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‘I Dealt Death’
Confessions of a Harm County Criminal

These words were the more forcefully delivered half of a one-sided conversation between a mildly drunk Gen-Xer of 46 and a seething millennial, seated across the bar from me on Wednesday night, June 12 2019 from 6:45 to 7:15 as I ate a burger for dinner at a Baltimore County bar. The speaker is 26, already has a heavy gut and stands fix feet and 280 pounds with light brown hair, wearing slacks and a casual short-sleeved button shirt. His foil is 45, lean and care free, declaring that he cares little for the origin of the two fedoras they had just purchased from the elderly street vender of Latin extraction and cares only that he got his for $5. The conversation kicks off as the white haired vendor leaves the bar with his remaining goods after failing to sell socks or a hat to me.

We can’t buy this stuff from the people he buys it from.

Because, if the cops see a white person talking to one of them they will swoop in, figuring we’re buying drugs.

I am Jewish, which makes me as white as you. Try telling the five black kids that used to beat me up and rob me every fucking day when I was a kid that I’m not white. I’m a fucking white, atheist Jew, a poor Jew, a Trump supporter, a fucking shit stain hatched by a junky whore.

George Carlin was an atheist and a Jew. He was born one and chose another.

What do you call it when the big hand meets the little hand?

Michael Jackson’s bedtime!

You fucking laughed, didn’t you?

What did Michael Jackson say when he heard about the singing group Boys to Men?

Do they deliver?

I hate sex criminals. I keep track of where they move so I can print out notices for their neighbors and let them know that the perverts are ready to molest their kids.

I grew up in Dutch Village. My junky bitch mother was on methadone when she had me.

The fuck she straightened out—she’s on the government dope until she dies. She’s done, sixty years old and still sucking dick for money. I never had a chance ‘cause of that whore.

Remorse? How’s this for remorse. My best friend was driving with me to get his fix, saying that he was such a junky degenerate that he deserved to die. And guess what, that hit of heroin he bought last summer when he was with me was phentynol and he died in my arms. I went to his funeral—the last funeral I’ll ever go to— in this upscale Long Island funeral home to comfort his mother and the security told me that I had to hold her hand, that when her other two sons died—one in a car accident and the other an overdose—that she climbed on the casket. I’ve never seen anything like that, a mother that cared grieving for her dead child—and me, never having had a mother that cared, holding her hand.

What do you know about it—I dealt death, sold that shit for two years, when I got transferred from an all-black middle school to an all-white high school and worked my connects. Two years of dealing death. But for the last ten I’ve worked an honest stand-up job.

What, you don’t think it can be that bad in the County? What the fuck do you know? You lived here when it was good, before all the blacks came in. My junky whore mother hatched me in fucking Dutch Village, the only white kid in the Halstead Academy. I had to fight every fucking day—got beat the fuck down every fucking day—for years! But after the first few times I learned how to knock a few of the fuckers down in the dirt before I got mine. That fucking whore bringing her men in, putting out cigarettes on the back of my neck—she cursed me until I became blacker inside than the blacks themselves.

That fucking piece-of-shit that killed the bartender is on trial in Towson, right down from where I work. The government should be killing [unclear] people, not trying to justify them.

Like your assumptions have anything to do with me—you can’t even imagine what it’s like for a white kid now…twice as bad as I had it and you can’t even fathom that.

Yeah, your hat was only five fucking dollars—all’s right with the fucking world…

I paid the widow behind the bar and ducked out the door of the still Caucasian bar—not a one of that pallid ilk within sight on the streets as far as this single eye could see.

Rubbing Out Palefaces

Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback

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