I was out today, walking through the park towards the nearest ghetto liquor store, past the place by the light pole at the edge of the asphalt path and the field, where discarded hoodrat snack trash marks the gathering place of the martyr race minds that shall shepherd the next generation of America’s most entitled demographic to another conquest, another working community turned entitlement camp.

With the pole sixty yards ahead I spot the source of the youthful noise, twelve Yute Braves, ranging from 10 to 15, shaded from tan through dark chocolate, all the gradations of the miscegenation rainbow—except for one paleface wench, just hitting her 12th or 13th year, long brown hair streaming down her back, bracelets dangling from her wrists, a giggling spasm of drone worship letting the gathered aware know that the slipway was ready for docking, the next generation of entitled criminals already under debate.

The girl was alone, not even with a friend, as she engaged in negotiations with the gathered Yutes, aspiring to the whoredom extolled by the media at its every temple, shrine, chapel and church.

“I’m stalking him,” she blurts, almost bashfully, but with lusty defiance.

The oldest Yute, a proud stick of smoldering coal, at about 5’ 10” and 130 pounds, says, “You mean to suck him.”

“No-oo, I’m stalking him,” she corrects him, as the younger boys get ancy to play ball and the older ones begin to circle her, at 4 in the afternoon, as I approached, causing a wing of the sexually-enveloping formation to withdraw from my right shoulder.

“So yo suckin’ us?” the chieftain asks, just as I begin, without looking above knees, to angle between the dark dozen and their stalker, which causes her to rush into their midst, as if in a panic that her sexual playthings might be frightened off by my anachronistic passing in the light of day.

On I walked, purchasing my two bottles of calypso rum.

Upon my return, seeing the group gone, it occurred that I should take a look at that very spot again for the two shell casing I didn’t find, for the neighborhood watch report said 7 shots three weeks ago and I only found 5 brass.

I found one more brass Remington .45 A.P.C. casing as I heard youthful voices from behind the woodpile in the nearby wood.

As I left the park I noted that 4 of the youngest fellas were playing tackle football on a few raised front lawns, before fatherless brownstone homes, having occupied themselves with something more productive than the usual sexual introduction of Yute braves, “pulling a face train on some ho,” and instead, blasphemously defied the deified Media State, clinging to some whisper of a masculine, tribal past as they tried to invent manhood from scratch in a world without men, outnumbered 3-to-1 by those who would rather involve themselves with the feminist death throws of a dying race. I wonder, with 8 of 12 Yute braves already selling their souls to the pallid feminism of the End Times, how many of these four will make it to manhood with a soul and how many will join the zombie hordes?

Hopefully one of these Yutes will earn the hatred of his martyr race and the resentment of the dying race dragging them to Hel with them and emerge a man.

Of such slim chances are hopes for a future inhabited by accidentally generated men based.

People will read of this encounter and call it barbaric, say that these youths, who would be operating under adult supervision among Huns, Mongols, Kelts, Alans, Vandals or any other barbarian race of our historic past are a manifest resurgence of barbarism. However, only in Civilization, under its blessings, do children raise themselves, do youths seek to reinvent manhood from the scraps left them by their degenerate parents, at the deep, dark suggestion of their parent’s unseen puppet-masters.

Civilization is the problem.

Barbarism is the solution.

Hopefully, within a few lifetimes, ever-growing, never-melting snow will be driving both pale and martyr races into the abyss, to make room for the tiny remnant of this worm of a civilization that might bring men back into the world.

3/25/2018, written under a snow-heavy sky