[Interestingly, the statement that makes up the title above, has been uttered two me now twice in two weeks, once by a 2-year-old, and then today by a full bull, both of the newly Christened knightly race.]

I finished doing my posts and emails at the Raven Inn amongst the masked oldsters, two Mexicans and the single obese Bantu, all of friendly disposition, glad to have a reprieve from isolation even as some area bars close again from Cordova Plague.

I crossed Loch Raven Boulevard with my backpack, bush hat and sunglasses, when I should have been armored in my pith helmet against brick attacks and carrying the Queen’s Own Pimp Cane. As I crossed, the bus pulled off headed downtown. My radar went up, because walking away from a bus stop as the bus pulls off depositing low awareness after-work marks in the hunter’s sights, headed into a low income neighborhood is the best way to be selected as a mark.

I walked past the liquor store and a muscular young man, walking to the main road, gave me six feet of space.

On I walked on the north side of the eastbound street when I heard a sedan whine to my right and a voice say, “When I say stop, you stop!”

I looked right and saw a prime bull Bantu warrior, with scalp lock cornrows, a muscular face and a hyper-aggressive glare.

I kept walking on the same side of the street at the same pace, wondering, “Is this it, did I just write my last book?”

The car kept pace with me and I went cold, time slowing somewhat along with the depression of my heart rate and the relaxation of my gait. The Bantu warrior, a sub-chieftain or champion just out of jail I gathered, based on his behavior, growled menacingly, “Disease-carryin’ muvafuca, I said stop or its on!”

Maybe he has returned from mercenary work rioting up in NYC for BLM and Antifa? This guy was keyed up at 2015 race war levels, a sentiment that has faded in these parts over the last year, and especially this last season.

I looked at him squarely and kept walking.

He shouted, “It’s on!” and pulled the nose of his car right, into the bend of the north-south street that ended at this street, which runs parallel to Joppa Road, the main east-west artery.

I kept walking, same pace, same side, same direction.

The door slams and I turn my head and see that he is out, bull-parading across the road at me, a fine specimen of sub-Saharan manhood, standing six-two and weighing a muscular, shoulder-T’d 190 pounds, literally in competition shape. Yesterday I was knocked around by a bull paleface of his same proportions in sparring.

I looked him square in the face as I walked on, my mouth shut tight.

He hurried towards me.

I took off my floppy hat in my left hand to draw his eye and slid my right hand into the outside pocket of my black cargo shorts and slid the black knife and sheath up into my right palm against my pants leg.

He barked, as he closed to within a dozen paces, “What you takin’ you hat off for? What with the hat?! What you takin’ da hat off fo niցցer?”

I then noticed that Muscle White, the 20-year-old Bantu buck who has tried to mug me twice, once with two pack members when he was 16 at this exact and very spot, also early on a Sunday afternoon, and once three blocks away when he was nineteen, with only one of those worthies last November. If I had stepped to the challenger, Muscle White would have had my back as he crossed the T of the street.

I kept walking as Muscle White walked up to the alpha male towering a head over him, looking like an older cousin or half-brother, put his hands on the big man’s chest in a calming gesture and spoke into his mouth.

The Bantu champion was immediately calmed, shouted nothing after me, and drove down the north-south street with his new passenger instead of pursuing me, as I first hid the knife within the hat and then slid it back into the pocket and took to the alleys, a scampering peasant dreading the hoof-beats of the ebony knights raking the earth in their rubbery wrath.

Over the past months, since the Dread Minus, ebony folk have been mostly masked and hiding inside.

In addition, last December, the Generals, which is the name I have given to the local gang, made an informal truce with me, after Muscle White and others had tried me and after I had followed their gun carrier—quite by accident—by night through this neighborhood as two white men in a pickup truck followed me in my turn and two Mexicans tried to waylay both of us in our turn. Their leader, in an alley at dusk, in a huddle of nine of his men, told them to put their head down as I passed and gave me a nod of respect. This happed the day before two law enforcement or military types of ivory men in a black pickup truck followed me to this very spot and then pulled a hard U-turn when I stopped and eye-fucked them.

The unilateral behavior of this new and elder Bantu champion reminds me of “take-over” behavior from North East Baltimore back in the 1980s and 90s when I would have big Bantu’s stopping in their cars and threatening me, challenging me, declaring the turf theirs. This behavior ran its course here in The Oaks from early 2016 thru mid-2019 and ended with the Generals essentially “trucing me out,” as a weird, feral, neutral paleface.

