On a cold, early February morning, in the year of some better person’s lord, 2015, I was skulking about my favorite transfer point, back in the days before the Purge, before people stopped using it as a transfer point. In Essex, Maryland, at Stemmers Run and Old Eastern Avenue, stand two bus stops: one in front of the Aldi’s food market on the east side of Stemmers Run, and one in front of the Super Thrift Store on the west side of Stemmers Run. As a professional writer, it is my duty to practice my observational skills.
Granted, in eastern Baltimore county, what with the choice between semi-toothless redneck babes and refugee hoodrat hos, you generally have to bracket down to feel like you’re committing an eye candy crime. I tried not to feel like a serial killer, while I ogled the svelte Puerto Rican chick who looked pretty good in her tight jeans until she began to walk across the thrift store parking lot, and I noticed that she must be suffering from some terrible scoliosis of the spine, as one hip was higher than the other, and for once in my life, sympathy spoiled the view. As I averted my eyes in respect for this woman’s obvious pain, I spied by the side of the store, where the guilty middle class dump their unwanted Christmas presents rather than tackily regifting them like they do out in Pikesville, a sight that in some other time and place might have inspired the burning of a hut and the carrying off of its fertile occupant.
Normally, along the Dundalk, Essex, Middle River corridor, where the white ethnic minorities of yesteryear undergo whiggerization, the best sights—albeit few— are found in spandex and flip-flops. Even when pleased by such sights, I groan in disgust. Being old enough to know what that’s going to look like after 20 more years of eating Twinkies. But on this grey, winter morning, I saw not flip-flops but sandaled feet. The ghost of Robert E. Howard awakened within my savage breast and whispered—or was it the cold wind—that might be a slave girl. And lo and behold, the hem of a denim hippy skirt of some era gone by fluttered in the wind, and I knew it was so. What I saw there, bent over a pile of merchandise, waiting to be processed and sold for charity, was a posterior view that spoke of an entire squad of warriors bred somewhere for some purpose, but resulting in grunts of approval from the three Dindus next to me. The legs were pale, and I thought to myself, what would Robert E. Howard do if right next to him were three savage Dindus ogling a prospective slave girl of the Caucasian kind?
Not another thought necessary, I crossed the street as my bus pulled up, making myself an hour late getting home to write and not once calculating that perhaps that van next to the pile of junk might have some extra space in it. Busily rooting through Etch-a-Sketches, big wheels, high chairs, skinny girl clothes thrown angrily aside, fat girl clothes thrown over her shoulder with a "harrumph," was a sandaled wench of Slavic proportions who had not heard me approach.
“Excuse me, Miss,” I said, “You are in the red zone. A hundred yards behind me stand natives of the red zone. You might not want to be trash picking over here.”
She looked up at me angrily and said, “Who’s trash picking?” She said, “I’m pillaging. This is my plunder. I’m a Hun.”
She stood, put her little fists on her big hips and said, “And what makes you an authority on red zones? What is a red zone, anyhow?”
“My name is James. I’m a writer, who has been publishing books on violence and aggression since 1998.”
Her eyes instantly lit up, and I knew she wasn’t a dumb bitch. My conscience informed me that negotiations were clear to proceed.
She said, “You’ve actually written multiple books? You’re a published author? How many books have you written?”
I said, “I don’t exactly know, it’s somewhere between 50 and 80.”
Her jaw dropped as she said, “You don’t even know? You must be fucking brilliant.”
Pleased that she kindly overlooked the fact that I’m not brilliant in matters of math, I pursued the conversation at a sleazy eatery, her treasures of the morning all but forgotten, as I regaled her with stories of hoodrats, a description of the golden bowl of Hansanlu, and admitted to being a science-fiction writer. Upon discovering that Lili, as the woman was so named, was a two-time refugee (once from Hungary, where she was a child hiding in a box car, and once from Baltimore City Public Schools, where she hid in the supply closet), I found that I had an ally in my anti-hoodrat campaign, as well as a person who actually knows if this should end with a comma or a period—and has enough of a sense of humor to put up with me doing this. In any case, Lili has become one of my numerous editors, with a particular interest in cultural dysfunction—kind of a hobby for anyone with a brain living in Baltimore City, and I have neglected to give her her own tag on the site. Her anonymity at an end, Lili Hun, my favorite slave girl editor—and they don’t just grow on trees—and she’s going to have to deal with all these m-dashes, a literate wench with a penchant for pillaging, now has her own tag. Her previous articles may be acquired via the links below.
Lili Hun’s Bibliography
Note: the subtitles below were done by me and unedited by Lili, who has given me a lot of shit for capitalizing “it,” and “in,” and “the,” and all those little words which I think deserve as much credit as the big ones.
Caught In The Pecking Order
Henhouse Behavior At The Workplace By Lili Hun
Posted in Blog on May 19, 2016 — 205 reads
Tags: Guest Authors, On Bitches
The Huns Are At It Again: Building A Fortress Wall
Commentary On The Liberal Crusade To House The Third World In The First, By Lili Hun
Posted in Blog on Sep 7, 2015 — 210 reads, 1 comment
Tags: Site Reviews, Guest Authors
Meatheads And Mother Bears
Nesting And Its Implications For Your Man Cave By Lili Hun
Posted in Blog on Aug 29, 2015 — 256 reads
Tags: The Man Cave, Your Trojan Whorse, On Bitches
Skinny F*^#-Faced Faggots
In Search Of Social Tyranny By Lili Hun
Posted in Blog on Aug 21, 2015 — 277 reads, 2 comments
Skulker Jones: A Tale of Dark Deviltry at the End of Caucasian Time
Skulker Jones is the sequel to A Hoodrat Halloween and an urban horror tale of a failed man looking for a final saving grace.
@The Huns Are at it Again: Building a Fortress Wall there was a comment by the learned scholar Dufus.
Dufus said,"Non-Whites are the real White Supremacists as they expect us to solve all their problems for them."
I laughed til my side hurt. It's got to be one of the funniest things I've read in a while. I going to quote the great intellect of Dufus frequently.
I liked her post.
I ran across this article and picture.
therightstuff.biz/2016/07/27/tales-of-the-coal-burning
I thought the picture was funny.
Thanks, Sam.
I read the coal-burning article, and I am ashamed to tell you that Szabo, who was ultimately killed by his misinformed white guilt, is of Hungarian descent as far as his name goes, though I expect he's at least a couple of generations into his liberal brainwashing, with likely a mother who was born here, given his first name, Bryan.
If you haven't seen the video of the Hungarian truck driver which James posted, I would offer it as a more realistic representation of my homeys, who are fighting like hell to keep their balls regardless of what western Europe says or does (link below).
Of course, my well-spoken girl cousin would never talk like that. She told me about the Hungarian immigrant situation, that they have decided to allow only Syrians to cross through Hungary on their way to another destination in Europe and have given them a map to show them how to get there. She said now they destroy their papers/identification at the Hungarian border, and now everyone's a Syrian.
youtube.com/watch?v=382njADcWvE