Where the rich play in the Weed Mecca of America, where pot resin is always in the air, there are cops a many...to protect the weed heads from the nappy heads. Zeer, commenting that the motorists in Denver are so high so often that they get into a lot of low-speed collisions, dropped me off at the RTD at Central Park Station, which is way out in left field towards Aurora. There the trains between the airport and Union Station in downtown Denver run ever 20 minutes. Mass transit in the enw cities of the west is so much better than Baltimore.

The platform is long and civil, with a very good looking mixed Asian babe in adorable pig tails sweeping over her shoulders and blowing in the wind like as if she were a cocktail waitress in Doctor Seuss’s Whoville. A loud kang yells smiling into his phone. No wonder they never conquered a country—how would they ever sneak up on anyone?

I have no ticket, no way to get one and wonder about the threats on the loud speaker by the lady computer on the way out there, that I have to have a ticket. Zeer said just to give the cop $10 and he’ll let me ride if I get checked, but that few cops ever check for tickets. Then, as the door open a large armed security guard steps out and eye balls me hard, ignoring the unmasked kang as he watches me mask up and the computer proclaims it “a federal law.” On the light rail that towering redneck cop eye fucks me for a third of the ride as a Denver Sheriff sleeps next to me across the aisle—a Latino man, unmasked and the kang snickers into his $100 phone unmasked behind him. Only the cops and kangs are unmasked. An Asian man is told to mask up by the cop, a ghost woman too.

At Union Station I take off the mask and enter and am glad to find that no one except an Asian man is masked. The train is an hour and a half behind, coming out of Nevada, where it is always sidelined for an hour and a half by freight trains since the advent of Brovid Jiveteen. It gets later and I have time to buy tickets. Over the intercom, we hundreds of unmasked zombies are threatened with federal penalties, criminal prosecution, fines and banning from mass transit if we “refuse to wear a mask.” The language of Maskism has become much more domineering and remote.

I note that the actual Amtrak ticket counter, off in an alcove towards a swank restaurant attended by hot babes and semi-masculine skinny-legs, sit two Amtrak men, unmasked—even as threats continue about “refusal to wear a mask.”

Casting not being masked as a “refusal” is setting us on a sinister semantic slope towards face filtering and social credit scoring.

Sanity at last!

I see the three goon squad of interior security who are home base for three pairs of security on the platforms, and an outpost for the dozen cops and security downstairs at the bus terminal, shepherding some three score of Kangistani Hetman.

There is a big muscular action hero, flat top black hair and movie star good looks.

There is a big, fat man, also about 30.

There is their leader, who I have seen here before, the Queen of Tats, an Athena of private law enforcement. What a piece of ass!

She is 27-30, face a 7, body of the athletic type a 10—if you like fit chicks, she is perfect. Rick would have proposed to her. She stands 5’ 10” weighs 160, has a vest worn over a sleeveless uniform exposing her full sleeved tattooed guns—looking like babe-fifty-seven caliber. She has a tied down leg rig for her nine with the strap around her shapely thigh just below her wondrous cleave of ass. If I were a successful writer I would hire her as a bedroom guard and have her abduct fat chicks for me.

I keep staring at her with the one un-patched eye, like a one-eyed dog in a meet market. She bosses a hoodrat on a bike outside, in clear, commanding and somewhat soothing tones perfectly calibrated to enforce the NeoMatriarchal Order of Post-Modernity. She notices me a few times and even posses, not like a bimbo, but like a lady Rambo. She smiles from over her cute jut of pale chin topping the hideous body art shoulder.

I go over to the ticket counter, drop my ruck and the Amtrak agents sigh and pull up their masks, so I do the same, all in this shamdemic together. My tickets for April 30th to May 1, from Saint Louis, to Chicongo, to Pittsburgh to Lancaster, Pennsylvania cost only $130.

I walk over to the goon stand, where Xeno and the male goons stand, and check her out as I walk buy towards the bathroom and the action hero says, “You are a ticketed passenger?”

“Yes sir,” I said, as I admired her painted triceps and she grinned.

I walked past her and had to turn and check her ass out as the action hero, who is probably banging her, starts telling her that the “Old Teamster is checking out your ass.”

A huge mop-headed youth of Caucasian genetics and Kangistani aculturation bumps me by accident in the bathroom and then apologizes and says, “Sir, the patch is gangster—love the look—gangster as shit.”

I returned, “I can’t see for shit and have to creep off the curb like a junky so I don’t slip and fall.”

He laughed good naturedly. I walked back past the goons and thanked the action hero and he smirked as Xena smiled, “Any time.”

Xena bounces another negro out into the cold on pure vaginal authority. She directs a ghost lady to park her bike outside as well and the woman obeys as if taking orders from the Queen.

It’s a half hour to get on the platform and I move my ruck onto a bench so I can strap into it. A refined lady my age, speaking the dialect of pre-woke academia says, “That bag is as heavy as you!”

I laughed, “Feels like it.”

Another lady has some questions about the train delay and I explain, that once a train is slowed in Nevada by freight, that the engineer cannot make up time in the Rockies like they sometimes do out on the flat. It is just too dangerous winding down the face of the high mountains into the wind blowing up from the plains.

Time comes to leave and I need to pee again, so I leave the ruck and walk up to the goon stand and begin to show Xena my ticket and she grins widely and says, “Oh, I remember you! Come on through, sir.”

Back out on the bench the two women my age look on aghast and in wonder as I barely managed to get into the ruck, with my left shoulder unable to slide back and the right getting stuck. Finally, I rise and they give a tiny applause, as the woman who speaks like a retired educator and reminds me much of dear Aunt Patsy says, “Traveling doesn’t get any easier, does it?”

I said, as I clipped the straps and grabbed the easy chord, “I wouldn’t be young again, not in this world. But it would be nice to be strong again.”

As I walked by she commented, “That was beautiful—I loved everything you said and the way you said it, every part of it.”

I walked away thinking, ‘And she would have had to flunk me for hopeless composition and worse spelling.’