On the Old Frontier, the frontier of Simon Kenton, Daniel Boone and Lewis Wetzel, wilderness men did not follow paths or trails, but traces, a mental image of a wilderness route through which one would pick his way, many of which later became “trails” and roads.

Here, in Harm City, in my own Indian Country, I also do not blaze a trail or follow a set route, but pick my way. Yesterday, as I headed down to the market to purchase my tea bags, I was unarmed, something I no longer risk at night, but a chance I willingly take when I know I shall be hunted by the oppressed minions of the State in their innocent meekness. I left the old plantation house at 2 p.m., knowing full well that I would have to navigate through throngs and knots of violent middle school and high school students, most larger than I, few likely to be combat-effective. If I were to defend against any of these with a pocket knife my name would be mud, everything with my name on it taken out of publication, etc.

I will not, however, fight a mob of hoodrats with my bare hands. On the way down, I took note of a rusty iron shank in the gutter on my street. A little further along was a lifted chunk of curb, heavy enough to crush a foot. As I turned the corner onto Harford Road, I passed the crumbling stone wall with hand axe-shaped rocks for the picking. Fifty yards down is the Big Bad Wolf eatery, where a five pound half block is used to keep the lid from blowing off of their trash can. Further down, in front of the Pakistani pizzeria, where drugs are dealt openly, a pointed, fist-size stone lays at the base of the poorly growing decorative pear tree.

On my way back, a single-use 24 ounce glass bottle in my hand, prepped to smash hoodrat craniums, I notice thirty to forty hoodrats on the left side, and only three knots of five to seven on the right side, so took the right side. As I pass each group, careful not to swerve out of their way, but shoulder through, less I be marked as easy prey, I recall where each stone is, and where the “back-to-the-wall" defensive position is, where I intend to shuffle to if attacked.

A group of wannabe, middleclass thugs spot me and spread out, one of them puffing out his chest and hooting at me to frighten the old man—who walks directly for him, intent on barreling through to the doorway to make his stand. The knot tightens up defensively and I straighten my course towards the three older, posing, mixed-race thugs walking toward me 20 yards past these twerps. These older teens spread out to shoulder me into the gutter.

I switch the grip on the bottle for a stab to the gut, and keep my eye on the pizzeria stone in the planter behind them. The flanker on my side gives ground and packs up with the others, and I continue on by.

After a time, I look over my shoulder and see a 40-year-old black cruiserweight carrying his groceries, and using the same edging tactics, herding the lesser primates into easily smashed bunches as they give ground and he rolls his shoulders menacingly.

We make eye-contact as I turn and he follows me down the street where he also lives. I do not know this man, but have walked with him in snow, rain, and blistering heat on occasion. We then look at each other again, nod, and walk down the same side of the street, sharing the hoodrat edging burden as the junior high school thugs crossed to the right out of our way and begin aggressing against each other instead of us, like Daniel Boone and Mingo sliding by an under-strength party of Shawnee. If only all law and order broke down, these punks could be left in heaps where they belong. But the police—their reluctant protectors—still make their presence known.

Dan never went to the wilderness without his rifle. And into this government sponsored wilderness, where the only weapons permitted us are the lonely debris of this crumbling blight-by-design, one must always note the weapon caches and defensive strong points [doorways, narrow alleys, trash cans, etc.] and keep foremost in one’s mind, that just as the hoodrat hunts you, you hunt it.

The animal which does not hunt is prey.

Don’t be the prey.