Here at
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we support our fellow survivors of the Ice Age, whether they are lowdown drug-addicted whiggers or not. Our editor-in-chief, Whitetrashgmish, is simply thrilled that our regressive Caucasian genes are once again finding vigorous expression in North America. For the latest details on the spreading plague of white on black crime, I take you to Big-C, a former college linebacker and Baltimore Area cop who was moonlighting as a security guard at an undisclosed location…“He’s a regular dirt-bag. We call him Son of Chucky, pimples instead of freckles on the face. I caught this maggot in Aisle Nine stuffing a Chore Boy pad [copper scouring pad] in his coat pocket, tell him to halt, and he boogies—white boy could run, got to give him that.
“I chase him out the door, and around the store, and then up the alley. Shit, if I was on duty, that would have earned him an ass whoopin,’ making my big ass run like that. I come to a halt at the corner of the business, so as not to get bricked or clipped with what-have-you, and unlimber the flashlight. Now it’s dark, but there is a light pole over the alley, so the flashlight is for taking care of business.
“I ease around the corner and there his skank-ass is, sucking on his little scrap-made crack pipe, smokin’ that rock up right behind my store with my Chore Boy pads! I just want to talk to the boy and tell him not to come back in the store. Ain’t making no arrest for a dollar-twenty-nine. I walk up to him while he sucking away on that straw stuck in the plastic cup with our product scorching up in it, and I say, ‘Hey, buddy, don’t you know crack kills?’
“Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven! Crack kills alright—darn near killed me! I couldn’t even tell you what he did to me. It was like being an extra in one of those old Tarzan movies after getting too close to Jane—then it’s on.
“He rocked me with punches so I grab hold—en this boy climbing the wall, running up the wall, out of his coat and down my back! Sucker did not weigh but a buck twenty en was as strong as me. Good Lord I’m sore! Tore my shirt in half, rip my pants while he trying to bite my balls off, clawed me all over, biting at my chin like a darned baboon. I would not have been surprised to hear animal planet narrating in the background.
“I tried to hold on to him at first. Before I know it I’m holding a dirty, smelly coat and getting hit by the dude who used to be in it. But when that biting started I said, ‘oh, the hell with this’ and started laying in my own punches. This sucker is bouncing off the wall, springing off the pavement and giving it right back—bust my lip, bloody my nose, pound the torso—though that shit was a waist a time, though I’m sore now around the middle—and off he ran, hooting like some animal, me swinging at the air.
“I let well enough alone and watched him go, more afraid that he would let me catch him than anything. Jimmy, if that shit would have happened on duty I would not have reported it, it was that embarrassing. After accounting for the shirt and the slacks I lost money working that shift. Lord help us if they take they food stamps away from these drug addicts—it will be an army-size rampage, like Planet of the Apes!”
Big-C is a cool dude, who isn’t a dick by the cop metric, and was just trying to earn some Christmas money. I’m glad he just gut scuffed, scratched and bruised. But, I must confess to a thrill of Neanderthal pride when this tale of back alley nocturnal race warfare awakened my primal blood memory and my skank-ass ancestors howled at the moon! It is, I must say, a matter of pride, that our feral beasts launch poor odds attacks, and do not have the requirement of outnumbering their enemies holding them back from the expression of their fury.
