My host, My Brother, had just returned from a drive thru New Jersey to into New York at diner time, just as dusk covered the green Pennsylvania hills. He sat at the bistro table in the kitchen and decompressed over a beer.
Monologue
New York is hell. That place is almost back to what it was when I grew up there—home boys and insane homeless black guys jigging people with knives, fuckin’ chimping out. I stop at Jimmy’s [Deli] in Flushing for my favorite, baloney on a bagel. I ask him, “Hey, Jimmy, how’s the neighborhood?”
He say’s, “Oh, its changed.”
He doesn’t describe any more, doesn’t have to. These three mob guys come in and give me hard looks. I eat and go—fuck this place. I’m like the last guy that even speaks the local dialect even after moving out three years ago, and these fuckers are going to grill me when they should be standing up to the niցցers and the invaders.
I leave, walking down that street I lived on when you came to visit. This one young dude, a big man, a savage, has a pit bull. He has to take up the entire sidewalk and make me walk around. Hell no! I walk past him, real close to the dog, and the niցցer says, “He bites.”
That’s a threat. So I stop, ready to tear into this guy, and snarl at the dog, “He better not,” and that fucking four-legged negro knows his place and I go. I had more respect for that dog that should be thrown into a furnace than its owner who should be swinging from a rope.
So, I get out of that shithole—I understand you not liking that I go there and that you won’t be going back. Part of it is just being stubborn. The people I have there, three of the four, they don’t want me coming back because they know I’m a target, that the place I was born in is now totally against me and that the niցցers or their allies—the fuckin’ dog-face PIGs—are lookin’ to get anybody that looks like you or me.
But that’s not the worst thing about the trip.
[Looks up in amazement at an unexpected development.]
People are fucking with me on the highway in Jersey. I know it never happens when I have you with me and would never happen if I had some of the man weekend guys in the car. But now, when you’re alone, people fuck with you on the parkway, on the turnpike.
Four Mexican guys in a work truck kept speeding up on me, yelling at me, cussing me, giving me the finger, really trying for a response. I just ignored it, followed your advice, said nothing back and drove evasively, put some distance.
[Ideal response. When a pedestrian in Baltimore, this happened to me regularly. Making hard eye contact or signing or talking back to a group feeds into their pack validation complex and makes the attack on you not only justified in their simian mind, but a positive bonding experience. And if things go wrong, the uninjured members of their group become witnesses that put you in jail or prison.]
The one that really freaked me out was this guy drives up on me at night, on the parkway, and beams a flash light into my eyes. He is driving and has the light in his left hand [how cops are trained to use the flashlight] and trying to blind me, keeping up with me. I slow down, he slows down and beams me. I speed up and he speeds up and beams me like he’s trying to make me wreck or stop or something.
I was thinking that he might be trying to pull off a shooting, just pop me for fun, so I didn’t want to just ignore him and let him ride beside me beaming that light in my eyes. I pulled off at an exit and this guy tries following me and I eventually find a dark spot and turn the lights off and lay low and lose him.
[God job.]
Bro, what the hell do I do with that? It’s like people are going crazy out there.
…
Crackpot Thoughts
Listening to that last story sent a chill up my spine. Generally, with the gaslighting of the retarded American mind by the media for two solid years I have seen much more insanity across the country. He could just be a nefarious nut job. Both of these driving incidents are similar to pedestrian incidents I had in Portland this year and last year. People have been forced to be alone and have been taught to frame other individuals as hazards and heretics. During social unrest, such as in Europe during famines and plagues, lone strangers are routinely and instinctively preyed upon just because they are alone. This activity will increase much, very much.
My instinct is that this single actor with the light was a cop: probably a private security contractor, or an off duty or out-of-jurisdiction cop [like the cop that threatened me for not letting him steal from the store I managed after hours in 2009] who was trying to manufacture an event that would permit him to call back up on you. The fact that you have tattoos and wear sleeveless shirts, and are a paleface, will increasingly make you the target of the sadistic police impulse to pick fights with lone men of whatever social class or race are currently hated by society. Your skin and your ink make you a target. If you dress in a button shirt and suit jacket this will stop.
Additionally, your sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts attire, basically all you have worn for the 20 years I have known you, suggests you are armed with a knife and not a gun. This works great for our traditional hunters, the Negrodon primate, who fear the knife. But cops hate the knife, and your appearance suggests a Latino gangster without a gun—making a manufactured incident with you a potential joint joy killing for cops.
The PIGz can no longer go after the Negrodon. They must go after someone, must start shit with somebody. They are what we are and we are all that is left on their menu. We have to alter our appearance to survive. That is what I did with the nasty white beard, which makes it more likely that Negrodon packs will want to mug Saint Nick and that the tweakers out west might victimize me as a decrepit member of their kind. But, it broadcasts to cops that I’m probably too old to fight back and give them their joy kill. I have reinforced this by wearing Teamsters gear while traveling and it has worked, with cops and other uniformed authority figures treating me with more respect then before.
Also, you wear mostly camo pattern clothes, even in cold months. This is code, for “I hate the government” and is seen as a challenge by cops. Again, it has served you well as a Negrodon ward, for the Negrodons fear militia types with a deep dread—but what the Negrodon fears, the PIG hates. You should update your wardrobe to invite the Negrodon who is easily dispatched. You dropped two of these savages in Reading a few years ago when they ran up on you.
Keeping in kind that PIGz and Negrodons are the two main arms of American Anarcho-Tyranny and share the task of driving we palefaces to extinction, you should adopt a look that diverts the PIG Eye. They are the two faces of our enemy in the battle space. Do you want the one that runs at the first sign of resistance or the one that calls in a paramilitary hit squad at the first sign that you are not going to kneel and beg?
The choice is yours.
