“James, I was enraged—my head became dizzy—when I read Andy’s story today [1/5/16] about being mugged and then the police refusing to fill out a report because he hit the mugger! How did it not upset him? How does it not seem to draw any outrage from you?”

-Miriam

As a woman, if it happens to you or others, I understand the rage. You lack the ability to defeat enemies and are therefore dependent on society, unjust or not. The line is stark here. If society is just, you are in paradise. If society is unjust, you are in hell. This makes you a reliable voter, a voice of justification for the system of social management that lays claim to ownership over me—a claim that makes my back hair bristle.

If you were a black man who has been brainwashed—as have most of his kind—into believing that he has no choice, no actionable option, no agency, no free will, that he is merely a pawn moved by an unseen white hand, then you are emasculated, a default female without the world’s desire to please and impress you, and are therefore subject to outrages, self-pity, rages, envy, etc., and would be enraged by such a thing happening to you.

But for Andy—as well as for my black boxer, Oliver, who has experienced the exact same thing—and for me, the News of the World that Neanderthals [or, in Oliver’s case, the rare, decent black man], or polar bears, yeti’s, white apes, etc., are free to be attacked without penalty, and that if the hated Neanderthal fights back successfully he will be punished, is met with a kind of joy. We are free, free at last! from the false constraints of our phony, sissy society, which was so constructed to make our grandfathers weak and make you women into demanding political voices in order to keep us weak and caged in soft lies required to placate your soft kind.

The rules may have changed, but the game is always gameable. The woman, the inferior man, the emasculated man, requires a certain set of rules to thrive, indeed requires his set of rules to be imposed to even have a chance. For instance most white men will only attack women, and most black men will only attack as a group, as they have both bought into Society’s insistence that they have no imposable will. But the raw, morally unshackled man plays the game as the game is set up.

Did my first ancestor look at the size of that mammoth and throw away his spear and plead with the Sky to reduce the animal’s tusks, to make it slow or stupid, so that it could be more easily killed, otherwise he would quit hunting?

Did Alexander look at the vast Persian host at Arbela and look up into the sky and cry, “Zeus, this sucks—is no fair at all—where are my vast numbers! I insist you sweep the right flank with thunderbolts or I’m taking my sword and going home!”

No, dear, my first ancestor found out where that mammoth’s balls were and put his spear there, and Alexander just killed tens of thousands more Asiatic faɡɡots than some lesser butcher might have had an appetite for.

When I was done speaking with Andy, I said, “Thanks, man, for fighting. I take that bus too and I don’t need the yos thinking that we’re all weak because we’re white.”

He winked at me, grinned, and smirked, “No problem. Next time I won’t drop my wallet and it ‘ill be a win-win. Fuck the cops!”

Miriam, there is something invigorating about being surrounded by enemies, something that gives guys like Andy and me a thrill. In a way, a man’s first realization that the criminals and the cops are really on the same team is liberating, like the mammoth hunter realizing that the Sky does not care if he lives or dies, like Alexander’s epiphany that the very gods aided his pathetic foes, because they feared him, feared the possibility that he might join their ranks and push them aside—which he did.

Miriam, Andy has inspired me, letting me know that I am not the last white man in Baltimore. In fact, I now intend to fight again despite my wretched condition, and will be sparring this weekend.