This past weekend, beginning on Thanksgiving night, I had plans of meeting up with Nuffy G. He is a tall, fit, Canadian hockey player turned American bar keep and construction worker. I will data-mine what is left of my brain after our drinking bout for biographical fragments on this animal. I drank with his twin brother in 2020.
The Land Lady dropped me off on Powell and 112th. There I got the bus out to 149th Street, where we were supposed to meet, in the dark, in the outskirts of Portland, for a few drinks. I see 148th go by and then 150th and get off, looking for 149th, which has been abducted by aliens. After an hour crutching around I get to a west bound bus stop and wait.
The Land Lady is worried about her pet Yeti, and texts for my location and sends “OMW.” I stay put, watching a bus go by. Portland has the best bus service. I should have declined the ride.
The problem was, I made a target for myself. In Baltimore, the cops would have zeroed in on me for waiting for a drug by. Portland cops are 25% as many as Harm City with twice the people to patrol, and no longer give a shit. So I was free of that worry. A fentanyl dealer zoomed in, a fit, 25-year-old who could have cleaned my crippled clock. I put him off diplomatically—“No thanks, man. Juz waitin’ fer mah Lan’ Lady.”
Nuffy G. is texting me, “Where u At? I have my back to this Roll Your Own weed shop. This is a niggarly area. I’m so sorry for pulling you out this late on crutches. I’ll come see you in the morning in your area.”
We decide on The Time Out on Holgate at 104th. The Land Lady picks me up and I tell her about us missing each other and I learn that, the two of us, neither familiar with the area, are on different east-west main streets. He was on 149th and Division, a worse area it seems. 149th is somehow lost between these main streets.
The next day he informs me that he stayed out drinking “twenty deep,” that is a pint and a double shot for each digit. While he was walking home, for he does not take the bus as that “is for ոiggers.” [like me]
He continues:
“Two men roll up in a car and one says, ‘You want some Fentanyl.’
I say, ‘Fawk off,’ [which turns out to be his most common phrase as in, “Would you like to meet up tomorrow, or fawk off?” said in the most polite tones.]
“The driver gets out and wants to fight.”
“Bring it!” fistically declares the man from Newfoundland.
He narrates to me next day, “I’m no trained fighter, but I can throw down!”
“His friend gets out and pulls him in. A cooler head prevailed. I’ve been in Southern Utah and in the desert surrounded by these Mormon pedophiles where everyone has a gun and this shit just does not occur. I need to adopt some of your tactics for negotiating this urban decay.”
In the transcript of our Valhalla tryouts, the reader will discover how unlikely this is.
We got together the next day, skipped Saturday for me to recover, rescheduled for Sunday, and canceled that meeting for him to recover before his drive back to Spokane, as he had been visiting his brother in Greshem, just outside of SE Portland towards Mount Hood. A friend was sick in hospital, so I escorted the Land Lady there and missed Nuffy G., as he left me a re-bar walking rod he had spray painted in camo, a most excellent rod of right of way.
The problem for me now, as a lame old man in Portland, is that this army of tweaker fiends, average 6 feet and 30 years. I need a weapon. So, at the dollar tree I bought a backup knife, a China blade for $1.25, with a great point and a thumb post. Also, a short windshield scraper, which makes an excellent hand stick with the plastic blade riding under the heel of hand and pinkie for back fists and slashes, and the polypropylene butt for inward ridge hands. This rides and draws well from the center console between the two front seats.
…
Since Nuffy G. had to recover after 72 straight hours drinking, I went to The Lariet, to not eat breakfast with this wide circle of old friends who have admitted me among their polite ranks. When Bingo time came I went to a seat, ordered a beer and finished reading and annotating A Narrative of Ethan Allen’s Captivity.
When I was done, Nero the Pict called and regaled me about his holiday drive into Baltimore, among vaxxed, boosted and very sick Covidians.
“What a shithole, what a mistake. I was driving along Erdman [Avenue] to Belair [Road] rocking out to some music with the window down. I needed some air and was beat. So this is on me, my miscalculation. There is this white junky panhandling right there. What the hell! [1]
“I mean, you know, and I should have known better. So this is on me. He approaches me, and since I’m in the wonderful state of Maryland, I can’t carry. So I tell him, ‘no, no, get the fuck back!’
“And he keeps on coming. What was crazy, the kind of shit you never saw back in the day, is that he was open carrying a knife in his left hand. So I go to kick open the door and hit him with it and take care of this with my own shit [knife] and he backs up, so I get out of there.”
“I know how rare the left handed knifer is. So what was up with this?”
…
Violence Guy Resurrection
He could have been a lefty. But, only one left handed knifer was discovered in my now 314 incident survey.
He might be ambidextrous. There are more ambitextrous young people than there used to be. Maybe he was not drafted by Major League Baseball and became a fiend.
Most likely, this was a tactical choice. To threaten you effectively from a right hand knife on the driver’s side he would have had to go ice pick and would not have had control hand first advantage. The grabbing hand should come first, not second. Further, by you pulling the car forward, your door frame might disarm him. In either case the door frame offers you some protection from a right handed knife attack
The way he approached was probably calculated to grab you or the door frame with the right hand and be able to stab you right up the middle with the left hand—very hard to defend in the seated position, and if you pull forward he still has time to stab you in the left side of your neck while he is hanging on with his right hand.
I would bet that this was a probable carjacking; probably open ended panhandle maybe? car jack maybe? probe.
Nero continues:
“This was surreal, like the last two Jews in Kabul fighting in the street over a debt when the U.S. military was rolling in!”
[laughter]
“That was a thing, actually happened. What the fuck, white on white crime between the last two assholes left in the Congo?”
Now that the BPD has largely stood down, Crackers can defend themselves with knives against Groes. Note that Groe pistol range and Cracker/Spic knife range are identical.
Also, as with all violence, especially when two people of the same race find themselves in another ethnic zone, same race violence is the norm. People feel more comfortable attacking people that are more like them, especially in mixed race settings, even with racially motivated groups. Most deaths of Black Muslims, Skinheads, [2] White Nationalists, Aunt Queefa [3] and BLMers [4] are same race crimes.
…
Notes
-1. The Tarzan story from When You’re Food and the dialogue between Oliver, Jeremy and I at the beginning of War Drums: Forty Miles from the Big House, focuses on this area.
-2. These two groups mostly attack their own to maintain internal solidarity.
-3. These two types are preyed upon by same race political rivals and law enforcement.
-4. Members of this group that are killed seem to be assassinated by unknown actors in conspiracy with ambitious members of their own race and affiliation, probably at the behest of a higher NGO authority.
