A fighter I have sometimes worked with, named Trent, a classy, intelligent, level-headed dude with the qualities a coach likes to see in a fighter, related a problem situation to me yesterday. This 30-year-old man has been living with a woman for a few years, a woman who is a sociologist, a product of postmodern, American higher education. Granted, she is beautiful. And, despite being a rabid social-justice-warrior feminist she still has a thing for masculine guys typified by her partnership with Trent.

They were at the Laundromat—which tells you that they are pretty close, at least logistically speaking. As they were finishing their clothes, another customer, a woman, grabbed her young child by the hand and dragged her in a growling tone back to the restroom. Trent’s girl became irate and insisted that he do something about the beating that was most definitely going to occur.

Both Trent and his girl are black. They know that this is not going to be a pat on the butt and a stern talking to, but a beating that would send most white adults running to the Emergency Room. They both know that most blacks beat the innocence out of their children by age five, and generally produce either a scowling thug or a shell-shocked sissy by age 10. The child was already in tremors, shaking with “my ass whooping is now imminently apparent at the hands of this giant psychobitch,” sobs, her legs stiffening as she was walked to the Place of Discipline.

Trent said, in a low tone, to his girl, “We both know what’s going down back there. But it is none of our business!”

According to Trent, “She wasn’t having it.”

The boyfriend of the mother—who was definitely not the father of the 4-year-old girl being worked over in the Laundromat restroom—was doing something with his smart phone as he waited for the clothes.

After a full five minutes of ear-bending hell, as Trent’s girl pleaded with him to somehow rescue this abused child, the mother and child emerged from the restroom. The numb face of the child was being shoved along in front of her mother, staring vacantly into the cruel adult world through eyes that had had the tears knocked clean away, taking on the whitening crust of the just beaten child’s eyes so common in urban America, where most children are punched in the body and slapped in the face by women five to ten times their mass, well before age eight. This child was peering outward into an unjust world designed—indeed, elegantly crafted by the hand of hateful man—to be her torture chamber, only able to look forward to puberty for the twin reasons that she would thenceforth be whipped with belts and beaten with shoes rather than with big stinging, thudding hands, and that she would then be free to vent her pain by beating younger children and smaller females.

Both Trent and his girl knew this to be the reality. It made Trent sick. But he knew that there was nothing he could do to make this child’s life one iota less miserable than the lives of the other tens of thousands of abused black children in Baltimore City.

Trent’s girl though, had a crusade to wage. She began following the mother around, lecturing her as to the harm she was doing her child. This was a singular expression of the mass feminist delusion that there is such a thing as justice, and that the indoctrinated bitches of the world are its stewards.

Trent knew that the harm was already irreversibly done—had been done years ago when this child was slapped resoundingly in its high chair—and that this had become nothing more than an opportunity to go to jail, or maybe even get shot or stabbed. The boyfriend was beginning to go after Trent’s girl verbally, the beaten child just a rubber-necking bystander to her own superseded tragedy, which had now been hijacked to sure up some privileged woman’s idea of social justice.

Trent grabbed his bitch and dragged her out of there, as she accused him of not being man enough to right the wrongs of the world according to her shrill bidding. He stood his ground, essentially chewing her out, informing her that he was fully confident that he could have leveled the boyfriend, and equally confident that the girlfriend would have called reinforcement, and that if he had somehow prevailed in that amped up situation his reward—as a black man in Baltimore caught breaking the law—would have been a pepper spraying or worse from the cops, and a week in the medieval facility run by the Black Guerilla Family on behalf of The State of Maryland.

Trent then confided in me that he thought this might be the end of their relationship. I let him know that I cared and would be there for him, but secretly crossed my fingers that she would break it off and spare him from any further involvement with her insanity. Any fighter’s worst enemy is whatever woman he is close to, for she is society’s Trojan Whorse, a barbed and poisoned spear aimed at his heart by the mothering world dedicated to smothering his humanity and eradicating his masculinity.

But what about you regular dudes?

What does a regular dude—who is not a freakishly strong highly trained fighter—do when his bitch slips her chain?

What if you are out with your feminist toxicity sack when she picks a fight with a person—and her associated persons—for the very insane reason that they have demonstrated a preference for violent solutions to human interactions, even where their children are concerned?

Dude, I do not care if she is the love of your life or the mother of your children. She has shown a complete and utter disregard for your life, your freedom and your sanity. You, your children, her children, and the world are better off without her. Now that it is no longer your right to kill her when she disobeys, put those violent negroes she wants to argue with to good use and let them take her off the planet on Uncle Darwin’s behalf.

Walk away.

It is her crusade.

Let them beat her, rape her, kill her, as you walk serenely away. She’s earned a right to experience what the original Crusaders did at The Horns of Hattin, at Shrove Tuesday’s Battle, at Antioch, and on the fallow field of Nicopolis. Let her pay the sacred price for folly that has traditionally been paid by men.

The bitch has slipped her chain because she wants to feel the freedom that society has gradually taken from men. Let her have her glorious moment in the sun.