It was 11:03 PM and raining hard enough to limit visibility when I got off the #55 Bus at Stemmer's Run and Old Eastern Avenue on Wednesday December 7th. According to the posted schedule the #4 and #24 had already made the last run through this transfer point for the night some 15 minutes before. However, the huddled mass of cigarette smoking humanity under the shelter was optimistically waiting, in hopes that the rain had made one of these final runs late.

I decided to walk east of the stop fifty yards to avoid the noxious fumes billowing from the shelter. Besides, this position gave me a view all the way down to the next light, and my trench-coat was keeping me reasonably dry. If the bus did not show up at that intersection by 11:10 I would walk to work, making it by 11:30, still able to get my 8-hours of flex time in.

Just as I saw a bus pull up to the light down the street a light flashed over my shoulder and a commanding voice said, "What are you doing?"

I turned to see a tall, fit, bald cop approaching. He looked like a cruiserweight version of the lead actor on Flash Point. He repeated, "So what are you doing here?"

I kept my hands in my pockets and nodded down the street, "I'm waiting to see if that's the Twenty-three or not. If it is I'll start walking."

"Where are you going?"

"To work up the street."

He shook his head 'no' and said, "Really. How 'bout if I give you a ride?"

If I said no I was convinced I was going to get taken down. So I said, "Sure, thanks."

He said, "Do you have any ID?"

"Sure, here it is", as I flipped out my wallet and showed him the ID.

"Take it out of that case and give it to me."

When I did so he took the ID, turned his back and said, "Get in. I'm holding this in case you shoot me in the head."

I sat behind his cage musing about how inconvenient it would be for a cop-killer to have to sort through this man's gore to retrieve his ID after kicking out the rear window. He slid the ID between the seat and the cage and we exchanged meaningless pleasantries as he confirmed my claim to be working in the neighborhood by taking me there and watching me gain entrance. I gave him a card for the website, and sincerely hope he is reading this...

I never asked for the man's name, because I'm not some whining libertarian or bleeding heart liberal estrogen bucket that would actually burn a calorie calling this guy's superiors or someone who I might think cared, just because he was doing his job. Now, the man was oppressing me, and unjustly restricting my liberties. But, I repeat, that is his job. I thought he handled himself well even though he certainly breached protocol by not searching me. That would have been a disaster for me because I am a clerk and therefore carry a razor-knife to work. Allying his suspicions about me and helping this tired and wet old pedestrian with a ride all in one stroke was a good call.

I could not decide whether to name him Officer Manly or Officer Friendly, so I split the difference. My boss was really upset over the 'injustice' I had been done. But we can forgive him his social indignation, since he grew up in the 1960s when people believed in right and wrong. Officer ManFriendly and I are of a different generation, and just believe in getting by.

This brings me to my point. I was basically 'unjustly accused' of being a menace to society for the very same reason why I have survived as a member of a beleaguered prey species among a city of predators who I have lived, worked and traveled among, day and night, since 1982.

Belated Disclaimer

This is predominantly an opinion piece, and, if you have not had lunch with me, you may not realize that most of the opinions I hold are socially unacceptable to the vast majority of humanity. The fact is, every book I have written, with the sole exception of When You're Food has been heavily sanitized to facilitate publication. That is not a bad thing, because ultimately my opinion is far less important than the objective facts, and sanitizing one's published work is a good way of honing an author's investigative skills. However, I am doing so much sanitized writing as a full-time author I have decided to permit myself the occasional feature-length rant. Blame it on Charles. He is effectively the publisher of most of my work and he told me, "If you write it and are willing to take the heat, I'll post it."

If you want to bring the heat perhaps you can do it on a sunny day.

The King of Emotions

I am about to draw accusations of hatred, specifically racial hatred. So let me state, for the record, that I have not experienced hatred for over a year now. In fact, I am becoming worried that I have lost my ability to hate. Whether it is from Low-T or from being beaten and kicked for 35 years, the fact that I no longer seem capable of savoring the king of emotions is very troubling to me on a spiritual level.

I believe that hate is good or at least can be, and I will argue this until the day I die. It is my belief [I know that beliefs are irrational] that the one thing that separates humanity from the animals is hatred. While I am at it, let me admit to my hatreds-past. I have sometimes hated my supervisors if they were corrupt, and I am defining hatred as a deep desire to see emotional, financial or even physical harm done to that person or persons that the emotion is directed at.

I have also had a general hate, which, in my childhood, used to be referred to as prejudice: I hated men for most of my life and had very few male friends, and they were always unique men who were fundamentally different than most. This led me to form some extensive relationships with lesbian women, as we had a very deep commonality. For most of my life I saw almost every man on the planet as my hereditary enemy. Now, in this odd post-spiritual existence as a writer, I feel as if I'm a ship that has lost its anchor.

