I’m headed back out to observe the dysgenic soup that some hopefully long dead gang banger tagging graffiti for the Kaos Krew in 2000 nick named Harm City. Whenever I return to this place I will recount my experience surviving the bad intentions of one of Baltimore’s aspiring race warriors, last night at 10:21 p.m. 4/27/15.
A Limp-Dicked World
This Monday night would be worked on less than two hours sleep as everybody I knew called me and asked if I was okay, if I needed a lift, etc.
I was feeling that I would be more okay than ever as I knew with an absolute certainty that no police would be present outside of the sacral NEWS ZONE.
I could walk like a man, armed, with no fear of the government stooges I know as pigs arresting me for carrying a weapon in my pocket. Knife enthusiasts will point to the Maryland Statute and say I have a right to carry a simple folding blade below 4 inches in length. But when one deals with the cops you find that you are going to get charged with some unrelated bullshit if the cops are suspicious of you and find a knife on you.
The cops are ever suspicious of me, walking alone, poorly dressed in a mixed race drug zone. Maryland case law is a murky, multifaceted, after the fact set of sometimes contradictory arguments that the most experienced judges in Maryland argue over, seemingly to know firm conclusion.
The result is that cops make up their own individual knife law as they go.
I pocketed a $5 blade and walked off down the way from White Avenue—the city planners apparently knowing, as if through a crystal ball, that this street would be home to militant Caucasian in the End Times—down to Northern Parkway through the back streets. I love this walk as I have seen a huge—almost coyote sized—fox here on a few occasions. I also once woke up from a brief nap on my desk after passing out writing, thinking I was late to work, and staggering down here in my hastily donned work attire in a hallucinatory state, falling into mail boxes and shrubs, and waking up leaning on one fence with a dog snarling silently at me like I was the Devil.
This inspired my werewolf story Wake From Your Dream Place. I know this is kind of a tangent, but such were my tantric thoughts as I limped down the street, my left foot having been severely sprained grappling with Oliver on Sunday. I was, however, able to jam it in my boot, and felt it would not hinder me in a standup situation.
I got to the bus stop on Northern Parkway, just over a mile down into the bottom land between the ridge along which White Avenue runs and the ridge along which Taylor Avenue runs out in the county.
I looked right and saw nothing, no one. Not a soul had stirred this night.
I looked left and saw Tiny Dancer’s brother enter his house, having come home from the eatery where he seems to be employed. No bus yet comes from that westerly direction. It was a fine cool night.
I heard a foot fall, a heel scuff, fifty feet behind me, and turned. A prime young buck stood there, having stopped in mid stride when I turned to look at him. He was 5’ 11” and about 210. His calves were thick for a black man, his thighs very well developed, his hips good and wide, his waist narrow, his chest deep, his shoulder rounded and terminating in long arms, the muscles of which showed through his gray sweat suit, and his wide head seemed pretty durable under the gray hood of his suit.
When I was his age I weighed 143. This is an old twerp versus young goon situation.
His hands were in his sweatshirt pockets. He pulled out his left hand and made a call on his cell phone as he stared into my eyes.
I looked around to ascertain if he was calling in support. The young muggers in this neighborhood go hunting with their smart phones, simultaneously looking for prey and predator; victim and cop. Most of the smart phone operating muggers work in groups of three and favor a run up charge by the large team member intended to knock the victim—usually smaller, or older—off his feet, followed by a stomp and grab attack by the follow on crew, while the original hitter slides into scout mode looking for police response.
The night is deathly quit. I see and hear no movement, including him.
I turn back to look at him again as he stands staring at me, his phone still held to his ear, speaking to know one, just regarding me with narrow eyes, as I suppose the phone calls out.
Walking with A Woody
I come to believe at this moment that he was marking me for a solo attack and is now calling for backup since I have made him. This is just assumption. But as soon as I make this assumption in my mind I experienced a hard throbbing erection. This never happens when I spar or compete, but does happen when I have encounters of this sort with young men who are larger or more numerous than I. I do not know what this means, am not a person inclined to self examination. I just accept this good feeling that seems to focus and calm me. I am not experiencing any adrenal effects and feel almost sleepy as I decided to get aggressive with him.
I shuck off my back pack and set it down behind me in case some accomplice comes up on me. I never have superior mobility against youths, so use my backpack or whatever burden I happen to have as a post. If they have to step on it or reach over it to hit you they are not a danger until they step around, and when they do that they show their direction of attack.
I don’t like the idea of fighting with a hard on as my dick could get broken. I already have too much in common with Bill Clinton for my own serenity. This reminds me of the fact that I hate my dick—for various reasons beyond the scope of this article—which causes me to seethe a little.
He stands dumbstruck watching my deliberate preparations for our coitus interruptus of an encounter.
I switch my umbrella—long and pointed but good for only one thrust against a big dude—into my left hand, where I intend to use it to threaten his eyes or, if his backup comes, to open up as a blinder for the guy I am currently stabbing or to shield against thrown rocks.