My read on this is that Bold Bantu, his name from here on out, has just gotten out of prison or jail, as the Corrections facilities in Maryland try and empty before the Dread Minus comes back stronger in the fall. Or perhaps he just came back from a BLM mission.

I am actually somewhat proud that this Bantu addressed me as a worthy challenge one he no doubt could defeat in crude theory, not knowing that cruel whore Fate was beckoning him to our miserable end.

I was calmly collected and began visualizing shielding high with my left hand and eating his opening punch as I stabbed and transitioned to his evisceration, which would have ended in death by cop, as I could never catch Muscle White and he would call the PIGs in on me. Facing the end of miserable me felt good, was a liberating relief.

My opinion is that Muscle White, who was already coming to meet this guy at the corner, hurried up and clued him in that I was a neutral and not a mark, otherwise he would have kept wolfing and followed me and pinned me behind the parked cars between the two of them.

Had I answered a single chimpverbosity I would have had to butcher him and all would have ended for me, this article never written.

Had I been walking with Mescaline Franklin, for instance who had shown interest in possibly visiting this weekend, I would have been left butchering my erstwhile, well-behaved criminal neighbor, Muscle White while Mescaline dropped Bold Bantu on his neck and did the lion kill and Baynesville would have been the epicenter of a great hipster, BLM march for justice against “Nazi Kung Fu master” and his “fascist neck-breaker” sidekick. Escrima and folk wrestling in Maryland would have been outlawed.

As much as I am enjoying the status of Dracula amongst the ebonies of fright, my unmasked ivoryness and unworried gait, the very same body language that keeps low-level and mid-level thugs from going to contact with me, attracts the apex predator, like the Baltimore County Cop that eye-fucked me the other day when I had a beer on the Land Lady’s porch, and like this prime bull Bantu with the stature of Nigel Ben in his prime and the whip-fast and sinister lines of former lightweight champion Livingston Bramble in his motion.

I still need to use the Raven Inn for posting. If I post this before the 4th of July I will do so in the same time frame, so Bold Bantu will get another look at me if he has become a regular enforcer for the Generals, which I suspect is his role, as I saw three hard looking Latinos drinking malt liquor in the yard of a vacant house three days ago a block from this encounter.

An avoidance note, the sunglasses were a writing idea, a bad survival idea. Sunglasses are used by cops to hide their coward eyes and Bantu warriors know this and take it as a sign of fear. I should have had the eye patch on. I do not want to take a big punch in the eye area with sharp plastic jamming into the sockets, and if I had taken off the sunglasses he would have charged, throwing hands and died at my pale hand, a martyr for the New Ebon Age.

I must return to the eye patch. Indeed, this was my only day not eye-patched as I’m in a bad seizure cycle and was trying to rest my left eye as it is straining form being a lone optic.

The pith helmet and cane must also be taken, as the former will help me survive brick and punch attacks and the latter will enable me to fell multiple foes without ending up elbow deep in their viscera.

The Land Lady is now convinced she must sell at a loss and move. She wanted to drive me to the bar or pick me up and I have forbid her. The Generals must see me walking, the same route, at the same time, at a casual not fast or prowling pace, not hurrying to safety nor looking for trouble, but just out and about for the day.

It’s time for the war-face to go back on.

The authorities are releasing many of the most violent POWs of the Drug War to serve as deputies for the PIGs in keeping us paleface filth locked down.

I pray only, that when the appointed time comes, that I have the strength to take at least one Bantu and one PIG to hell with me. Once their guns and armies and cars and youth and size are taken from them, and it is just us, soul to soul, then I will feast and they will howl for eternity.

Damnation Home is calling me back. [1]

And I thought this would be a bland day.

It is kind of cool being Dracula. But running into Hazelnut Van Helsing can put a wrinkle in your day, as I found when my hand shook using the key to my basement crypt.

Notes

-1. Yes my Christian friends, I believe in Hell, believe that I am doomed to that destination and am dedicated to the proposition of turning from the light, should it present itself to me after dying in combat, and then dragging those enemy souls with me that I may, so that I begin my stay in damnation with a fief of sorts. This I believe, have always believed and am finally far gone enough socially to not care that the world and even my treasured readers, will regard me as insane.

Thank you for your support.