I have, in my life, had one other great hatred, which I would like to use to illustrate the goodness of hate. We can call her Kim, and she was evil; minor league evil, but still evil. She was a child of privilege and grew into a spiteful woman who often used her considerable power over others to harm those who did not measure up to her high standards; fat people; old people; and any type of handicapped person.

Kim was physically attractive, but she was so transparently ugly on the inside, if her and I were the last people on earth, I would feed her to the wild animals and sit on a hilltop and ride the planet into oblivion. That may sound extreme, and I am glad not to have feelings like that any longer. However, when I used to wake in the night from a nightmare featuring Kim, I was reminded that there was evil in the world—even in my little corner of it—and that evil could be cute if you didn't look close enough.

Hate is now a mere memory for me as I totter on through middle-age. But it does not follow that I no longer have enemies, for they have chosen me, and they are, from least to most dangerous, three:

1. Cops
2. White suburban men who always drive pickup trucks
3. Black urban youths

Now that I have indicated the basic configuration of the enemy forces arrayed against me, permit me to detail their motivations, strengths and weaknesses, in order to explain why I have focused virtually all of my survival skills and instincts on Enemy Three. To avoid repeating myself, let me state now, that the danger posed by all of these enemies are grave, as they all tend to be armed and usually attack in groups.

My Master's Loyal Slaves ~ Cops

Since 1979 Uncle Sam, the single most successful macro-parasitic political organism to bestride the globe, has stolen roughly a third of my earnings on a weekly basis. Some of this money is diverted to the local municipalities where I live and work to pay police officers to harass me for being White Trash. I really have no complaint. I would never live in a neighborhood overrun by White Trash. That's why I live with Black People. I'm sure you don't want some old weird-bearded dude in a bomber jacket, sweat-stained head-rag and shredded military surplus fatigues walking down the street clutching his ragged man-purse while your daughter is playing in the yard and your cute wife with the wire-frame eye-glasses is washing your silver Bentley knockoff in her tight cream-colored jeans?

I wouldn't want me around either.

The cops are just doing their job, which just happens to consist of bullying people. That means all I have to do is submit to begin the process of ending the bullying. Now, my last name is not Nogueira, so I have no problem tapping out when the situation is hopeless. You know, Uncle Sam may be the sleaziest crime boss in history—that's a bit hyperbolic, actually I think it was the Belgians in the Congo—but I would rather see his enforcers get a raise than to have the next guy in the lineup qualify for Social Security Disability after he gets whiplash trying to backup over me with the tailgate of his 'I'm not getting any' wagon.

Penis Envy on Wheels ~ White Suburban Men or WSMs

This is pretty simple. These guys know deep down that whatever poor ill-kept woman they happen to be cohabitating with or fantasizing about groping, would rather be with me. It really is that simple. Some dude who looks like Dwayne Johnson will never pull over to the side of the road in his Dodge Ram and pick a fight with me.

If these quisling creatures were real men they would learn how to treat women with respect and therefore acquire companionship, instead of cruising around looking for small older guys to beat up. If they truly and utterly lack the social skills for this they would, if they were real men—and hence a worthy enemy—drive into West Baltimore and pick a fight with the Black men that they so hate and fear. But instead these genetic dead-ends habitually search out less threatening prey to nourish their emaciated self-image.

When it has come down to hostilities I have focused on avoiding the vehicle. I mean, I'd rather be shot than run over by something made by an NFL sponsor. There is also all of that lethal junk in the bed of the truck—two-by-fours for instance. This is why I got into stick-fighting, so I would have an excuse to carry a hockey helmet around with me—just in case.

WSMs are so poorly schooled at nursing confrontation and setting up ambushes that I have easily been able to keep all three dozen or so such threats made against me over the past three decades from reaching Physical Contact—besides, they're usually fat. Who even wants to touch them? WSMs are generally so slow-witted I spend little energy preparing for the threat they pose. This unfortunately means that, like Jesse James before me, I will most likely end up being finished off by a pair of these wretched creatures. You see, bereft of my hatred, my ego has taken over and refuses to consider these lowly WSMs to be worthy foes.

I pray to you Odin, please make it a worthy warrior that takes my life, and not some perpetually adolescent carpenter hoping to grind my old bones beneath the wheels of his rumbling cart.

My Hereditary Foe ~ Black Urban Youths or BUYs

I cannot out run them, that is what makes them so damned dangerous to me. In suburbia I am, even at my advanced age, faster than almost any WSM who might decide to press the issue by dismounting from his TFV [tinted-fighting-vehicle]. Where I live I'm surrounded by tall young men who actually play sports! I have zero chance of getting away. Also, being alone and unarmed against armed groups of intelligent predators is not a nice ecological niche for an aging member of an endangered prey species to occupy.

It seems like a pretty hopeless situation. Indeed, all of the middle-aged WhiteTrashians I know who live in the city have been attacked numerous times by BUYs, as have I. But, through a rigorous study of the enemy and a strong war-ethic I have always managed to maintain my own personal autonomy—which is what this is all about—by retreating in good order, standing and fighting, or closing in for a preemptive strike.

