I have charged with knives, rocks, nails and a tomahawk and know it well. I made certain to smile to her to calm her deep-welling fear and she shook visibly as if shuddering after a car accident, in her frail way.
I then strode over to the bathroom, reminded of the fact that I am not limping like I was last year when I was attacked and befriended so often—the two states, in Ebonia being two sides of the same duplicitous coin—and entered, looking into the mirror to ascertain my appearance and taking note that I look much like the postmodern villain in most Netflix, TV and movie casts: bearded paleface, in nondescript padded shirt [sweater or sweatshirt, hood not up], jeans, boots [instead of hoodrat sneakers] and a knit ski cap without the sissy beanie and the key ingredient of not walking in abject apology which is the simpering ghostwalk of our time.
Whatever your appearance, whether it is the weak figure I cut, hunched and sleepy under a U.S. Navy cap, friendless and alone in a new town, staring dreamily ahead, or the confident man stalking intently across one of the floors he spent his life patrolling for a living [1] in the guise of the postmodern boogie man with his sinister ski cap, it is only important that you know what effect your appearance has on certain types and how that equates to other types. For instance, whatever strikes fear into decent folk and gives pause to criminals, pisses off police and makes them your most dangerous enemy.
As a woke devil, casting his sorcerous shadow across the path of the innocents imperiled by your very diabolical existence, it is important that you remain cognizant of the wake you displace in a world literally crafted from fear.
-0. For the complete manual of the postmodern sorcerous arts see Woke Devil, soon to be censored by a sissy entity assuming to own you.
-1. I routinely, if dressed in civil fashion, am mistaken for a district manager, by retail food employees in grocery stores and dollar stores alike, based primarily on my bearing, being at ease in the single environment in which I spent the majority of my wasted life. Being functionally undead seems to suit me.
Waking Up in Indian Country: Harm City: 2015
prev:  Shooting Skill in North Dindustan     ‹  guerilla masculinity  ›     next:  'Case Studies, Combatives and Resistance'
the lesser angels of our nature
taboo you
book of nightmares
black & pale
riding the nightmare
soter's way
Add Comment