“Mister LaFond. I have read much of your Harm City writing, the lone paleface among ebon savages alone at night in Baltimore and I am wondering if, as you advise to others, you would not get involved in a violent crime. In recent writing you have walked by while ebon beat ebon and did nothing. You have written that you have walked by as white beat white and have done nothing, out of what I think is an inordinate fear of the law. But, if you, experienced boxer, were in Harm City today and you saw a paleface boy being beaten and about to be stomped by a pack of ebon youths, what would you do? And, if you may, could you define for me your cowardice in the face of the law?”

-Iggy Epsilon

I am terrified of the law. I have spent months waiting on an attempted murder and assault with a deadly weapon charge and know that I will not put myself through that again.

I have lines I draw in my mind, usually somewhere between a place where I am weaker than the average mutt ape and another where I am unusually strong.

I know, without a doubt I will strike to finish. I did not try to cut Howard’s head off as he claimed, but I would have if he had not raised his arm to be chopped in pieces. I simply executed a #1 stroke, which happens to target the neck from the high guard.

Ask Stevedore, “Dat’s how da Devil do.”

From 1 to 4 I was nurtured and told that if I played by the rules the world would treat me good.

From 5-11 I played by the rules and was beaten and tortured and humiliated by young men and older children, both packs and individuals. I never had a fighting chance. So, yes, it hurts when I see the victim of gang bullying. Yet I have never gotten involved.

If it is in my power to prevent via death by cop, I will prevent my own arrest in that fashion. Perhaps, though, in illness or old age I will be taken away by ZOG enforcers too weak to do ought about it. That would be my well-deserved penance for not dying in a fight, for being a day-to-day coward who avoids violence and mayhem at every turn.

Why?

Because I spent a lifetime developing, installing and upgrading my “GO!” switch, and have never for an instant even considered installing an “off” switch.

Being taken into police custody is a line I have drawn in my mind, right in front of that other line, the line that triggered me to chase two men in a white Nissan pickup down Luerssen Avenue in the mid-1990s, with a tomahawk, at about 9 a.m., I think.

Towards maintaining my System virginity, having never been cuffed, I see the young paleface in your scenario as having only one purpose, getting me locked up. If those ebon warriors were grown men, which would prevent me from protecting or rescuing the boy since any one of them would likely be my match in a sub-lethal encounter, I would have to butcher them. The second would not know that I had severed the descending aorta of the first, would not even know I had a knife, and the others would get away with their Dracula story and then I would knife the responding cop in the fucking neck and spit on this goddamned world for bringing my cursed soul into it.

Then they would kill me.

If, however our little Arуan waif was being molested by the innocent step-children of the state, by Ute Tribesmen of Ebon Hue I would not use a weapon, would not harm the youths and would not walk on by. I have learned while doing security work in three various capacities that protecting one person from others is rather easy. One just gets in the way, receives indirect blows and curses and ushers the person to safety. I have no fear that a pack of skinnies could disable me and I have a deep hatred for my own physical body and as weak as it is and as much as it has failed me throughout my life it deserves to get dinged up in order to feed my ego and permit me to play savior to some kid who would probably turn out to be a thieving drug addict, piece-of-shit who deserved what was being served.

I have no care for random boys. The important thing in that scenario is that my ego would be served a win, a rare mark on Life’s Ledger once one is introduced to the far side of fifty.