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Amping Up the Race Hate
Two Minutes on a Diner Parking Lot with a Black Woman

Shawn, a black woman in her early 40s, had just bought me breakfast at a Baltimore County diner. This was the morning of Thursday, June 15, 2017. I had just finished interviewing her about some white fellows in her youth being rude, one by spitting at her feet another by calling her “nigger-nigger.” She told me that this never deterred her from socializing with white men rather than blacks, as she dislikes the behavior of most black men and regards white men as the correct masculine standard.

As we stepped outside, a black man in a working pickup truck gave us both hateful looks, shook his head and drove off.

Earlier, in the diner, there had been a group of three white men, each about 30 years, bearded, wearing baseball-style caps with the blacked out American flag on them and glaring at us, even talking about us in hushed tones. The men were all fit-looking though not athletic. One was my size, the other two were larger.

They walked down the ramp ahead of us, twice glancing back.

They walked to the right toward their vehicles and we followed, our vehicle halfway from the door to their parking spots.

We stopped for a moment to savor the hate of the black man and Shawn quipped under her breath, “Nigga please, like I’d rather be with you than a white man.”

We chuckled over that as we walked on.

As it turns out only two of the men—the two big ones—were parked down the lot. As those two said farewell to the shorter one and entered their pickup trucks he turned around and walked toward us.

Shawn tensed next to me as he glared at her, as if he were some sorcerer attempting to melt her mind.

I switched my laptop case into my left hand and slid my right hand under my t-shirt to rest on the paracord tang of my skinning knife.

As he and I reached five paces from each other, her on my right and him on my left, he looked at my right hand, looked up into my eyes, swallowed, and nodded as if in respect.

At four paces, I grinned widely as she sucked in her breath next to me.

At three paces, as his feet stutter-stepped slightly and his eyes batted spastically, I said, “Hey.”

At two paces, he bit his lip and looked bug-eyed at my grinning face as I smirked, “How’s it goin’?”

His voice caught in his throat as his eyes bugged out and I placed my right hand across her back and we passed.

Shawn was aghast, “You were messing with him—trying to start something!”

“No, Girl,” I said, “I could have kissed his wife and he wouldn’t have gone there. All of his confidence is already driving off in their trucks.”

“I can’t believe you—OMG, you tried to start a fight over me!”

“I don’t fight, Girl—I just thought he was all cute and cuddly looking and thought I’d let him know how much I appreciated his jealousy.”

“Okay, you’re crazy—and that was kind of fun.”

“It was nothing but spontaneous man love, and you ruined it Baby Girl.”

In my younger days, this happened to me often, whether I was with a black girl or a white girl or the insane Puerto Rican bitch. I was once the only person at an all black park with the best looking black girl on my arm. Only one negro wanted to fight over that and I gave him the same treatment. Packs of white boys were always tougher to deal with, even groups of cops, would threaten me or try to make conversation with my girl as an intimidation tactic. The last time this happened to me was 2012 in Rosedale, in front of the Mars Supermarket, when three white dudes in a pickup tried to pick a fight with me when I was out with Megan.

I know what this is, have experienced it from the other side.

On three different occasions as a young man, between 1981-83, while I was married, I was drinking with friends—on one occasion camping—when one or more of them suggested beating up a man and raping his woman. In all cases these were spontaneous suggestions triggered by seeing a man with an attractive woman. These were all white couples that my friends expressed an urge to terrify and inseminate. I have heard military men brag about gang raping allied women in France and Vietnam. I have known a dozen women who were raped and gang raped, mostly by men of their own race.

As a tribalist, I need to be clear that this is the ugliest aspect of the tribal human mind and has largely been responsible for people allowing governments to usurp our former right to self-defense. Men of all three races I have been in contact with have expressed this desire to attack a couple and rape the woman, usually with me as part of the target couple.

I doubt very much if these three bearded white rabbits were of that mindset. I gather that they simply disapproved of what they saw as my mating choice. This always brings out the worst in me. By myself I take the lowest friction route away from contact, but while with a woman my mind immediately turns to combat, not fighting, not defending, but stabbing, ripping, smashing and jump stomping.

This is how we are wired.

I am a tribalist with no tribe, the hand of very man against me, the hearts of my own race filled with hate for my failure to join in their seething blindness, an enemy of The State, for my refusal to condemn that same race, a tiny enemy of all the vast world and if I had a torch that would burn this planet to a cinder, I would light it.

This is who I am, a being suppressed by the artifice of being a father. If I had no sons I would have no other goal than snuffing out as many of the seething apes that defile this garden sphere as possible. But I have been seduced by simple biology into being one of you, so you are safe.

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Add Comment
Ruben ChandlerJune 23, 2017 6:06 PM UTC

For a few years I was a travelling project super for Abercrombie and Fitch. My manager was Ron Gordines who had fought three times in the Kuomintang, where they fight to the death. He gave me some advice about my job which I have found also applies to life......"You are always surrounded by assassins."

Also a tribalist without a tribe here. My grandmother was born on an NDN reserve in Oklahoma in 1896. She taught me a lot.....such as to always carry a blade. At 10 years of age my mother thought it a bit extreme but my father was okay with it. It saved me a few times.