Banjo and I met at four years ago in this area. This morning, the bluegrass musician from Omaha, Nebraska, took the train out of Satan’s belly to Metropark. My old ass and short legs lagged and he met me more than halfway and we walked to the park through this nice European American town that is mostly now colonized by Subcontentals.

We talked of crime overrunning New York, work drying up and that two close friends of his—athletes—have died from the vaxx, and three others are now chronically ill from it. We walked on the grass so that Brahmans could use the sidewalk and then cut into the park. He is 6” 1’ 175, shoulder-length hair and a gray mustache and wide shoulders making him look a cross between Sam Elliot and Tom Selleck when they were his age, about 45, I think.

He had packed his gloves and mask. I brought the same and six sticks and two training knives. The latter, I would not use at a park, as that is a guaranteed police call. We picked a clearing by the stream that runs down to the Raritan River in a circle of beach trees. We were 30 feet from the footpath and few of the picnic tables and pavilions were as yet occupied on the far side. A volley ball game was underway 200 yards to the west.

We sparred single stick, with light sticks, 20 minutes.

Medium weight sticks for 20 minutes then for another 20 minutes with long slashing strokes and shift steps to simulate machete fighting.

A grandmother had brought her grandson to watch us, sitting down beside his tricycle in the grass, he thrilled that real pirates yet fought over treasure on some storied shore.

We switched to short batons and began sparring doing more clinching and checking.

A fat, ten-year-old Brahman boy came to stand and watch, all excited, barely able o hold back from asking questions. More kids came up behind him. So, Banjo and I moved away from the creek to the largest tree in case they were wanting access to the creek. No, they wanted a ringside seat.

We switched to double sticks as a fat Brahman man, obviously the fat boy’s dad, came and gathered the children and shewed them away and chased off the grandmother and her tyke.

I began watching the long driveway as we sparred.

One, two and then three black and white police SUVs came, circled, and pulled up to the picnic tables where the fat Brahman was. “They are there, look,” he says.

The cops stayed back and observed.

I switch to a triangle drill with a stick, taking off our masks and gloves so that it can be seen that we are older.

Three different park ranger vehicles pule up, as this is their jurisdiction, it seems. They spread out in a cordon, with us between the three green and white cruisers and the stream. The regular police leave.

An ambulance pulls up, so I put the sticks away and start doing a boring triangle footwork drill, explaining, foot placement in hopes of boring the cops.

We shake hands and pack up, and stand and talk a bit and one ranger pules off, then another. So we begin to walk and the last ranger pulls off by us without a word, the world once again safe for the masculine self-esteem of fat merchant patriarchs.

Banjo says, “The great nest, the eternal safe place where every body must be kept safe and no risk can ever be taken…”

“You know, this society it mentally ill and we are, as its occupants, by definition mentally ill. I suppose people like you and I who are atomized and alienated have currently experienced a higher level of mental health than the normals who are so abused by this entire process, their directives to care about the uncarable putting them in constant anguish.

“From the Chinese perspective of Yin and Yang, this massive forced vaϲϲination and the millions of predicted deaths and illnesses to come from it, might have been the push too hard, the step too far, that causes a swing from Yin to Yang…”

We walked to the all Indian section of town so that Banjo could buy me a meal. The men on the street, with their gay jewelry and merchant shops eyed us like the enemy come down from the mist shrouded woods. But the women running the joint we selected were very accommodating, the sauce and vegetables and hot tea and cream delicious.

Looking around it was apparent that the Brahmans, already making demands of the police to roust Nordic looking types from public spaces, only 30 years into their invasion, employing armed African security guards at their businesses, dressed more like 1950s American White Collar types than any defunct White Nationalist, have inherited this town.

As we sat and ate he told me of his old Kung Fu instructor, for whom he also worked remodeling houses. The man had become sick after quite a storied life. In order to treat his lung cancer, the hospital had him sign over all of his extensive real estate holdings and all of his Social Security except for $50 a month. He was diagnosed as having covid thrice, so that the hospital could cash in on that. Banjo was not allowed to visit his old mentor and each phone call until the line finally went dead, it was obvious that he had been hit with more morphine, another medical execution of an indigenous American.

We walked out to the main intersection to go our separate ways and stood and talked for another hour on the street corner, as the Brahmans scampered about us, directing their women and children as far away from us as possible, even jaywalking to avoid our aboriginal stench.

Banjo insisted on paying me for the session and we laughed about some of the bumps and bruises, particularly when I went into boxing mode and checked a stick with my elbow—yep, not a fist.

Towards the end of our conversation, as we discussed people we knew who were having deep spiritual problems with the ver-amped gaslit society. He said:

“I used to carry a lot of anger in me. Once, when I came to an intersection like this and stood next to a man with his pitbull, the dog went off the chain at me and he looked at me and said, ‘Dogs know.’ I said, ‘Your dog is right,’ and crossed the street.

“It occurred to me then that God doesn’t speak English, that he works through acts, through animals, through fate if you will, even through those instinctive people that were your hereditary enemies in Baltimore who you can’t lie to like you lie to a white person, because they sense things rather than overthink them and follow orders. It occurs to me, that when you simply do what you are told, when you believe, when you comply to threats and have not a single principle that you are willing to die for, that you no longer have a soul. I hesitate to use the word satanic. But this society is deeply evil, and over the past two years, it has taken most of the souls.

“This world is a morgue where the corpses still breathe until they are told to expire in the most profitable way. James, thanks so much for the training and for your upholding of masculine ideals in your writing. It helps a man in my position go less meekly into the light.”