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Trickatraumatizing Negro Wrangling
A White Devil’s Recollection of Providing Weird Protection

Previously titled Protecting Nerds from Thugs

Concerning ‘A Feral Attack’

"I recall a venue my youngest son operated in 2009, where 5 Rockville Police proved unable to prevent attacks against venue-goers, but where I, armed with a sweater, wireframe glasses and a Bic pen, successfully held at bay 3 armed Crip gang members, a 370 pound ebony thug , a 7 foot mulatto college basketball player and a 400 pound Latino. It took less effort to evade the police than it did to break my will, and I escorted their 8 targeted victims to their vehicles as they hovered like gargoyles, afraid to strike the first blow against a man operating from internal principles rather than according to the external laws of the slave state."

Can you explain what you said to the criminals, whether you brandished the pen, how you escorted your charges, what the cops did?


PR, I do not recall which book these accounts are in, though I suspect it’s When You’re Food. So I will explain my actions from a more internal perspective.

I began this night simply as a concerned parent between 7 to 9 a.m., wondering what my youngest son was talking about when he talked about people getting mugged on the lot of the venues where he judged these card tournaments. This was at Dream Wizards in Rockville, MD, a storefront game shop that hosted collectable card tournaments. My 17-year-old son was employed by the owner and by the card company as an official.

The car with the Crips in it got my attention and the gangsters actually showed me a set of nunchuckas and a chromed 9 mm in a rather casual but still pathetic way, so I walked to the front of the car and wrote down the license plate number, took out my flip phone and walked inside. As I stood by the counter dialing 911and looked out the window they pulled off, to return once and to eventually be arrested at another location based on the info I gave the cops when I called and also the two times they arrived and I talked to the officers.

I was surprised how much the concerned parent status got me respect from cops far above my later official security status at following venues. The armed thugs in the car were the easiest threat, as they carried within one of their girlfriend’s vehicles the tools for their own incarceration. The cops were up for this threat and took care of it, but had too much on their plate on a Saturday night to hold my hand and deal with the skulking threats on the lot.

I immediately saw a problem with adult black thugs mixing with tiny Asian and soft Caucasian teens. These thugs were not good card players or did not play at all and were in the business of stealing cards—entire backpack collections—for resale to nerdy black kids. A card could go for a grand, a back pack could be worth a new car.

I offered my services to the owner, who being an intelligent woman, immediately asked me to accompany her to speak to “Xerxes,” the street name of a washed out university basketball player, a seven foot quadroon with white skin and a Don Brewer [I’ve always wanted to say this, “Look it up, nigga!” (1)] afro. I diagnosed him as an emasculated, fatherless, wimp, who pretended to heed this lady’s warning about loitering and walked out.

I told the owner I was going to gather intelligence while the day was young, found the closest fast food joint and took a book, buying coffee and listened to all of the predators talk about their scams and marks and what cards they were going to jack people for, long before they had any idea that the White Devil was in their midst. I had said nothing to Xerxes during his discussion with his retail mammy. I followed him back down to the store, walking in behind him and letting the worried owner know that I would be securing the place for the day. Xerxes had been banned for the day and was not supposed to return. I engaged Xerxes in friendly conversation about basketball, about living out in Arizona where he had played two seasons and gave him my phone number and the address of the place where I coached, extended an invite for free training with my fighters, told him my son was the head judge, that I was running this shit now and he needed to get the fuck out before I broke his feet. I played up his self-image as a potential MMA stud at the same time I promised to dash it by beating his ass publically. He probably still shows my card to people, claiming he once trained under the dude from Baltimore who punked out Detriech.

The Crips in the car were his friends.

His other friend was “Turk” so named because he was part Turkish, but just looked like a Mexican door plug to me—this dude was like 5’5” and 400 pounds with a 25 pound head under a flattop cut. When he came up to the door and flexed on me, all I could envision was how stupid he was going to look falling and being too fat to it his head and I laughed in his face as I reached for the pen in my back pocket. My son, horrified that I was about to stab some fat fuck in the neck right in his bosses’ doorway, was mouthing from behind me “not a good idea” as the guy closed with me. I didn’t know this and wondered why the faggot backed off right before I stabbed him in the neck, because he didn’t seem to have a clue that he was about to get dropped. [Stabbing real fat guys with a blunt object in the sterno-mastoid cord of muscle is like hitting them on the chin with fist, plus they think they’re dying and tend to hold their neck to staunch the non-existent blood and wheel away.]

At a future event this guy sought me out and befriended me and promised to behave. I told him some things about Turkish military history. That and the fact that I remembered his name and that Xerxes “respected” me basically placed him on the plus side of the crime register. He became a useful informant.

I was making alliances with mixed-race guys to gather intelligence on the real ebony threat and to break the non-white cohesion along tangible ethnic lines. Just playing “the white” card and being a pure identitarian is a fool’s gambit and assures a solid POC alliance against you. Xerxes is so white he probably got beat up by dark-skinned dudes his whole life and Turk had no racial group of his own so was open to overtures that respected him as unique. He was genuinely thrilled that I knew what a Turk was and how good they performed as UN soldiers in Korea.

There were some of the remaining blacks, that I heard from my son, went either way, they could play or jump people, but for now they were playing. I made friends with these guys and told them that my son’s mother had kicked me out and she was real worried about her son’s safety and that I’d never hear the end of it if he got hurt. In fact, I’d appreciate it if they looked after my boy when I wasn’t there and if they ever pulled him out of a tight spot I’d make sure I sent them a thank you card.

“What, you know my shit?”

“I know nothing of your personal hygiene, but I do have access to the player registration forms.”

Wide eyes under scrunched brows, civility to all and ostentatious fist bumps to my son—who looked like the head of a young republican club—and the beginning of calling me G-Dad, signaled the ongoing success of this portion of the initiative.

When wrangling negroes, one must always understand that for every unreasonable thug, there are two or three “could be a thug on any given day” types who can be reasoned with, especially if you are perceived as being devilishly unreasonable. [2] White Devil sorcery is best used on this segment of the population, who are the audience you are playing to when you break the will of the hard core thugs.

Xerxes, the Crips and the Turk could not sway me—thought I was some CIA dad taking the day off to terrorize them. When it came time to clear the building for the playing of the final round, where the thousand dollar cards were up for grabs and nothing but a dozen tiny Asians (3) and fat Caucasians remained within, the thugs pulled out their wildcard, Detriech—or some such corruption of the Germanic name—a part time criminal and community college offensive lineman known for slapping big men so hard they would be KO’d and for seizing backpacks by main force in Philadelphia and New York. Detriech stood six-feet and six-inches and I would venture, weighed at least 380, with wide hips and a small pin head housing a low-enough IQ to make reason beyond his ken.

I could not threaten this guy without a knife or a gun.

This was the show the thugs all came back to see around 10 P.M.

Detriech demanded entry.

Guys like him slap around guys like Turk and rape guys like Xerxes, so you can see that my earlier action was simply taking away his terrorized support system and turning them into a “let’s see what happens between the white devil and the gorilla go at it” neutral audience. After the following encounter one light-skinned player who was a sometimes trouble maker, a heavyweight, one class below Detriech’s main battle cruiser size, began standing up to Detriech, actually laughing at him and finished breaking his reign of terror for me and ever after greeted me as “G-Dad.”

I said “No,” or shook my head, which I do not recall. But he got the message, based on how his eyes bored into me under scrunched brows.

Then, as I stood in the glass-framed doorway, barely wider than my coat-hanger shoulders [I was still in the 160s and had just fought down in Virginia earlier that year] Detriech backed up, circled, spread out his hands to the on-looking crowd of thugs on the lot and the sidewalk in that “I got dis, shit, Yo” manner, backed up to the edge of the sidewalk three hash-marks back, got into a three-point stance and then burst off the line of scrimmage towards me as I palmed my Bic pen, uncertain if I could get it all the way through his giant gorilla testicles and thought to myself, “I’m going to look like a Chihuahua attacking the mail man.”

As the big man got up a full head of steam I instinctively raised my White Devil claw—the trickatraumatizing left hand, of course—held out pale as the moon above, in the age old open gesture to halt, triggering the slave genes in Detriech’s DNA to register DATS DA MASSA! EN HE DON’ PLAY!—and the soul train stopped rolling, almost falling on me as he stopped on tiptoe with remarkable athleticism [actually, that stopping on a dime convinced me that he could toss me like a rag doll and I’d have zero chance in a fight without a real weapon] and he snorted like a bull who had charged up to an electric fence and thought better of it, prowling off into the night, in a sasquatch-like gait, palms facing backward, swinging below his hips, that was beyond intimidating and sent a chill down my spine as he glared over his massive slopped shoulder at me with his tiny pig eyes.

I turned around to see that my son was there to back me up, not wanting me to get trampled all by my lonesome and, as he smiled nervously, I pulled back The Hand of White Deviltry and said something like, “It works, the Hand of Power spell really works.”

Afterwards, as I walked the finalists, one by one out to the cars driven by their darling Asian mothers and lonely Gen-X white mommies, through the gauntlet of skulking thugs, I simply used the White Deviltry in my Hand of Power to ward them off. Really, it was like being Gandalf among goblins and trolls. I wanted to say, “Dawn take you,” but that would have ruined the warding spell I had so carefully woven among the premature cobwebs of their addled minds.

Also, the better looking the mothers were, the wider a space the negroes gave me, as they had come to identify me as “a real white nigger,” which means they assumed, based on my cool behavior—which they usually aspire to and almost always fail to maintain—that the one thing I was ready to fight over would be access to pussy, again, projecting their own adolescent motivation upon me.

PR, none of these guys even knew I had a pen that was conceptualized in my mind as a weapon. It was my psychological crutch, my vicious consolation prize that enabled my White Devil mind to whisper into my Neanderthal balls, “If it all goes to shit, you can stab him, forever!”

For my services, the owner offered me anything I wanted from her inventory and asked if I’d secure her venues in the future for $200 a day. I was making 80K managing a ghetto store and cared not at all for the money, so was thrilled to pick off her shelves Blood & Thunder, a biography of Robert E. Howard by Mark Finn, sitting under my son’s baby picture on this very desk as I write.


1. Don Brewer was the drummer and vocalist for Grand Funk Railroad.

2. Adherence to one's word, to a moral code which does not offer instant gratification and lack of fear of superhumanly athletic blacks, are signs of white deviltry. Such a white man is unreasonable on a negro level. For instance, he will treat blacks fairly and hold fellow whites to an objective behavioral standard instead of just going along with the racial flow. This is unreasonable on their tribal level. The sissy white habit of claiming that blacks are superior athletes and combatants—against all historical evidence—is believed by blacks who lack access to and cognitive ability to process this evidence. Hence, when a white stands up to a black they see someone who is crazy, who will spit into the wind, who will stand on Superman's cape—who might have a nuclear hand grenade in his pocket.

3. During this 15-hour day of nerditry I saw this tiny, 60-70 pound Asian-American kid with a health issue who was the best player and had won the world championships in Japan. I used him as the template for my main character for the Sunset Saga, Three-Rivers. God's Picture Maker is the best Sunset Saga novel. You want the Dark-Eyed girl edition, which actually got edited.

God's Picture Maker: Dark Eyed Girl Edition

The Logic of Steel Paperback


Let the World Fend for Itself

Big Ron's Baltimore: A Working Man's View of Urban Blight

Add Comment
PRFebruary 3, 2018 12:25 AM UTC

That read like a Robert E. Howard novel. Thank you.

"When wrangling negroes, one must always understand that for every unreasonable thug, there are two or three “could be a thug on any given day” types who can be reasoned with, especially if you are perceived as being devilishly unreasonable. [2] White Devil sorcery is best used on this segment of the population, who are the audience you are playing to when you break the will of the hard core thugs."

This could be the type I have on my street.
responds:February 4, 2018 1:15 AM UTC

I hate the term emotional intelligence, but it applies here.

I gained this advantage from decades of working with the criminal class.

For a really smart, valuable guy like you, you could work on some of the nuances by interacting as a coach with such people. However, with enough of a game face and inner resolve, you can go in cold and work much of this skill set, especially with the part time thugs. Actually, when I run into the hardcore thugs, I slide easily as they have a higher body language IQ and can frame outcomes in a hazy enough fashion to send them into survival mode.

Thanks for the Robert E. Howard compliment.

I suggest reading Waking Up in Indian Country for more nuances and examples.

Good luck with your particular knucklehead.
JJ PrzybylskiFebruary 3, 2018 12:15 AM UTC

This is very good. I practiced Aikido in Detroit and, believe me, I know its limits as a fighting art. But the dojos downtown and on the Eastside gave me a neutral place to study the Black male psyche. Even, not to be cute, the Black male soul.

Most of the Black guys were decent, and I'll save the stories of pissing contests for another time. In any case, there was little instructive fable taken from the annals of samurai lore. Because the fable was about finessing danger in the larger world, it was favored by the white practitioners who had quite a lot of breadth. It went something like this:

"Three young warriors at a crossroads were arguing about who had the baddest master. The first warrior said, 'My master is so bad that he strolled into an enemy town and killed their best fighter.' The second warrior said, 'My master is so bad that he strolled into an enemy town and killed their five best fighters.' The third warrior said, 'My master is so bad that he strolled into an enemy town and nobody challenged him. He won without drawing his sword.'"

On a tangent note, I now read lots of true-life tales of Mossad, CIA and other gentlemen sneaks. But always favoring the self-taught instead of the institutionally trained/programmed "operator", I loved this story. It shows that intelligence, regardless of one's station in life, is key to victory. It also shows something that's lost in today's surging technocracy with its prissy IQ fetish: personal character and smarts are one. Inseparable. Traditionally united in the best of men.
responds:February 4, 2018 12:45 AM UTC

If you check out Ron West's accounts of surviving higher level aggression in Europe, you will see that he uses a lower key version of these methods suitable for his situation. Neither Ron or I labor under the delusion that we can physically defeat our aggressors, rather we operate based on their preconditions for contact, actions, and nonverbal behavior cues.
Sam J.February 2, 2018 9:13 PM UTC

Good story. Especially the "raising of the White Devil Claw". I do think you've surmised the real reason that you have survived where you are so long, everyone thinks you're crazy. :)
responds:February 4, 2018 12:48 AM UTC

Sam J., I see now that you did not read How the Blacks Saved English—its Karayzee!
LaManoFebruary 2, 2018 11:36 AM UTC

Fantastic story! 5 minutes of my being in that region between laughing and suspense which means you "can't put it down".

You couldn't pack more ghetto psychology into a short work if you tried.

No wonder the LaFond section of my home library is growing, although my wife occasionally picks one up off the shelf and says "WHAT is this stuff ..?" I've found that if you have to explain, no explanation will do any good.
responds:February 4, 2018 1:08 AM UTC

We can't explain it to them—that is why they need us. They lack the instincts necessary to understand aggression. That is why our society is so upside down, because our masters have deliberately ordered civil society along feminine lines—such as "the Chuck Norris Rule." So long as women vote they can never be under our protection. Giving them latitude to vote on public policy is like putting me in charge of an advertising agency—a method of guaranteeing failure of the stated aim, which is, of course, not the actual aim but its opposite.