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Rise of the Yutes
The Front-Line Tribe of Postapocalyptic Murica
[written 11/4/19]
I was in a small Pennsylvania town on Halloween night, in the kitchen with my host’s mate, when he was upstairs checking the caulking on his bathroom window just after nightfall. We heard a band of innocent, unarmed, urban youth tramping by. Within moments he came downstairs and said, “That raiding party that’s going by, one of them just threatened me, called me an old man and told me I better stay inside or he’d beat my ass.”
We both know this to be tribal baiting behavior, straight out of the Street Credential Development 101 Handbook for Reparations Recovery Agents. The goal is to get the ghost person to say something, anything in response, so that the entire group can than focus their wrath on him and his. In fact, his darling’s car had been spray-painted a week before. This is in a small town where ghost people such as this have fled to escape ebony violence in large urban centers.
Interestingly, these small towns all have seed populations of very light-skinned, “mystery meat” youths, who tend to be more aggressive, from an earlier age, than darker-skinned people from real ghettos in major cities. Having observed these populations for a year and a half now, and noting that their behavior is an over aggressive mimicking of hardcore urban thuggery from places like Harm City, I have wondered at the remarkable tenacity of the unique American “one drop rule” which has caused the mostly European mixed-race Americans of suburban privilege and small town lack of stress [these places are idyllic paradises to me, compared to where I come from] to behave like rap video gangsters.
Indeed, as my host and I went out on the front porch to view the progress of the swaggering band of wannabe thugs bull-parading down the middle of the street, we noted that a Latino man was yelling at them for hitting his door and that a guilty ghost was worshipping their progressive in abject supplication, like a virgin begging to be deflowered on the altar of some malevolent god of old.
Then, two mating drones and a slutty, 14-year-old mystery meat babe, walked up to us, two sketchy looking guys, and she advertised her sexual availability to us with a jut of her budding hip and crooned, “Trick or treat,” with an emphasis on the implicit trick.
I said, “How , y’all doin?”
My friend said, “Sorry, we don’t have anything,” indicating with his nod that the porch light was off.
She then sassed, “If ya’all didn’ have anything, why’s ya make us come ova here en cross the street?”
This protestation by this brazen teen whore, that she has no agency, that she is merely the slave of our pale presence, a nail drawn helplessly by our diabolic magnetism, struck us both at the same instant with a sense of horror. For even our small towns are being colonized by mobs of mindlessly orphans, so mongrelized that they have no sense of identity other than the menace traditionally assigned to the lesser angels of their haphazard progenitors.
As America fragments, this very pale, generally 75% European, orphan tribe, seems to have been pre-positioned by chance, nearly everywhere I travel, to administer proxy aggression on behalf of the Media Priesthood whose crusade has hounded me and mine from town square to frontier outpost…and now to where?
Where else remains for the willowy soul of the economic rabbit to find his clover in the shadow of the tax-farmer’s ever-persistent hound?
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