Erique drops me off at 8:08 AM in East York, PA at a supermarket and I wait next to the black pickup truck.

The Man in the Hat emerges from the store, one of his accounts, with his Texlon machine printing out the product order and says, “James, brother, nobody is picking you up for a hitchhiker—you look like a killer on the run. Headin’ into Negrotown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well get in, Brother. Let me ask you, back when you had the long hair and you were a pretty man, those Negroes used to fuck with you constantly—now I bet they leave you alone.”

“Pretty much.”

“Yeah, you’ve got I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK stamped on your bald head.”

[We head into Maryland.]

“Brother, I make my living on the road—a lot of driving and let me tell you, tailgating does not pay. I take my time. I see people get wiped out all the time. For instance, this asshole in the white car tail gating that semi—anything goes wrong and his head is getting picked up a hundred yards down the road and stuffed in a bag.”

[laughter]

“How was the trip to Kentucky?”

“Outside of Columbus, at rush hour, in a thunder storm, this tractor trailer jackknifes in front of us and we miss it by ten feet. My man thankfully doesn’t tail gate.”

“If he had, some EMT would have found your bald head and picked it up by the beard and said, ‘Look at this poor bastard, he’s better off!’”

[laughter]

“You know, James, I’m just busting your chops—I really miss seeing my son beat the dog shit out of you! How else did the trip go?”

“Newport, Kentucky is a fine little town, pretty girls. I’d move there if I were a young man. It’s across the bridge from the Cincinnati Reds stadium. I gave a young reader a check and sprawl lesson in a parking lot below the levee...drank at a nice German beer garden.”

“Nice, nice—all good coming back?”

“One interesting thing coming back was these two identical black pickup trucks, more muscled up then this, are driving a car length apart, doing 120, zigg-zagging through traffic coming out of Ohio and West Virginia onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike. They have Delaware plates and only the rear truck uses traffic signals, they move like magnets. They pass us twice, after making two stops. They blow through two Pennsylvania State Trooper speed traps and those cops do nothing.”

“Wow, that’s two to four men, maybe more—no way. And let me tell you James, the police are standing down. You’ll be in hog heaven in Baltimore—can walk around with your Stone Age weaponry and terrorize the Negro!”

“Speaking of which, the squeegie kids are off the hook. You know these bastards know that white people are afraid of them and they are practicing extortion. This one motorist has had enough and he gets out of his car with a bat and the squeegie guy reaches into his bag, out comes the gun, and pops him—shoots him dead and runs off. What do you think about that?”

“That’s why I never brandish a weapon, because he might have another. The experienced criminal fears the hidden hand. They have good instincts. They know that a negro will pull the trigger but that a paleface—unless he’s a cop—is just going to threaten because if he pulls the trigger his life is over. Either avoid the squeegie choke points or trash your truck, splash old paint on it, punch holes in it, shoot it with bird shot in the fender, and then they won’t mess with you.”

“In other words, make my car look like you?”

“Essentially.”

[laughter]

“Look at this crazy shit here, James. We had a tornado blow through here two days ago and this was a parking lot, trees all down across the road, people getting out and dragging the trees off to the side. It was a mess.”

[Guard rails were bent, trees were littering the hillsides along I-83 South into Hyenaman Hell.]

“Okay, James, here is one for you. Earl, an older black man at the cigar shop, he tells me that he’s riding down Riesterstowne road and these two hoodrats on an ATV are cutting in traffic. This has been a real problem. These punks are now drag racing during rush hour, terrorizing motorists, doing doughnuts in intersections and not letting people by, just daring them to hit them—and then you know what happens. Well, Earl is a retired man and he is headed to the Dunkin Doughnuts to get a coffee and it just so happens that these kids pull in in front of him. They see him, accuse him of following them, and come at him, running at him to drag him from the car, and, out comes the gun. Earl lays a bead on them over his steering wheel and they high tail it. Question is, could I get away with that?”

“No. 95% of white people are pussies and The Negro knows this. So unless you are in a rural setting and you look like a hillbilly, blacks will never believe you will shoot and will dare you to, knowing that they have a 64% chance of surviving and will cash in on a huge lawsuit. These guys all have friends that have survived shootings.”

“And they don’t give a shit. They know they’re dead by thirty so they just go for it.”

“I do think you should get a concealed carry if you can, but use it only against armed threats. For strong-arm carjacking scenarios, like what Earl was dealing with, a knife on either side of your seat is quicker to deploy. Ultimately your truck is your best weapon for defense. Never shut it off while within a hundred feet of feral Negroes. Go elsewhere, and if you have to go into an account, make sure you are armed. A Maryland lawyer told me three weeks ago that in Maryland, a concealed carry permit for your gun lets you carry a knife too, so pack both, one for each hand.”

“Earl told me he was sweating it, that he was mad, and he almost shot, that once you pull it you have to be ready to use it.”

“It’s true and why I prefer a knife. I would suggest both, a carry knife, a carry gun, and two driving knives, one for each side of the seat depending on which side the threat is coming from, also blunt hand weapons, tire irons and such, in the back seat and back bed for when you are loading or unloading, so that you have something at hand.”

“What are you packing, if I may ask?”

“A war club, a tactical pen, a scalping knife and a razor.”

“Jesus—but you’re a fucking savage.” [Holds up Billy Graham’s latest Christian living book.] “Are you telling me that a decent family man like me is supposed to start thinking like a hobo?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Brother, here we are, Negrotown—watch your six and be well and I’ll see you soon! Hey, if you don’t mind, a fifth of that 8-year aged rum, I’d give that a try. Beer is killing me and I still have to stay light for hockey—I’m still in the old man’s league you know.”

“Sure thing, Man—I’ll go to the Sikh liquor store today and get it.”

The Man in the Hat idled in the parking lane until he saw that I had safely entered The Brick Mouse House; a good friend and still a ghetto grocer twenty years on now.