Gina is another smoking hot friend of Niki, the hunted paralegal of Darkest Harm City. She’s a tall, athletic Sicilian-American, the last scion of Baltimore’s Little Italy to actually work at the family restaurant. Tragically, much of Little Italy has been outsourced to hipster management and Mexican cooks. Gina got her training at another family’s restaurant, where a Latina decided to flirt with Gina’s man.

We were in the hallway behind the kitchen and this little bitch was trying me because I’m white and white bitches are supposed to be weak. I grabbed her hair in both hands and this shorty balls up her little fingers into this tiny fist and punches me in the chest. I don’t know why women think they can punch.

So I pulled her head down and kneed her in the face, then I was slamming her from wall-to-wall. I was kicking her in the stomach. Then I felt like she was a rag doll and—you see, I hated this bitch—I threw her around some more by the hair of her head. There came a time when she was in danger of falling down the stairs, she was staggering so much, so I slammed her into the wall instead. Then the line cook grabbed her and interposed his body between us and it was over.

She never came back to work and the owner—who was never at the restaurant—came in the next day and called me into his office. I thought I was going to be fired but he just smiled slightly and said, “That can’t happen again.”

Honestly, I think he was amused.

I was out dancing, clubbing, with a friend of mine. I’ve generally had no trouble with black girls. I even get along quite well with some of the lighter-skinned ones who suffer from anti-white racism because of their light skin tone.

We were about to leave, to go get our coats, walking past the dance floor when it happened. She was almost six feet and easily 300 pounds, a black bouncer. As I walked by her she grabbed my hair, put her hand in my hair. [Gina has dark brown hair down to the middle of her back.]

I stopped and said “Bitch, get your hand out of my hair.”

She says, “Bitch, get your hair out of my hand.”

It was on!

[Laughter]

This bitch was culturally appropriating my look with her straightened hair so I grabbed a handful of hers and promised to God that I would not let go. I really didn’t want a floor fight with this big bitch, so thankfully that didn’t happen.

This woman started choking me, but didn’t know what she was doing, couldn’t find my carotid, maybe because she was fat and couldn’t body image me. My short friend, all of five feet tall, was hanging on her arm, trying to break her hold. This went on for some time, with my hand in her hair and her hands on my neck until two male bouncers came and picked me up by the hips.

But I did not let go of that bitch’s hair. I had promised to God!

They kept pulling me and eventually a handful of hair came loose—I have a strong grip for a woman.

They took me outside and set me down and I gave my coat ticket to my friend so she could retrieve it. I was in club wear and this was in the winter.

While I was waiting the light-skinned black bouncer came onto me, was like, “You like me,” and I answered, “What’s this bitch’s name?”

He says, “So you don’t like me, you’re a racist?”

I said, “You have to take it there? Really? Look,” I said, holding this bitch’s hair, “I want her name. I want to know whose scalp this is!”

I braided her hair and made it into a bracelet. I also sued the club and got a judgment. The bouncer was afraid to show up in court. All I wanted in the settlement was her name. I wanted to be able to put a name on that scalp. I sat in court, all innocent with big white girl eyes, and was like, “Me, attack someone? I’m so delicate!”

[Laughter]

The judge finally ruled that they had to give me the bitch’s name. It was Tannika, Tannika J… What an ugly fucking name.

Big Ron's Baltimore: A Working Man's View of Urban Blight