I woke with a rage in my heart, not because the slave girl that was supposed to come over and blow me got hung up ringing out turkey orders at the Ghetto Grocery Mart and couldn't make it, but because I am, like Panzram, incapable of killing this sick fucking world of sissy men. I had a thirst to write another scene in Thunderbird, but had to address this morning, as part of my devilish duty as the Harm City Hesoid.

These nap things aren't working out to bad. I'm finally starting to take care of myself, Lynn. After I fall out of my chair, or my face smacks the keyboard for the third time, I crawl into bed for a nap.

The society I hate, I hate because it was cultivated to devour my identity.

I stood in the dark, in the early morning, November mist, five miles beyond the Harm City line, in an area which has seen the importation of thousands of criminal households from the worst ghettos in east and west Baltimore. This area has been more dangerous for me to traverse on foot than the much more violent area of Baltimore where I live.

There are three reasons for this:

1. Young thugs fresh from the ghetto wish to carve a place for themselves in a majority Caucasian area, this accomplished according to the only societal value media and academia have assigned them, historically justified menace.

2. Raiding parties of thug men and thug boys journey out from the barren city by night too hunt pale, juicy prey.

3. Emasculation: which I should explain.

Some friends have chastised me lately for referring to myself as "unrepentant jerk" and "white trash," with the unrepentance covering my white trash status as well. I believe in accurately depicting my place in the society I hate and which hates me. Indeed, this declaration may have gotten my book banned by Amazon. It is either "white trash" or "Whiteman" that did it, as all they based this on was the cover listing.

Imagine playing football or baseball and insisting that you play the position your whims dictate as you take the field rather than that assigned by the coach or manger? This is how most of us—the deluded millions—linger through our pathetic lives.

White trash is a term often assigned to me—three times in my presence and twice overheard, by wealthy whites and working blacks. The term is assigned to any white person who refuses too worship at the Altar of Things, who declines to elevate himself above poverty for the sake of comfort, convenience and status. For all of this sick, depraved nation's sins against the children of Africa which it brought here in chains, the worst thing this polity may do is regard a white person as "trash" for, in this materialistic orthodoxy, this religion of things, for a white to decline relative affluence is heresy, is as unthinkable as a black man denying his race.

Denying the universal good of greed, failing to suck the bulging cock of the God of Things, denies the master class whore his crowd-affected moral status. The white slave who ran to the frontier or the mountains and refused to live in the shadow or in imitation of, his master, was rejected as worse than a black man.

This was most brought home to me when I was asked to attend a dinner at an upscale restaurant in 1983. My boss, son-in-law of the woman who owned the business for whom I worked as the youngest grocery manager in town, asked me to have dinner with him and a consultant who was to help us reorganize and provide me with training managing inventory and staff. I was making 170 dollars per weak and did not have enough money to buy a cheese pizza for the wife and boy on Friday nights. A babysitter and a 5-Star restaurant bill would put me in an unescapable economic hole—if I had had the cash, which I did not.

I declined and was forever more a pariah with that company.

The consultant was so insulted that he picked an argument with me in front of my night crew, challenging my judgment and appealing directly to them, at the same time that my boss, an Australian man, who called some of my men "bleeding aborigines" and threatened to kick my ribs in one day when I was injured from boxing, was pushing for my termination.

I walked up the office stairs, working over for free and reporting in before I left, to hear from the other side of the door, the following statements about me:

"I know he's loyal and hardworking, but he's nothing but white trash!"

he then said something I did not catch, followed by a sentence I cannot completely recall which ended with, "...that goddamned, dumb white niցցer!"

I had chosen to live with Faye and raise her son, who had a medical condition that could only be addressed if I had medical benefits, rather than do something risky and violent to get killed—which had ever been my secret ambition as a boy, youth and man—to go out swinging at the world I hate.

But I had a responsibility to keep this job until I could find a better one and a responsibility to keep that job too. Knowing that all three of these people were much older and wiser than I, one three times older and two twice my age, I wasted no time arguing in my mind that the speaker of these words was wrong. The old lady he spake them to did not challenge his assessment, nor he hers, that I was loyal and hard working. They were only in disagreement as to whether or not I should be fired for one obvious social characteristic or retained for the other. Indeed, it was his world, not mine, I was a prisoner in the world where he acted as a soul driver.

I must understand that I am, to him and the world, what he says I am, and to observe how that perception of his manifested itself towards me, so that in the future, I might be able to know who saw me in this way, for I could not trust them all to rant and rave while I walked up the stairs to their office uninvited...

This was the beginning of my training in navigating a world, which has ever been to me an alien hell.

I must not see myself as I wish to be seen.

I must not see myself as society wishes me to see myself.

I must see myself as society sees me.

