The eye had been sizzling badly and preventing writing. Resting was beginning to freeze up and bring back old injuries. So, in the warm afternoon sun I walked on Thursday June 1, towards the Wells Fargo about 3 miles off. The small town has been 100% taken over by Hindus. The many gold and jewelry stores brought in The Groes, who hit them about ten months ago. I wanted to see what kind of security measures had been taken.
I was armed only with a tactical pen.
The beautiful Bollywood women on posters tower larger than life from the storefront windows.
A private security detail is on duty: a blond, middle-aged female supervisor, a big, beefy, uniformed, mսlatto, private cop, and a lean African private detective with open carry 9mm and an armored vest under his black T-shirt.
Ahead, as I walk towards the Garden State Parkway bridges, a lean, ashy Groe attempts to board a transit bus with some demand or another which is answered with a closed door. He is 200 yards out and flies into a rage at the world:
“Suck mah dick!” he chants with outstretched arms of rage indicting heaven.
“Suck mah muvafuckin’ dick!” he yells at the departing bus, indignant it seems, that submitting to felatio by a driver is not accepted as bus fare.
He then steps out into traffic and spreads his arms at the motoring Hindus, “Suck mah dick, bitchez!”
He spies me and heads my way, pulling open his shirt and showing his long, lean Haitian looking torso and screams at me, “Suck mah dick, nigga!”
That I am—he got that right. I am sure I can put this pen into his windpipe the way he is posing, but don’t want to. I start scanning for debris: big stones, bricks, discarded landscaping stakes, a pipe, retail shelf molding, windblown tree limbs that have been cut into club length and discarded, like everything the Hindus do, over the bank. An entire paleolithic arsenal is at my disposal. I cross a side street that will bring us together at the corner, thirsting for that five pound oblong rock to smash his skinny feet to mush, a grin of blood-lust creasing my face… and he veers back to the center line with a gruff and disgusted look over his shoulder at me, “Not taday, nigga!” then points at the fearful Hindu woman behind the wheel of the minivan I am passing to get to that holy stone of negro Nirvana and he yells, “You, brown bitch, suck my black dick!” and she winces and peeps.
I wave to her and smile, walking past my forsaken stone towards the pile of cherry tree limb clubs ahead.
A look over my left shoulder assures that he is focused on her, spreading his arms and grabbing his penis at 12:45 PM, “Suck mah dick!” then spinning in the street and daring motorists to affront the penile god he is. They speed around him in a panic.
Then, as I look over my shoulder and head up hill, he bellows, “Suck mah dick Merka!” even as he faces off with the protectors of the new Hindu America, Sergeant Karen and Mսlatto Copman and rages “You, bitch, white bitch, suck mah fuckin’ dick!”
The female officer hopped back in the passenger seat of the private patrol car as the big cop confronted the scrawny face rapist. The urban Gawd darted around the protector to Segeant Karen’s command car SUV and began slapping the vehicle and yelling, “Suck mah dick—BITCH!”
I continued on out of ear shot and looked ahead, mapping the ground litter for weapons in case this Gro was about on my way back.
Thirsty, I stepped into a Hindu coffee shop and poured a cup of coffee as the owner asked, “Would you like milk, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
I paid the $2 and continued to the bank, did my business, and came back again. When I returned thru Little Hindustan I stopped at one of the many Patel Brothers establishments. They have restaurants, bars and other businesses and provide a good selection of Mexican food to feed their laborers. An out of date pint of Himylian salt yogurt drink made Rick’s list and I enjoyed that as I read the extensive listing of 17 states and the numerous addresses of Patel Brothers businesses on a sign outfront. Their motto is ‘Our Cuisine, Our Culture.’
The feral Gro is nowhere to be seen. The African detective, a private cop, is conducting a traffic stop of a Motor Gro!
Ahead, two large, pale electrical contractors with a work van and bucket truck, who are doing power line work for either the municipality or a private Hindu concern, are being told to move, that they do not have the proper permit, by a Somewhere County Plain Clothes officer with his $70k car with light up windshield. The big, bald, paleface foreman yells at the dapper mսlatto cop and refuses the citation with a “Fuck you!”
As he gets in his van and slams the door the cop runs up like a divorce summons server and throws the citation through the open window of the van as van and truck pull off.
As I walk by, I see the private cop SUV cruising by, then, I cross a side street and halt as a big Hindu man in a van makes a left turn and stops. I motion for him to continue and he says firmly, “No, you, sir!” and I cross.
Coming down the street ahead of me is a beautiful 18-year-old Hindu babe wearing very little, sashaying along. Not wanting to be tempted to check her out, I cross the street a half block before we pass. Noting this, The Devil’s Bride crosses diagonally so that we get to the other side at the same time and place and she rolls her sweet hips under her bare belly and above her bare yummy thighs—quite the slut, and swings on by.
As I return to the neighborhood of my host, three county police cruisers are thundering in to support the plain clothes mսlatto. On relating this, my host said that those electrical workers had been working there since 8:30 A.M. when he drove to work.
…
Two days later on Saturday, I walked the area to see what it was about at peak hours. A 20 year old babe, scantily clad and a solid 9.5 passed as close to me as she could, grinning and swinging her hips.
Families are out and about, two to three generations at a time.
The catholic church has a banner announcing a Spanish language Sunday mass.
A Christian church of unknown denomination is in service on Saturday morning, being attended by people who look like Christian Indians, having abandoned their traditional dress for Anglo style attire.
On the security detail I count:
2 SUVs, 1 parked, 1 cruising with driver type unknown
1 unmarked car, parked with blacked out windows, occupants if any unknown
2 plain clothes Africans who look very seriously dangerous, who seem to be operating from the unmarked car, from the weak side of the street.
3 African American armed security guards, strong side
4 mսlatto uniformed security with body armor, strong side
1 commander, a good looking blond, Major Karen, strong side
That is just what I saw to cover the 4 by 4 block town center.
In our feudal future, I see the Patel Brothers, who have their own Sikh guards and lookouts in traditional garb at their store fronts, and whatever cartel of Hindu merchants they are in civic league with, as forming oasis’ of consumer security in the howling, Gro-infested wasteland of Suck Mah Dick Merka.
…
Notes
The weak side of the street is where there are few high value targets and narrow passage and offers a vantage on the deeper strong points for the roving detectives to observe whoever might be observing or approaching their stationary forces from behind.