I reached into my ‘please dad’ ancient bomber jacket coat and palmed my blade.
He looks meaningfully at that now pocketed hand, looks back into my eyes, pockets his smart phone, turns, and walks away, looking at me over his shoulder every three steps.
I look around to make certain I am not being approached from elsewhere. When I look back his way a mere second later, he has disappeared.
The Commute
I have to wave the bus over as he is not inclined to stop based on is speed and position. The driver is a larger black man with an insurance commercial baritone, who says, “Thank you , sir,” in response to my thanking him for pulling over.
None of the five Mexicans are onboard.
Two of the 25-30 blacks are present. Both are extremely nervous.
I sit down and tried to nod off and take a nap, but my erection will not go away, and I cannot sleep with a hard on. I am once again reminded that I hate my dick, and sit irritated but enthralled as the bus driver talks with his dispatcher about routes closing, attacks at bus stops, the fact that all of the Baltimore County cops are in Towson making sure feral hood rats do not break out into the rarified white bread countryside of the white people that matter.
He drops of both guys, picks up one, and drops off the other guy.
When it comes to my stop and I am off loading, he says, “Sir, please be careful out there. They’re calling us in.”
I said “Take care man, and thanks for coming to work tonight. It’s a long walk.”
I am limping now for two reasons—one good, one bad—and am irritated that I only have 20 minutes to make it to work less I lose a quarter hour’s pay, and that I cannot possibly make a better time with this little psycho obstructing the process.
The lot of the Aldi’s food market is unlit, which is unusual.
Not a soul is in sight.
The flag pole across from the park, where the insane fat woman sleeps on the bench, is rattling in the wind.
No one is in sight.
When I pass the liquor store I notice that the Pakistani owner has gathered all of his male family members in a vehicle caravan to defend the property. They wave as I walk but.
I pass no one else.
There is no traffic.
When I get to the 7-11 where I buy my condoms from the Nigerian guy I am once again reminded that I hate a part of myself and am irritated by the slow pace. I walk partially for conditioning as my ankles are too shot for me to run. My heart rate remains in sleepy time.
Two local black youth emerge from the 7-11 with their purchase—chips, sodas and hot food—look right to see me limping toward them, and then run toward their home, two doors down. I have noticed these guys before, buying dinner and returning to the apartment they reside in above the auto-parts business across the dead-end street from the 7-11.
I have usually seen five county cops by this time. Not a one is in sight.
As I cross Middle River Bridge I stop and look around. No cops in sight, I toss the cheap blade into the river, switch the umbrella to my right hand, and limp on.
Conclusion
As I make the lot we have more customers than usual, and there are no cops randomly pulling over our customers and harassing them like they normally do. It feels good to have company concrete under my feet as I enter the store.
Bubba and Steevo cheer me as I walk through, having won their bet with Tony that I would survive Harm City and make it to work.
After punching in I stand up front and call my lady friend to let her know I made it. She had been in a panic and had asked me not to go out, and to call her when I arrived at work. As I am comforting her over the phone I see Nokia bending over in her purple sweat pants, getting the whipped topping out of the frozen food case I stock for the ambrosia salad she makes for the deli.
The lady on the other end is noticing I am distracted as Nokia smiles up at me as I stand talking to another woman while blatantly admiring God’s work as a chocolateer—the demon in my pants still screaming for a conquest.
Mom, I really hope you didn’t read this. And if you did, I hope I’m still invited over on Sunday.
For my survivalist readers, the nebulous incident with the young buck seemingly out on the warpath, but possibly just some scared kid who is just now telling his friends about this crazy old white trash guy he ran into on Northern Parkway, that is the reality.
The silent hand game in the pocket is where most encounters with possible enemies resolve themselves when you are not sure of his intentions but suspect them to be bad, and you hope dearly that whatever you have in your pocket is worth more in combat than what he has in his. This is why you never show your hand, never brandish a weapon. You hold the weapon in hopes of not needing it.
Later today I will write about my night out drinking with Mescaline Franklin in defiance of the curfew.
Oh my gosh. You and your penis.
I'm working on deactivating the little prick.
Could you please edify the female readership on how it's possible to break a dick, since it lacks skeletal fortification (all jokes about boners aside)?
Sincerely and thank you,
Habibi
Okay, it is called Peronies disease, or something close.
According to a late 1990s edition of JAMA about sixty dicks are broken per year. My doctor told me that his first operation was the removal of most of a broken gangrenous penis.
The band of calamari-like material that inflates and imitates a stick if your blood pump is still working right, is breakable, just like cartilage. According to various testimonies in the Clinton scandals Slick Will sounded a little less than slick with his 90-degree bent dick, which might have explained his dependence on cigars as sex toys. I assume they were Cuban, if not his man card should be revoked.
The dick can protect the testicles somewhat when soft—and is very durable in that condition. A hard dick is easily breakable.