My evening walk of an hour or so takes half-dead memories down lanes, alleys and footpaths which predate the non-event of my advent. These are places I walked as a child, and over the past 9 years as a coach, training the odd combative soul at the local karate school. Normally I do not walk by the Oaks Park any longer. However, I once set a story’s apex scene in this park, back when it was a family park, where many palefaces and a few of the ebony master race watched as their small children played. Wondering how many years before this beautiful slice of suburbia became a tiny hell, I wrote a scene of slaughter inspired by the life of Samson, as a washed up boxer beat two thugs to death with the head of a toy horse.

That was in 2014.

In 2016 grown master race men started drinking malt liquor by day in this park.

In 2017 daylight sex and heroin, along with discarded needles appeared, as the houses around the park became ever more ebony in tone.

This evening, I walked down the alley past four cops, taking statements from the participants in a brawl.

As I walked by the first two paleface cops, interviewing a master race patriarch and his 8-year-old son. The master race father said, “It wasn’t just them, there was men. I’m worrying about a comeback.”

As I walked by the next two paleface cops, interviewing an ebony teen queen and her matriarch, a 7-year-old boy milling around, the lead cop asked, “What happened?”

The teen queen answered, “Dats when I slapped his punk ass.”

The cop continued, “And that’s when the knife came out?”

I walked on out of ear shot and was hailed by two savage paleface wenches holding their babies on the second-story back porch, “What’s going on up there.”

“A fight in the park.”

“All those cops just for a fight? Kids or teens?”

“Teens and adults—men, knives.”

The native women stepped back away from the railing and spoke worriedly and hurriedly to one another, cradling their restless children, which I am surprised to discover are palefaces like the mothers.

The world is not being been turned upside down, but is being restored to its natural order one neighborhood at a time: the few, the proud, the violent and loud, brought in to replace a people whose children will not be permitted to grow old in the land that holds their ancestors’ bones.

This is the sure, ages old march of Civilization.