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Uncivil War Warning Shot
Combat Training Notes from Later Day Plantation America

I returned to Baltimore County yesterday with a black man who I train, who dropped me off at a relative’s house to watch their dogs until he picked me up for training this afternoon.

I have no love lost for this place.

In 2017 I was attacked 20 times, five times within an easy walk of this place.

17 attacks were by blacks, a giant and 16 packs.

1 attack was mixed race, two fools, Skidmark and Cumstain.

2 attacks were white, one by three armed construction workers as I ailed in agony, leaning on my umbrella in the rain over a swollen hip.

The year before that I had lunch with a colored lady, a reader on this site, who was being blazingly eye-fucked by three white men wearing caps with blacked out American flags on them whenever I looked away from them. They, like my black attackers, were cowards all. When I cut out one on the parking lot he melted from eye contact alone, leaving no need to slap his pasty face.

Yesterday, my fighter and I were discussing the possibility of race war, how Left and Right, dark and pale are arming up and getting ready like the stupid meat-puppets they are, dancing on the strings controlled by their supra-racial handlers.

Yesterday, with some time to kill, I walked about and, going up one alley, saw an older lady’s yard overgrown with weeds. She wasn’t home so I figured she had lost her renters and fallen on hard times and weeded her yard, yanking out the three foot bull thistles that make it a safe place for robbers and burglars to operate. Two pre-teen brown boys stopped on their bikes and asked if they could work for me. I was nearly done, but thanked them, and, knowing at a glance that they were welfare kids out looking for food money while Mamma feeds steak and skrimps to her weed and booze supplier, a gave them the change in my pocket.

At the 7-11, getting my Gatorade, I saw them there, trying to count the change and match it up to a potato ship price.

Once back at my relative’s home, the lady called and thanked me, glad that the real estate agent would not have to see that. She’s moving –ASAP! She owns a home outright, finally, and has to sell for safety’s sake.

This morning, after writing 7 articles, I felt good, looking forward to training with my fighter.

I had just finished charting the slave integration of Plantation Maryland to the best of my current knowledge. The first English slaves were here in the 1630s, the first Africans in the 1660s. Slavery ended for Europeans in Maryland in the 1830s and for Africans in the 1860s. By all logic there should be no animosity from the legacy of slavery between people of European and African descent in Maryland. We were both fucked over for 200 years, mostly together, bent over the same hoes and hawsers.

I made to let the dogs out, opening the inner door to the clean, spacious back alley, but, knowing that the nice man who lives next door sleeps during the day, and that the Rot and the Hound our barking savages, I looked out the storm door to make sure that no oppressed youths were walking down the alley hooking school.

I saw three 15-18 year-olds bull-parading down the alley, clothed in $500 plus in attire apiece, swaggering with exuberant menace, acting very much like the dandy slave masters of Olde in their gaudy finery. I decided to let them pass before letting the barking machines out. The most menacing one, a fellow with a designer shirt and an Axel Rose bandana, turned and glared at me, stopped, flexed, and shouted in a snarling drawl, “What you lookin’ at, bitch!? You wan’s som a dis, ole man? Keep yo white-ass inside!”

26 hours in Harm County and I have already been the subject of a violent, race-based threat.

So we will likely finish out our lives, Erique and I, waging an unequal struggle for our personal autonomy—for mere temporary control over our persons—me trying to fend off hordes of feral youths of his perennially angry color and he hunted by the sissy, gun-armed, masculine residue of my degenerate pallor.

This is why we train together, so we can die apart, hopefully dragging at least one of our foes to Hell with us.

Right on White Time: The Black Spring Manual for Reparations Recover Agents with Justin W. R. Justice and T. Spoone Slickens

Add Comment
MannyMay 10, 2019 3:34 AM UTC

I have seen Erique and you fight. You both will take many more than one to where you’re going.