This past Sunday morning a lone Baltimore man was run down and stabbed by four black mo-ped mounted teens as he attempted to get his pizza dinner. I and others have been threatened, attacked and chased when transporting pizza home—seemingly the Harm City equivalent of hauling water from a crocodile infested river. The poor guy is a mental health worker who now has a lacerated liver and a punctured lung.

Although one aggressive news station covered this, the communist rag Baltimore Sun buried it on the margin of the second page of the Wednesday edition! The slave reporter refused to identify the race of the attackers, and pointed the disinformative finger at the police department, who also downplayed, underreported and misreported the attack, declined to confirm it until Tuesday, and even then did not respond to questions!

I spent 10 years walking to work across the very street where this young fellow was run down and butchered by predators that may well be doing this on the orders of their 25-year-old mothers, as is often the case in Baltimore. This was mere hours after food stamp and EBT cash distributions ran dry Saturday night.

Federal Hill and South Baltimore proper was once one of the few safe neighborhoods in Baltimore as it was a tough white working class community. 20 years ago that changed. Oddly enough, I was once harassed and stalked by a Baltimore City Pig at the very spot this man was stabbed for the crime of being white and not affluent on foot. It seems to me that Sal Schittino was also convicted of being white, not affluent and on foot. Unfortunately his jury was more prejudiced than mine. He’s not one of the rich elves but a young mental health worker.

Although I’m sad for this young man, I am not the least bit sorry for all of his rich neighbors who ran me out of that neighborhood by jacking the prices up to double at the bars, sicking the cops on me for having long hair and biceps and jacking up my friends’ property taxes to the point where they had to move out of town. You see, I knew what they were in for. There are no longer men in South Baltimore, just the urban eunuchs that Jack Donovan has ingeniously named ‘urban elves’. The only thing that ever made these elves safe was guys like me. We’re all gone Mister and Ms Affluent White. Now you can enjoy a taste of the Stone Age from your Romper Room perspective.

The cops are not allowed—by law—to chase these mo-ped mobile ‘children’.

The cops are in danger of being indicted for civil rights crimes by the DOJ for harming any black male under 18, and when you start tackling them on concrete they tend to get dinged up a bit.

The Mayor has declared violent crimes by black male youths to be tragedies inflicted upon black male youths by society, making this stabbing a five-way tragedy.

Slave reporters like Mister Fenton do their duty obscuring and burying the facts. I could very nearly hear the echo of his yawns as I read his reluctant reportage of the stabbing and the community complaints about police reluctance. Can you blame the cops anywhere in America, after this past weekend, for declining to go after violent black teens?

The police department ‘jukes’ the stats, throwing out and downgrading sub-lethal violence reports.

The affluent paleface homesteaders who variously called the cops on Chuck and I for stick fighting at Riverside Park may wish we were still there, and I’m glad I’m not. Let them drown in a misreported sea of violent crime.

These wretched affluent liberal homesteaders who whine for the conservative working class cops who they have neutered through their delusional choice of masters deserve to face the criminals they have likewise nurtured.

The very Baltimore football fans who worship the thuggish Baltimore Ravens, who currently have five criminals on the roster, and once had a murderer for a cheerleader, should, by rights, have to face the true mascots of their team, the single most renowned aspect of Baltimore; the virulent hood rats who give Harm City what character it has.

I wish Sal Schittino all the best on his recovery. But, as for his high class limp wristed neighbors who bought the place out from underneath the people that defended it for generations…well, watch the opening scene of the Stanley Kubrick film adaptation of Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. I envision your retirement looking like that—character building at least.