This question was posed to me in person recently so I will paraphrase my answer.

When five savages came to my house to attack my oldest son some 25 years ago, I drove them off and then the police showed up to investigate me. The PIG cared not a shit about the description of the home invaders. He was just there to punish the winner, or at least chastise him for overstepping his peasant bounds. I lied and nobody ratted me out so I didn’t get arrested. That is just one of many occasions in my life in which it was obvious that the police and the Bantus are rival violent actors against the working paleface in service to the master ivory race.

At about the same time I was chased by cops once and hunted by them twice as they investigated a guy that looked like me who committed the crime of resisting a Bantu mugging in front of an elite ivory woman who called on me. I hid in a walk-in freezer at work while my coworkers lied to the PIGs!

I could go on and on and if you are interested in most of the accounts you will find them in 40,000 Years from Home and When You’re Food. I think I have been sought, questioned or harassed by police 29 times now, maybe more if the guys following me around Baltimore County are police. That makes the cops about 10% as likely to bother me as Bantus. But, the only reason I must skulk and run and hide from Bantus is because the primary purpose of the police in the urban setting is to make sure that I am not effectively armed. If I walk down the street with a sword, bowie knife or firearm strapped to my hip, I will be liquidated by a tactical squad.—boom, done. So, my view of the police is like a serf’s view of his knightly master; that I am only vulnerable to barbarians and highwaymen because my master does not permit me to go armed.

My mind has been twisted by this long held realization that I am literally a disarmed slave in the land of my birth. I am a good productive slave that asks nothing at all form my masters, so my slave resentment is the more bitter for this social insistence that I be helpless always in the face of violent actors.

My friend Yeti Waters has pointed out that being locked up is no big deal. I have talked to enough ex-cons to think I’d do fine behind bars.

The point is, that I do have a problem.

I have rediscovered physical potency at age 57.

I can fight.

With the return, I suppose, of testosterone, when I am in an urban setting in or like Baltimore, where I spent 38 years being hunted by brown and blue, I can’t kneel.

I will not suck that ebony dick.

I will not kiss that police boot.

I have run and hid for 49 years now. Most of the year I am in retreat, surfing the Overton Railroad as a reviled bum—the only man questioned at the Portland train station by the cops and made to show a ticket in the waiting area—running from the brown and the blue. I will tuck tail again on August 1. Even now, even when I am in Baltimore and surrounding areas, I hide inside, I slink down alleys, I time my walks to avoid the enemy, my knightly lords in in blue and of ebon hue.

As I sit on the Land Lady’s stoop drinking a beer in the evening as the sun goes down, the Bantu bucks and bulls who walk by give me a nod of respect or walk around, or look down at the ground. But that fucking cop with the blonde hair the other night eye-fucked me as he cruised by before dark. I won’t see his coward ass back here alone after dark. I respect the cops less than the Bantus over such slights, over the inability to even grant me a peaceful drink on the steps of my residence 30 feet from the road.

This causes a cornered rat kind of turmoil in my rotted and gutted soul.

Every day, numerous times, I kill in my mind, in high likelihood defenses against my hereditary enemies. This is a common drill for me, works well when the need to defend arises and works in sports competition too; it is a willful wiring for action that a sub-par physical specimen like myself absolutely needs to prevail in combat. I have always done as I drilled when the hollow silence within me was triggered by aggression. I have twisted my mind into an action trigger that only gets switched at contact, a switch that has only been stopped by some sixth sense among hoodrats—perhaps their dark continent whispering within their veins—that something is wrong with this paleface, that his mind is fucked up…and they pull away.

Cops, so far as I know, do not have that aversion reflex, rather they amp up aggression in response to a coiled response to their initial aggression.

As the BLM heroes ascend the social pyramid, I do expect that some of this police over-aggression will begin to be shown by the Bantu impis as they impose social justice among the Guilt Race. I think this imitation of police behavior is what I experienced with Hazelnut Van Helsing. I also expect police to cool down and become more like Portland cops, who test the waters more than eastern cops.

I have only a very simple determination:

Any man who tries to subdue me gets his guts or neck ripped open.