The root reason why I successfully defend myself again and again against this particular enemy is based on my conception of self-defense. Others who face this threat are overwhelmingly concerned with avoiding injury—hence they lose heart when injured and the situation deteriorates further. I no longer fear injury. I am seriously injured at least once a month—indeed am KO'd in the gym on a regular basis. All I care about is my little bit of freedom to walk down the side walk.

BUYs, despite being braver and more physically fit combatants than WSMs, have low morale, as they fight to gain material goods and to develop group cohesion. What makes the cops a level of magnitude more dangerous than BUYs is that they are fighting as a part of a cohesive group—rather than as a violent attempt to form a cohesive group. Never fight cops, no matter how wrong they are.

A further advantage to combating BUYs is that I am a loner, and do not have to contend with a cowardly WSM friend running off and leaving my flank exposed. Although BUYs might have better morale than WSMs nothing can beat knowing that you are alone and that you know that you will not surrender, as opposed to wondering when the wimp to your right has had enough.

The final advantage that has helped me combat BUYs is that I'm poor. When they are smart enough to realize this, they do not select me, which leaves me with the idiots. I have defied knife-armed and gun-armed robbers for an empty wallet. However, this may one day get me killed.

There are also some upsides to having BUYs as your hereditary foe. Most of them demonstrate courage in the face of their enemy, loyalty to their brothers, and at least marginal competence in combat. This means, that should I go down fighting, I will at least be taken by the death birds [I'm not a hero, so no hot winged blondes will take me, just crows.] to the Hall of Warriors.

Not a Recommendation

My keys to successfully surviving against the hundreds of armed and unarmed threats [this includes trying the knob to my front door and following me into a wooded park—they do have balls.] that have been made against me by hundreds of BUYs are four:

1. I understand and predict their behavior, usually resolving situations by identifying what their 'go condition' is and then denying them that particular 'confident-action' cue.
2. I always avoid all verbal expression, operating in total silence against this enemy. BUYs are highly confrontational and build resolve with language exchanges. Their 'go conditions' are often verbal. For instance the N-word is a 120% 'go condition' with BUYs. That means that if you use that word all of the 10 BUYs that were thinking about jacking you will, and the two who were simply prepared to witness the crime without doing anything will now assist. I have only violated the verbal ban once, and that was when I was the one with the firearm feeling like the pilot of the Enola Gay over Japan.
3. I respect them as honorable enemies and am not insulted or threatened by their confrontational nature. [Showing fear to BUYs is like begging them to attack—no, it is far worse.] After all, they are completely uneducated members of a violent isolated warrior culture and know only that men who looked exactly like me once owned, raped, abused and murdered their ancestors for the crime of being born non-White.
4. Every time that I am approached as a robbery, blitz-attack, or intimidation victim, I end my life. I mentally kill myself; say goodbye to me sons in my mind, and immediately begin angling for a way to kill one of my enemies. I never get bogged down in the tactical dilemma of defeating the group. I just want to take one with me. I have mentally brought my life to an end like that dozens of times just before closing with them. The most intense experience was on Southern Avenue when I turned around and approached a guy who had followed me for 20 minutes. When I got close enough to stab him with the rusty nail I picked up out of the gutter he jumped to the side and ran away. I guess the second-most intense was at Frankford&Belair in Northeast Baltimore when 3 BUYs literally broke around me and redirected their attack at another BUY [Sorry dude. That's right, I didn't help the poor kid.] The one that I tried to grab was so strong I think he could have taken me alone. He just lost it at the last second but had no trouble shaking me off. For me, the physiological effects seem to be limited to my hands getting cold and dry and being able to feel my heart beat in my ears. In my experience people can sense it when you mean to kill or be killed and they usually break. But this is not something you can fake. You have to go there. I much prefer option #1.

Conclusion

However you decide to manage your interactions with your primary threat group, keep in mind, that just because they are more dangerous to you than the other threats, doesn't mean that being able to deal with them will enable you to deal with the others. It may actually be the reverse, as in my case. Below is a good sport-combat analogy.

I have done most of my sparring and a lot of my fighting against heavyweights. Hence, that is the threat group I am acclimated to. Now, common sense would tell you that heavyweights are more dangerous than lightweights, especially to a middleweight. However, although I hold numerous KOs in various sports against heavyweights, I can't keep a good lightweight off of me to save my life. The fact is I have over-acclimated to the most lethal threat group which leaves me vulnerable to a lesser threat group.

Can I adjust the imbalance in my survival priorities? Should I?

If I prove unable or unwilling to reorder my threat group priorities I can at least be certain to recognize the disparity so that, should worst come to worst, I do not also have to contend with being surprised.

I know that was a long way to go to make a pretty simple point. But at least in so doing I was reminded to pay my respects to Odin. I wonder what the old boy would think of all of these oversized dumpster crows in Hamilton?

War.

James, Wednesday December 14 2011