I am therefor accurately, definitively, willful white trash, making less money every year due to a stubborn drive to remain singular in a collective world. I could be making 120k a years managing a supermarket. Yet I earn 6% of that now and probably 2% of that next year.

This knowledge of my identity in the greater society, this clear understanding of how the warden and guards and soul drivers on this prison planet regard me, has kept me alive, ironically so.

The bus stop is a telling place. Throughout my life, other than the agitated, insane and predatory, blacks have never tried to harm me for being a poor pedestrian on foot, in their world, where whites drive and blacks take the bus. Whites, on the other hand, have often harassed me for being a pedestrian. This is most common in raider areas, where the local working white men have become the prey of invading black men. Indeed, many blacks increasingly regard me with pity, the pity one has for a leper.

Being the emasculated slaves of a slave society, these white men have typically lashed out at me, a safe target, trying to pick fights with me as a way of building their own identity in an identityless superstructure of the soul-eaten matrix they inhabit, where they buy their numbing drugs fro the blacks they fear.

These are always young man who work with their hands, whose only pride is in being able to afford a vehicle and who see me on foot as a willful failure, a reminder that they might be sucked into the bowels of the machine and live like a black person. As of late, over these pot-bellied, Santa Claus, grey years, such men usually treat me like a retarded uncle and make way for me to cross the street.

But there has been one threat, earlier this year, two or three rednecks in a pickup truck in this currently overrun zone, who threatened me, only a 1 to 10 occurrence against black threats during the same year-long period, but something six years new. This is because Essex is being overrun, the white men all afraid to be caught on foot and seeing my leaning on my cane at a bus stop reminds them that they have become sissy, that they are actually afraid of a reprehensible enemy, who itself possesses and demonstrates few masculine qualities. I am the big, white dildo left by the unsatiated wife of an impotent man in his underwear drawer to humiliate him.

So, this morning, as I stand at the bus stop around the corner from the Dunkin' Doughnuts, where sissy whites in there 30k trucks and cars, spend $10 on a bad breakfast and good coffee, and I count out the $4.25 for the bus ticket that will see me home and back, a carload of three carpooling construction workers, headed to a site, slows by the curb as the windows roll down and the two passengers scream at me at the top of their lungs.

Three men, each half my age—and I am looking more like 65 than 55 lately, could not even stand straight this morning—attempted to bond at my expense, by expressing chimp level dominance of an aging male before dawn.

I have for so long learned to go stone at any loud shout or screams—once reading a newspaper while two ghetto whores screamed in my face for many minutes on the #19 fight, trying to get me in a fight with their thug boyfriends—that I made no response, not even a batted eye lid. I am so good at this that I yawn out of habit when people attempt to startle me, and I did so this morning.

But that is just Stage 1 of the sissy bonding experience.

I had robbed them of their ennobling fun—and what is more ennobling, than deriding the white trash, than trampling the peasant under your destrier's hooves?

In my mind I feel a white hot rage which wants to kill—not fight, kill—for I know what they have done to be an attack on my masculine stature, an attack that in any previous society demanded a challenge. And they know that in their bones, for although their kind are no longer men, there is a vestigial memory of manhood in their blood. I quickly run the scenario auto-play in my mind and see myself cracking a skull with my cane, getting grappled, gutting that sissy with my knife, and then being beaten by a hammer by the third man.

Pass.

Finishing A Dread Grace will be difficult with a hole in my head. I'd beat the charges, since they are white and working class, but am maybe rendered as dull as they. They slow the car, eagerly observing my response.

I do not even turn and look. So they started to roll and when I turn and look they notice and stop, hoping beyond all sissy hope that I will yell—I can't, my balls would fall off—or flip them a finger.

I yawn again, they roll some more, stop and look back, and I go back to counting my change.

Disappointed, I suppose, I hear them roll off along the wet road.

A young black man in a hoody has been observing this from behind a pole, behind the bus shelter. When they roll off he approaches the shelter, enters, nods and crosses his arms against the wet chill as we wait.

I stand out in the rain still, angry white trash cooling in the rain.

I am Unrepentant, unapologetic, willful white trash and I am bitterly and fiercely proud of being so much less a sissy than the slothful remnants of my deservedly dying race.

On the bus ride home I consciously adopted the following plan:

Publish 40 more books

Then start wearing my Bowie knife everywhere and butcher the first bastard that threatens me.

Hold me to it.

Damn the World of Man,

Fuck the Peace.

To Hell with the Blackman—

A bitch who don't even say please.

Fist fuck The Man,

Because his Civilization is a disease.

Face fuck The Woman—

A wicked, sissy-sprouting crease,

Planted by the Goddamned Whiteman.

James, the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, 2017, Cell Block Baltimore

Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback