Proust: Look at this shit over here, brother. The other day I see an eight- nine-year-old girl kicking the face in of this little terrier dog, just abusing the animal.

I know a few things about that kid as soon as I see that: that nothing good will ever come of her and that she was getting raped and beaten before she was five.

You look at a fucking cop and you see the same thing, a mentally emaciated creature, who had his balls snatched from him in the cradle of this sick fucking world and is now the eunuch overseer over us.

Blake: Brother, I saw this black bitch in an SUV in front of me the other day. She’s screaming “Motherfucker, I’ll kill you,” while this cop is pulling me over. So, the fucking pig has got me off on the side over my window tint and this bitch pulls into the gap in the sidewalk just ahead of me, takes off her seat belt, turns around—still screaming her chimp bullshit, and starts throwing hands into this car seat. I can’t see what age or sex the child is in the seat, but she’s working that little nigglet noggin’ like a punching bag. Now the cop could give a shit, but my tint is off—white cop, of course, Baltimore County.

James: Did you know Harford County cops have jurisdiction in Baltimore City now, to make drug busts?

Proust: Fuck the Harford County Sherriff’s office. I was doing masonry with a good friend of mine. Joey was a good dude but, he’d get arrested for fightin’ and shit. Never fought the cops, he’d apologize. He had something on him he shouldn’t have had and he gets arrested, calls me and says, “Hey, I might do a little time for this.”

It was no big deal to him and he wasn’t looking at major time, never had depression issues, didn’t even get charged with possession, let alone trafficking—the shit disappeared, man! The next day he’s found hanging in his cell. The fucking cops want us to believe this dude hung himself!

Blake: All the cops are like this. They told my man Jerry’s mother that he hung himself at Jessup. He had no reason to check out—wasn’t on the opiates or the H, never had his cherry popped by the niցցers—fuckin’ knew his way around. Guess how they say he hung himself? They wanted her to believe that he put a belt over a chair back, put his head in the loop and then hung himself by lying face down facing the floor and keeping up the tension on his neck by rising on his tiptoes like he’s doing a pushup in a noose—please, brother.

Proust: Never call the pigs. Never talk to the pigs. The pigs are the ones supervising our removal.

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