I was taking a walk to the Asian grocer for some peas and lemon grass while talking to Lynn at Caveman Control concerning tomorrow's recording and the fact that she's going to be publishing some of our books herself...

Then, as I clicked off and looked ta the front of the grocery store I heard, like the half-forgotten anthem of my misbegotten pastas a Baltimorean, the strains of the ghetto...

"Niggas," "Boom-boom"

"My Niggas," "Boom-boom!"

"Niggas," "Wonk-wonk"

and soon drifted the notes of migration over pillbox and trash pail—and I followed, like a waif taking up the Child Crusade behind Peter the Buggering Piper, carried into my daft past to the keening of the masters...

Then, mere hours ago, when the sun yet shone I came upon the Ork Park. Once a children's paradise, where I set an episode of Four Ruthless Whores, five years ago, wondering how bad the park would get under the coming migration.

Five years later, in the middle of an 80% paleface warren of brick town homes, where it is a hunting ground at night, where no one darker than a Xerox copy is safe when night falls, was a park full of orks:

Chocolate orks were in teaming aundance, from age 3 to 50, caovorting, twerking, cussing,slapping babies and singing, rapping about "Niggas."

Four breeding vanilla orks with cinimon welps on hips and under foot, feasted and shouted in ill-fitting spandex.

Not a pleasing human shape was to be found. Only the children seemed somehow less than criminally dysgenic.

The alley that services the park and the row of working class houses behind it was blocked by their ork carraiges, a black escalde among them. The homebuyer, comming home from work had to beg permission to reeturn to their hovels from the mighty ones.

This got me thinking that the nearing night would be ripe for social tripe and I viewed the orkfest instead, while I spoke with my outlaw biker source, Luther about his pending court dates, his two most recent lockups, the fact that he got felt up by a gay ebony jailer and that pissing in a cup for "a negro PO [parole officer] every two days was going to send him "over the edge into fill outlaw."

He said, "I hope you're nota snitch, but I got to ask, where are you?"

"At the Negro Park."

The conversation about riding and the sick system that has all but devoured us, got me thinking that this would be a good night for an ork abatement patrol.

After closing out with, Luther I took an extened walk of teharea and, when darkness fell at about 8:20 and I recalled that I was titally unarmed as this had started as an afternoon stroll, I began walking alleys, until, just as the first bright starblinked on the cobalt blue horizon above the fallen sun, I found a 10 pound stell sledge hammer set out with the trash in an alley. The haft just below the head had been cracked. That made it useless for sledging but a fine weapon, with the steel head held atthe iron sleeve above the split oak.

I now stayed to the alleys, afraid mostly of the cops questioning my possession of this breaking tool after dark.

As I walked through an alley in the Oaks—the worst part of Towson—I heard quick feet hustling up behind me and saw a crack pipe glow glassy in the concrete and wire chute.

When I gained the far curb of the next street I turned and looked and a lightweight of unknown race or gender, wearing cargo shorts, fitted hat and long baggy T-shirt, but speaking with an ebonic tone, was approaching me. When he saw the sledge he said, "I'm cool. I'm good, bro. Keep goin'."

I began walking west and he shadowed me, slowing is gait to stay behind, on the other side of the parked car.

Every five strides I stopped and looked at him over my shoulder and he or it stopped, each time, pretending to by busy relighting the crack pipe, our only real illumination.

The first stop he or it giggled.

The second stop he looked at me sharply and snarled, not beginning to walk again until I did, staying two steps back and three steps off my right shoulder.

The third step he snarled, "I jus' need sumptin' from ya."

I then stopped at the mouth of the alley and he stopped, pulling up even as if to confront me before we got to the lights of the Asia grocer store and Mexican carry out across the next intersecting side street.

I then switched the sledge into my right hand and turned away from him, looking into his face over my right shoulder as I headed into the alley.

He began to follow as if compelled then stopped before he went from the asphalt to the concrete and said, "The alley?" in a long hissing whisper.

He then, as if speaking to the one that posed the question, said, "The alley! Fuck that!"

He then ran for the shopping center, the glowing blue ember between his fingers glowing the wilder.