It is the only bit of humanity I have left, my little law of suicidal defense in my tiny, 2-foot wide and 5-and-a-half feet high self-declared autonomous space.

Even then, If I have to cut my way out of a Bantu ambush or overrun, I am not going to retardedly wait for the blue cavalry to come and avenge them. A cop has informed me recently that should I or others of my kind be forced to defend against their rival enforcers, that they are now inclined to take their time responding.

So yes, I will even run from the cops like I did in my 30s, now that I am light enough to do it.

But if they catch me or corner me, how can I be a coward for 100% of my life?

I spend most of my life running from the brown and blue who literally hunted me out of the land of my birth, so, in those brief times when I find myself returned to the place of my humiliation and defeat, I just can’t bring myself to take the knee.

I tapped out to young Brett’s masterful stick a dozen times last Saturday. But that is a comrade, not the enemy dedicated with a lusty thirst to my eradication and humiliation.

I do have a problem, a maimed and twisted ego frayed from long abuse.

I will not be the bitch boy of the Dark Gods.

I will not be the whipping boy of their rival thugs in blue.

I do a lot to work this angst out in my writing. It helps me deal with hiding inside and slinking down alleys like a rat and enables me to be functionally a more complete coward to write things such as this. All I want to do is be left alone to finish writing my history and fiction projects. That’s all. I resent every one of these journal books I write—in fact. I’m putting a fork in this screed today. It will only be some 80 pages, done, off the desk and out of my mind. I will try and hide and skulk and avoid that final lethal test of my commitment—which if it comes and I fail, only suicide could rescue me from.

See, I live in world in which I am property, hated property, like a little plastic army man being blown apart with firecrackers by its boy owner become youth.

Just by mentioning that if I got arrested I’d commit suicide, I could be rounded up and jailed, incarcerated for threatening to do harm to State property—me.

Again, I just want to write.

I bother not a soul in my day wherever I am.

I am not even willing to stop a man from beating up an old lady or abusing a child in front of me. I have walked by such scenes and written of them. It is none of my business. I am a very easy-going guy, easy-going to an effectively subhuman or undead degree.

I manage to navigate this sick fucking world in such a way as to write more than any of the other 8 million inmate apes on its surface, because I have only one contract with society, have made only one promise to myself.

Any man or uniformed functionary of government who attempts to overpower or abduct me:

[Look, even harm is not on the list. If you heave stones at me or shoot at me and break my bones, and bleed me out, I will still try and run away or hide, or back into some hard shelter to die. I will and have also let women and children not in uniform injure me severely without fighting back.]

Any man who attempts to subdue me and make me a total abject slave:

[Look, I’m a good slave, paid my $443 in protection money to the feds three weeks ago by check, so I can hopefully be permitted to make $6K two years in a row, which would make me richer than I’ve been since I was 48-years-old. I will shovel your shit and dig your ditch. I just don’t want you grabbing me.]

Well, say goodbye to some tubbing, either in the neck or under your ribs—it’s fucking gone bro, I’ll be elbow deep in your guts and using you for a meat shield so I can get to your partner before he hoses me down, and hopefully he won’t fuck that up, because I really am fed up with almost every fetid denizen of this savage planet of the apes and such an exit looms in my mind like a beckoning release from bondage.

Sorry, Mom, I know you didn’t get to pick the planet.

…

Addendum

Now I continue to skulk and hide in an attempt to be left uneventfully alone long enough to finish writing my impressions of Epictetus’ Enchiridion.

My primary means of venting artistically in order to maintain my I don’t care attitude and stay out of violent situations, is to write violent fiction.

I highly recommend Menthol Rampage for anyone interested in my personal feelings concerning being a twerp in a city ruled by thugs and PIGs. It is available at the e-store on this website. JayJay Brooks is essentially me, except I made him a decent carpenter and endowed him with one characteristic most men would like in their love arsenal.

Thank you, readers, for supporting my social disintegration and my general escape from the clutches of this sick nation, and also for putting up with some of the upsetting stuff I write.

Take care.

James, Thursday morning, 7/2/20