It’s a rough area. We have drug dealers but they aren’t shooting each other. It is not a black neighborhood. The only predators I have to worry about at night are the pigs. Cops pull me up and give me shit when I’m out sitting on my steps, when I’m going to work, when I’m coming home from work. Fucking pigs will be pigs. What else can you say? They pull me over, thinking I’m up to no good because I’m white and unafraid. So I show them my car keys and go inside. They think I‘m an ethnic guy so the pigs pull me over and flex on me, sit me on the curb, yell at me, threaten me, accuse me—fucking pigs!”
Some Korean kid totaled my mother’s parked car, so I’m at the precinct with her, and this cop who always cruises the neighborhood—this one particular pig in his MC [military contractor] ray-bans who harasses you for being a man—is eye-balling me the entire time. I had to get the fuck out of there. They were fucking with my mother and making her wait because I was there. I guess—even though I’m a working stiff that’s never even been locked up—that they see me as an unconquered commodity, a restive nail that needs hammered down. Fucking pigs!
Mean while the blacks from outside the area are doing home invasions and the pigs don’t give a shit. They are dialing in on the ethnic whites, like the pigs and the nigs are on the same team.
The neighborhood deli is run by Jim, an immigrant, a good dude that doesn’t take any shit. I walked in at eight, just as the sun went down. I came right up to the counter and said to Jim, “I’m getting an iced coffee.”
Twilight is my favorite time to relax.
A guy comes in, like a six foot tall black dude, tall, skinny. All of a sudden this other guy comes in slamming the door and hooting like a fucking ape. He’s got a work belt with the corded utility knife on it, making loud noises. The guys behind the counter were spooked but Jimmy stayed cool. All of a sudden I hear, “What the fuck!” out loud—real loud.
I turn and look and the guy is looking right at me, scanning the place. We lock eyes—just one of those moments. He looks at me again and I’m still looking at him and he says, “Yo, what are you lookin’ at—why you fuckin’ grillin’ me?”
A classic invitation into The Boned Zone.
I said, “I’m lookin’ at you ‘cause you’re makin’ noise for no fuckin’reason.”
This eye lock goes for another three seconds. I knew right away I shouldn’t have verbalized. I know he’s pissing on his territory—might as well be lifting his leg and sniffing asses—just an animal. But its bullshit, bullshit I didn’t have time for. He backs up a little bit and I notice his box cutter on his work belt in plain sight, so I look at it.
He goes, with his head swaying, “Oh, so you a construction worker. You should be used to loud noises.”
An olive branch of respect extended by the employed hoodrat, in whose world “real white boys” are seen as construction workers. The fact that he has gotten a job means that he has aspirations that his fellows regard derisively as “white.” This fool could be cultivated as an ally by an astute survivalist. Daniel does not pick up on this until I point it out in the interview.
Jimmy comes over and says, “Here’s your coffee.”
Good security management.
Now I’ve got two guys looking at me. I remember I’m wearing my tank top and its hot—he’s not stepping to me, and maybe looking for a way out. So as I’m walkin’ out past him and the light skinny dude—who both act like their waiting for something—he’s looking at me and I’m looking at him and I say, “Have a nice day.”
The skinny dude says, “It’s already a nice day!”
The moment he says that a much larger dude, like a three hundred pound monster, who was obviously parking the car, walks through the door and I’m like, Oh shit!
So I say, “Alright then, have a better day!”
Then I stayed outside, kind of hot over this, for about twenty seconds, standing by the trash can, not relaxing, not enjoying the twilight, but wanting to wring some fucking necks. These guys were in their twenties, obviously employed, not criminals. But still, why do blacks have to bring so much aggression wherever they go? There is no living with them.
You seem like the only dude in Baltimore who has figured this out, can interact with these animals like some ape-whisperer. In fact I’d like to go to some of those bars with you that you wrote about checking out on your hunt for Crazy Mark. But I’d probably end up putting you in danger. You’re probably better off alone, since avoidance is the whole key to dealing with blacks. I mean, even if you kick their ass, even if you’re a fucking pig, you’re the bad guy—end of life, end of job, club Zimmerman here I come.
