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The Throat Cut Guy
A Real Live Harm City Viking

Throat Cut Guy’s name is Marc, looked like Hillbilly Jim, the old wrestler with the big beard. This was about 99 or 2000. He came out to the parking lot behind the Hubcap late at night. That little parking lot, the owner used to tell people to try not to park back there. He cared about patrons getting offed by hoodrats even though he was an asshole.

[Ron and the author each know of two murders on that small lot, one I which the victim had his head smashed in with the concrete from the base of a fence post.]

Mark is about 6 5, big belly, big beard, big fuckin’ redneck, probably weighed 320, a beer-bellied brawler.

Big Hillbilly Marc was a construction worker and biker. He went back there to gee in his car one night and got set upon by a bunch of dindus. He’d fractured one boy’s head, slamming his face into the pavement. He was drunk and we talked about is quite a few times and came to the conclusion that it was five or six. According to him he was winning. Until one of them cutt him and he knew he was cut across the throat, he was winning, knockin’ them skinny ass dindus around.

One of them come up and cut his throat from behind and his big red beard probably saved his life. He stumbled back in the bar and they took off running leaving their good friend on the ground with a fractured skull. 911 was called and they came and took him and had the dindu with the smashed egg head laying out there and no charges were brought against anybody. I think the guy with the crushed head they felt sorry for him.

They left their buddy with the crushed head there—guess they never read about the marines at the Chosen Reservoir. It amazes me that all these white rabbits think you can’t beat dindus, like their supermen because you see he hopping around on sports TV. Tough white neighborhoods-working men—hold out forever against these weak-ass people until you either drug them out and ruin the men or gentrify the area and then tax them out of the neighborhood and make them move.

The scar went across the right side from the jugular to the throat, kind of deflected down to the collar bone, because he was all full of beard that was deep brownish-red. He had to lift his beard to show the scar.

We got to be good friends. He was a real talented guy with heavy equipment, road construction, excavation. He could take a bulldozer apart and put it back together again. One night, we were in the Elmwood drinking Budweiser, but he drank cans I drank bottles. He liked high grade pot and Dewars Scotch. We decided that we’d have a drinking competition one night and we started drinking back to back shots and washing them down with beer. Over a period of two hours we drink a fifth and a half of Dewars, women are getting upset saying were going to die. I’m getting so drunk I’m having a hard time formulating sentences and he walk over to the pool table, pissed in the corner pocket and rolls up on the pool table and goes to sleep. There was some woman saying, “That’s enough of this ridiculous shit. I walked out and crawled into the bed of my pickup and slept the night there. Someone covered me with a beach towel—it was cold out. I was feeling it in the morning. Thank God I didn’t have to work the next day. I guess that’s why they call it a bed, probably not a good place for a sleeping arrangement in Baltimore, but shit happens.

White in the Savage Night: A Politically Incorrect Life In Words: 2016

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