“In the day men and women might come timidly into the shrine and place offerings to the ape-god on the black altar. At night the people shunned the temple of Hanuman as hares shun the lair of the serpent.”

-Robert E. Howard, The Man-Eaters of Zamboula

[Written on October 24, 2019]

So I lay down to sleep thinking of the fence I was going to help young mason and Annette erect in their backyard, to keep ebon youths, who have recently threatened to rape local pale women, from using their backyard as a weed-smoking retreat…

I the dream that followed as my eye seizure drove me from the desk in safe house #7 to the guest bed, I had a 50 caliber machine gun to protect the locals from the oncoming hordes, but it was made of plastic and the heavy metallic rounds, brass, powder and full metal jacket were simply launched whole by the toy spring to clatter at the feet of the onrushing savages—where the fuck was my machete!…

At 4:05 PM, I woke to the thunderous tones of hip hop pounding through the wall at my back from the adjoining row home, “Bitch, bitch, suck my dick!”

Then the house shook under what appeared to be hurricane force winds and I lurched upward, my head spinning from the vertigo that has afflicted me since returning to the Leased Coast.

A helicopter had passed perilously close to the roof. I dressed, armed myself and headed downstairs to hear the rotors of the chopper banking hard and shaking the windows and doors—and remarkably could still make out the smart phone conversation of the ebon warrior across the street as he stood on his porch bellowing into the phone that he was tired of being disrespected by whoever was on the other end of the connection, and the chopper zoomed down the street on a diagonal axis, mere feet above the roof tops that described its flight path, a police chopper hunting the hunters of this warren of ivory rabbits and ebony rats…

In the backyard I contemplated the walk required to stretch my legs as police sirens blared up and down the once peaceful streets and the chopper worked its way steadily towards the low-income housing projects to the southeast. Among the dozen houses in sight in the back alley, I noted seven nervous ivory beings watching with dawning horror at the symbol of blight, the ghetto hawk, circling overhead, like rabbits viewing the eagle what hunts the foxes what hunt them from the mouth of their warrens.

After an hour a news helicopter had replaced the hoodrat hunter on station above and I noticed a man in the alley putting on gloves to begin stacking a cord of split oak firewood up in his yard. Offering my services thrice to this nervous paleface, he finally relented and I discovered he’s a booster for a Baltimore area boxing gym, organizing fund raisers, and then, as he looks up at the chopper overhead, he says, “I won’t be long for this town. The old neighborhood just isn’t what it used to be.”

So the hungry fingers of our ebony god hunt the face of this beleaguered civic epitaph to our fading race. Come Sunday, the bleating ivory sheep will crowd into the banker stadium and around their holy portals to worship their heroic ebony avatars, the Baltimore Ravens, do clownish battle with some other mob of millionaire goons. Then, as the titans are adored by their sissy worshippers, all will be good with the world, until the faɡɡot ivory rabbits remember that they parked four doors down and they have been cruelly bypassed by faithless sundown—left to wonder if tonight is the night, as they scamper home from worship, affrighted that the ebony god will send his acolytes for them on the streets of his ever-less-pallid ape pen.

So should gods stalk their mortal prey across the twilight of the wisp of a lie once raised so arrogantly under the western sky.

322 Bodymore Drops thus far, 21 short of an all time high, already above the all-time per-capita high.