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‘Some Cop Action at Your Work’
Friday, September 1, 2017, Baltimore County

Mescaline Franklin was meeting me at work on his way into town, so that he could take my keys and use my room for the night. We had a training session out of town at my favorite gym. As I crossed Middle River Bridge on another dark, sodden night, I received this text: “Some cop action at your work.”

As I came along into the lot and Mescaline greeted me, I saw five cops cars and six dindus: five dindu youth cavorting like drunken women and one being questioned by two cops as one cop stood watch, one cop spoke with a towering, blonde amazon with a very athletic posterior—so athletic I tought she was 25 and black. But on close scientific inspection—a discipline required of men adhering to a scientific understanding of the world—discovered she was a tattooed, white woman of about 40.

Indoors two cops spoke to my coworkers.

Over the course of the night I spoke with six employees about what happened and came to a far more complete understanding of the event than any of them, a good argument for the practice of historical inquiry across sources. I was able to give a report to the man in charge, who had done a good job handling the situation and deserved to know the cause and possible trajectory.

Dindu Moon

9:45-10:10 P.M.

Six youths, wearing gray hooded sweatshirts have been skulking up and down the aisles of the grocery store without purchasing anything. The evening manger puts them out. They go without a fight or much of an argument.


Tori exits her truck to come to work and notices that six youths in hoddies, hoods up, are standing in the rain staring at her, following her with their eyes.


Robin and Tori notice that the six hooded youths are skulking about in the stockrooms, just standing in the employee-only work areas among the stacked freight in apparent ambush positions. Tori tells Big Tone, who gathers the night crew and verbally herds the youth between them out front, past the cashier, who has a line of people. The innocent, oppressed youth then threaten Tone—who is 60 and overweight, barely able to walk—indicating that they are going to wait outside for him until after work. He laughs at them and they grow quiet.


As the procession of hoodlums and night clerks pass the register one of the wanabe thugs threatens the amazon, “Oh, you is a snitch, be snitchin’ on us fo stealin’!”

Tone says, “I don’t care if you are stealin’ I just want you out, now get out!”

Then the big amazon woman, who seemed 6 foot and 180 pounds, fit , almost pretty, “and rough as hell” who all were of the opinion could have beaten up any of the men there, roared forth, “You don’t disrespect me, boy! I will beat your ass. I don’t care what color you are—I will beat all your asses and then drag you home and slap the shit out of your mother for not raising you up right!”

The mighty thugs beat a retreat, but then stayed on the walk, flashing gang signs, grabbing their crouches and indicating by their behavior that the woman would be in danger when she emerged.

Steevo said, “Then she changed up and ruined it by callin’ the pigs. I was hoping she was calling her men so a bunch of bikers would roll up and squash these bone racks, but she must be a cop bitch, ‘cause the cops roll up and they’re sweet with her. We could have walked her to her car.”

The cops unofficially barred the kids from the store—you can only put that paperwork on adults or on a youth while his guardian is present—and could not investigate them for theft even though they were certainly “grazing,” because if you take action for suspected theft and find no packed goods on them your store can be sued.

What were these punks doing?

This is very common behavior among the fatherless sons of welfare mothers.

Cash came out on September 1, which is $250 per child. $250 per child of food stamps come out between the 5th and 27th depending on the first letter of your last name.

September 1st was a confluence of ghetto mind astrological events:

-The First, Money Day

-Friday, Party Day

-The first day of a four-day holiday weekend. When mamma dates a manz with a job, she likes those long weekends so that he can bed down for enough days to hemorrhage his paycheck for her-and his ass gets paid on Friday.

The last thing mamma wants while she is eating shrimp and steaks, drinking liquor, smoking weed and bedding down with her manz, is her hoodrat sons causing interpersonal friction with her paramour and causing him to think twice about spending his paycheck or drug money on her. The boys have to go. It’s bad enough that her younger children are going to be walking in on her asking for a pop tart while she is being sodomized. The last thing mamma wants is her almost growed son sticking his head in her bedroom and saying something like, “Nigga,is you done fuckin’ my mamma yet—I’m hungray and ain’t shit in da fridge.”

So, as much as I regard these boys as my enemy and the enemy of all working kind as they evolved their own little tribe on my job location, probably not entirely sure if they were going to hang out, steal, fight, mug, rape or just stay dry, these kids, mostly 14-16, were homeless for the night as their mother and the savage servicing her squandered the money intended to feed and clothe them on a night of debauchery.

That’s Hoodrat hatching 101.

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