So what should I have done differently?
Ivory Surrounded By Ebony Survival Tips
When walking, walk briskly and confidently with chin down and eyes scanning a half ellipse five to ten feet from your feet from just off your front deltoid. Walk like you are wearing a hoody with a gun in the pocket pouch and the cop you are going to execute is getting close.
If you make eye contact nod respectfully without speaking and let the eye contact slide into a hand and belt scan as you resume your head swivel walk. [I will go into more detail on this in an upcoming post.]
Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever—in a month of Sundays on your sacred ancestors tribal battle mound—ever, ever say a single word to a black person that has not politely and respectfully opened a dialogue with you—ever! Black males are raised by aggressive women to behave like aggressive women. They therefore feed off of verbal expression and conflict, use it to build aggression and pack cohesion, and also achieve alienation of potential victims.
Cultivate the discipline of silence, without making eye contact, with blacks and they will fear you. The mental construct I use is to walk the streets of my town as a murderer. Every man I have seen for the past thirty years on the streets of Baltimore, I have emotionlessly slain in my mind. By constantly glancing at people and then running their murder scenario through your mind as you relegate their image to your peripheral vision and scan for other threats, you will eventually project the same obscure and chilling body language that the drug gang hitters employ when they murder corner boys, mules, snitches, stash house guards, muscle and kingpins. Even in church I’m murdering people in my mind—strangling the usher at the door, beating the priest to death with his goblet, smashing the altar boy’s head into the altar, scalping the rich guy next to me and stuffing his scalp down the throat of the tenor in the choir gallery.
Once they have threatened you, however, achieve eye-contact with the most dangerous player, not the mouth, but the muscle, and maintain that eye contact as you either distance yourself or close in for the kill, never, ever, saying a word, confident of the remorseless savage course you have set in your mind.
If you are not up to dispassionately cultivating this internal discipline, then you are meat, so you might want to flee to the suburbs and stay the hell off of Iniquity’s banquet table.
Reminds me of the time my better half and I were in Savannah Ga. She had a large handbag draped over her shoulder, and I had already advised her to hold it close and tight when a few minutes later a young buck with dark sunglasses started walking toward us for no reason . My senses were saying "danger Will Robinson" ( what the robot on Lost In Space always said when it sensed danger ) and in a low voice I told my wife to get ready here comes someone. When he was within about 10 feet from us I could tell he was locked in on us . As he got closer it seemed like I could see his eyes even though he had on dark sunglasses. We made eye contact and I slowly shook my head not verbalizing anything but thinking he or I was going to get hurt really bad if he touches my wife or me.
I observed no weapon on him, and whether he had one concealed on his person, I couldn't tell .
The buck veered off at the last second never saying anything; just walked off into the darkness.
Needless to say I was relieved that he walked on and there was no confrontation, because the last thing I wanted to happen was for someone to visit violence on my loved one or my loved one to see me visit violence on someone .
My standing rule with her is I'll fight with them and hold them off while she runs to safety or get help.
But knowing her like I do , she's like a shield maiden. She'll probably stand and fight the best she can until we find safety together.
Smart Ass, this was quite a White Boy thing to do.
This is the perfect example of not verbalizing. If you had been a liberal suburbanite who somehow perceived the exact same thing, or a country music singer coming home from a hunting trip, who somehow perceived the exact same thing, you would have blown the whole thing by either being verbally apologetic for having been born white, or angry for being targeted, and have gotten into a loud confrontation that could have featured you knocking out sainted negro teeth on security cams, spending a night in jail, and losing a civil suit by the aspiring rapper whose career you cut short by diminishing his ability to inflect the F-word by depressing his tongue against his natural front teeth...
Way to go—Odin forgive me—Yo!
It's strange to read that mere moments after i watched:
How to approach WILD BABOONS with Andrew Ucles
youtube.com/watch?v=XZRzSoREJVk
quote "The funny thing about a primate, it's all about eyes."
As long as he has his back turned to the baboon he can move in closer.
Thanks for the link, fascinating.