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Postmortem Hate Training Log November 21 2019
I have not lost weight—I don’t think—since being back east, largely because walking becomes problematical and I have been drinking some beer. If I dress in such a way as cops will not fuck with me, the hoodrats home in. If I dress like the homeless dude I am, most hoodrats will veer away from an engagement, figuring I don’t have shit…unless I’m carrying everything I own on my back…
Since Baltimore County police are patrolling Parkville and Towson at less than 10% of their appearance rate 2 years ago, I dress like the pale garbage I am, a T-shirt over a sweat shirt and cargo pants 5 sized too big over my jeans four sizes too big. Mostly, I just stay inside and write and do some floor exercises.
The say started good with a few articles written, 8 posted and a text from Nero the Pict:
“I need a tie-breaker here for a work van discussion. Elvira or Morticia Adams (original 1960s version.)”
When a sage is called upon he must not only dispense authoritative decrees, but qualify them, so I answered in two clause form:
“Elvira, titty fuck.”
The important issue of the day decided, I went upward and outward…
To warm up for my coaching and sparring at the gym, I decided to stop at a former girlfriend’s house, do some chores for her and have some fried country ham. I took the one-mile jaunt with my 60-pound pack up to her place at 12:40, so that I would be off the street by 1:00 when the high school thugs that don’t return to Loch Raven Senior High after lunch, begin prowling for victims. I didn’t feel like beheading a cop today—which is the logical conclusion to me defending against hoodrats in the current anti-pale male climate.
Unfortunately, we had a miscommunication and she would not be home until 2:00, so I headed back to safe house #5.
As I made it just two blocks from where the little boy was beaten a month ago and one block from where the young man was curb-stomped six weeks ago, I noticed three hunters coming towards me out of the alley across the street. It is my job to diffuse this, otherwise a cop and me lose our lives over these princes of post modernity out earning their swag at my expense. They were looking alternately at me and each other, the scout in the middle and the two hitters fanning out to envelope me.
If I pretend not to see them, they might keep coming.
If I see them and do not act decisively they will be encouraged in their still-developing caper.
They are tentative and there will probably be an attempt by one to engage me verbally to test my resolve.
If I become belligerent, even sub-verbally, the phones might come out for calling in backup thugs, PIGs or even videoing my unreasonably violent response to their civil demand for what I undeservedly regard as my property, in this world where everything I have—and I’m carrying all of it—was unjustly acquired through no effort of my own due to my “white privilege” farming the sweat of their ancestor’s brows as if by osmosis.
I went with what has been in my experience, a 19-in-20 success, turning towards them as soon as we make eye contact and walking right towards them across the street.
This was a classic Stage 2 raiding party, with a local paleface teen leading his two mixed-race pack members into his own neighborhood to pick off some easy targets.
Upon closer inspection [as I typically walk with my head down in thought, scanning peripherally for proximate sneakered feet] I must not have looked too easy with the ragged clothes and eye-patch, though I knew that fighting with a 60-pound sack strapped to my back would likely end badly. They diverted course and headed back the way I had come:
-They approached me perpendicularly from my right
-I responded by making a 90-degree turn to my right,
-They responded by making a 90-degree turn to their left
-Thus we did not make contact, which is usually how this stuff works out when packs are looking for easy victims. Three weeks ago, at this very spot, I was approached by two thugs who had previously tried to do me with a third three years back and three blocks away and broke ranks at the last moment both times, this final time comically, with a “Why, good afternoon, sir,” from the hitter as he stepped aside and bowed after seeing the grin on my face as I visualized hitting him under the chin with my T-cane.
For these hoodrats this is bull-baiting and they are testing me to determine if I’m a bull to be avoided or a steer to be taken down. I only have to fail this test a single time for my entire life to slide into the law enforcement shitter. And, if I take enough of these tests, it will eventually kick off anyhow—they just have to grow a little more bold, and they will as the hunt progresses and I age.
That must have changed my body language. Two thirty-something paleface matrons, unloading kids and groceries further along my way, averted their eyes from me and froze like Bambi dreading the hunter in the woods, seemingly unaware that I was not what was hunting them. I have experienced this before after approach encounter brinkmanship, with bystanders who would normally be neutral, aggressive or friendly, literally slinking out of my way after such moments, as this must do something to key up my body language.
No wonder I got fat in this fucked up town. Every simple walk requires a commitment to field aggressive curve balls thrown from the teeming bullpen of the anarcho-tyranny minor league roster.
At 2:30 PM: I ate: 2 ounces cheese, 1 ounce jalapenos, 1 tablespoon avocado mayo, 3 table spoons vinegar, 3 teaspoons hot sauce, 4 slices pepperoni
3:45 PM: a handful each of peanuts, almonds, cashews, walnuts, 2 tablespoons nutritional yeast, Goose! I’m on it with the B-vitamins! Can’t afford to let my neck get red in this political climate.
I am scheduled to stick spar from 6-7 PM and
Coach boxing from 7 to 8 PM.
Note:
Sparred with stick from 6:00 to 6:45
Coached stick 6:45-7:00
Coached boxing 7:00-8:00
Shadowboxed 8:00 to 8:55
I’m done eating for the day.
As I sat here a couple hours ago after returning to this temporary berth, I could hear the girl with the karaoke machine next store singing:
“I love you.
You love me.
We’re one big happy fam-i-ly!”
Yes, I suppose we are, darling.
PS: I did not tell the lady friend anything about this encounter at about 2:00 PM when she called to apologize for the mix up at about 3:00. She sent me this text at 4:02 PM, just a half hour ago and I just read it:
“Three Parkville teens tried to murder someone. Emailed link.”
I’m offline until Monday, then I will find out if the time slots match up. It is almost certainly not these guys, but rather one of the many other three-deep packs prowling their recently acquired home turf, ceded to them by the government that wants us replaced.
I can’t believe I lived like this for 39 years! No wonder I’m so messed up.
4:54 PM, 11/21/2019
*
Addendum
Below are some points from the neighborhood watch discussion. Not only are certain innocent races guilty of ever doing what they always do, the idea that someone coming from the bloodiest warzone in North America into your abode, hunting humans on the street, could in no way have been shaped by the extreme violence of his place of origin, where his hate was incubated, is final stage Leftism, where even liberal sociology is abandoned for abject worship of the Ebon God!
Michael Oakleigh Manor
Nicole
god forbid no one wants to realize that these kids could be from the county and not from the city....
Paul
I believe that the comment was not to be taken literally.
It does not matter where they...
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