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Darla
A High-Heeled Young Doll in Blue & Gray Sweater Suit on Working in a Downtown Baltimore Office Building


Darla is a friend of Niki, who has previously been interviewed about working from a Commerce Street office building. Darla works on Baltimore Street, one block over and they share access to the high rise parking garage on Baltimore and South Streets, where they have come to each other’s aid in high heel versus sneaker combat.

Note: One of Darla’s accounts from last week—these were all from last week—sounds similar to a mob attack reported on CBS news last week. However, so many simultaneous youth mob assaults have occurred lately, that those news stations willing to cover such attacks are often the only source for the story, which is beginning to broaden coverage by such organizations in the aggregate even as they individually attempt to obscure the identities of the aggressors and grossly underreport such attacks.

The Corner of South and Baltimore

On my very first day at work, coming in at 8:50, I see one of the homeless white guys pull his pants down and hang his butt over the curb in a squat and defecate—bro had no shame in his game, just shit right in front of rush hour traffic.

Mister Mohamed was a creepy Black Muslim guy who would panhandle the men but would just nod respectfully for a woman and say, “God Bless.” He was defending himself against these Mexican guys—the Mexicans scare the hell out of me, they just stop and stand and stare, all in a pack, at me like they’ve never seen a woman—and he clubbed one of them and the police released him until the Mexican finally died and now he’s booked on murder.

We cannot go out alone, go home alone—no way, no how. And coming to work is getting dicey too. Nikki and Trent and I were walking around the corner from the garage and this one guy asks us for money and Nikki and I say we don’t have any. But Trent blurts, “We don’t get paid until the 15th. We should have killed him for that. Now these people are going to be dialed on our pay day.”

Once, Eddie, one of the partners was coming in at 7:46 and there is this creepy guy standing there saying, “Hey, man, you’re an hour-fourteen early.” Talk about creeping you out. These people know us; they study us.

Last week another one of the partners—can’t say his name—was leaving early in the afternoon and these six black girls beat the hell out of him, hospitalized him. We still don’t know if he’s going to be okay.

There is this tall white girl who used to be pretty. You always see her with these three black guys. I used to give her money. But now she looks like a zombie. She’s maybe 19, moved into town from Harford County. These kids come in from out of town to live as junkies, from Pennsylvania. I tell them, when they ask me for money, “Just leave, you won’t make it. They will kill you.” We had two different cars with Pennsylvania tags outside the garage last week with overdoses in them. Whatever they’re selling is just offing some of these people on the first shot.

I’ve seen cops just drive by bodies on the street, with a needle sticking out of their arm. Once, we are heading into the garage and there is this body right there in the way. We said something to the attendant that he had a body there and he says, “Just kick them.”

He then walks over to the dude and kicks him and the guy leaps up yelling, “Whooooo!” and runs off.

Somehow, one day, me and Trent are walking into the garage and the white girl is there—don’t know how she got there. Her black pimps are nowhere around. She asks me for money and I tell her no. She then looks at Trent and says, do you want some of this, turns around, pulls down her jeans and bends over and quotes some price and there are bloody holes and sores all over her ass, like someone punched holes in her with a tool. I told Trent, “You ought ta hit that, Trent.” And he almost hurled.

It is literally the zombie apocalypse. The shareholders, the old Jewish people in their furs, with the million dollars worth of rocks on their fingers, they can’t come into the office for meetings anymore. They rent a hall out in Hunt Valley—probably ought to buy it, ‘cause this shit is getting no better.

It’s so bad—last week alone was so bad—that Marvin, one of the junior partners, said to me, as he was leaving early, “In case I don’t make it to my car, I want you to know that I think you are a fine addition to the firm and wish you a good life.”

He didn’t say this jokingly, but in all seriousness, then he turns, faces the door, shakes his hands and rolls his shoulders and yells, “Mount up!” and just shoves out through the door like he’s some military guy heading into combat.

How they Roll on Baltimore Street

How they roll on Baltimore Street is ridiculous.

I was standing in line at the Chick Fillet one day before lunch with Eddie and he turns around and looks at me with big eyes and is pointing in front of him. I look around him and there is some junkie bitch, in line for her food, with a tourniquet on her arm, firing heroin! I lost my appetite on that.

I had a date—a couple dates—with this police detective who worked on enforcing peace orders. He tells me he ends up driving this 350 pound woman into lockup for coming after him with a knife. The whole time she’s in the backseat saying, “I’m gonna get you, whiteboy. I comin’ for you, whiteboy. You scared yet, white boy?” He said that by the time he got to the station he was scared.

Which reminds me of this one UBER driver that picked me up when I worked over—there was no way I was heading to the garage without a man. I’m in the back seat. They tell you that you can sit up front with the driver. But when he picked me up, he said, “Get in the back, Miss.”

He was a nice, blonde-headed, with a crew cut, country kind of guy. Then as we make a left onto Gay Street this teenager jumps on his windshield and when he stops, the kid slides down to the passenger side and holds onto the roof as he screams, with his face pressed against the passenger side window, “You afraid now, whiteman?!”

The driver then reaches down and pulls up this big fucking handgun—I don’t know what kind it was, but it was huge, like a cowboy gun—points it in the kid’s face—and the kid is frozen—and the driver says, “How about you, nigger?”

That kid screamed like he was being eaten and ran off faster than I’ve ever seen anyone run before—gone.

Except for my date with the cop, this all happened last week [first week of November].

Rubbing Out Palefaces

Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback

https://www.amazon.com/Rubbing-Out-Palefaces-Minority-Caucasian/dp/1975682092/ref=sr_1_1/140-0730406-0172864?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1503491421&sr=1-1

Add Comment
Sir Lord BaltimoreNovember 11, 2017 8:28 PM UTC

If Marvin Trent or Eddie emulate that Uber driver...Chances are that they will be wishing that they didn't. Baltimore doesn't take kindly to having its entrepreneurial "teens" lit up by those of the pale caste. MD, doesn't issue concealed carry permits to those of the peon class like WV,VA or PA do. If any of these gentlemen were to get caught with a handgun...They'd be up the old creek. One that would see them spending time at the Baltimore Detention Center as happened to a friend of mine about 5 years ago. A guy with no criminal records previous. A white dude. Never talked about it much. Extrapolate how much fun he must have had. Instead Marvin Eddie and Trent would do well to vacate that hell hole and let if fall off into Main Branch.
ShepNovember 8, 2017 4:54 PM UTC

Marvin, Trent, and Eddie should emulate the Uber driver.

But they won't.