At ten minutes to eight last Friday night, a couple of hours before the start of my shift, as my boss, Mister Ron, was unloading the truck, he was called to the front of the store. He found the Baltimore City Cop who flies the police chopper out of Martins Airport—where my dear Uncle Bernie polishes the wing tips of the Korean Conflict vintage F-86 saber jet—with an oppressed hero of the uprising against white privilege held in his cruel power, bound like Kunta Kintai himself.

Ron recognized this fellow, as a regular overnight customer, a black man in his mighty prime. This prime buck—sick and tired of being forced to work in Donald trump’s tobacco sheds—had understandably attacked a white customer, some twenty years his senior, a man nearing sixty. The assault had transpired on the sidewalk outside, resulting in the younger, more colorfully blessed man beating up the older paleface, who obstinately continued to refuse to acknowledge the mastery of our hero of African ascent.

The heroic purger then drew a pocket knife and threatened the unarmed, older man, which got the attention of an evil functionary of the white oppressor state, who was off duty and out of bounds and who shamelessly arrested and held the hero of this story until uniformed goons from Baltimore County were dispatched to collect him for official persecution.

The former white privileged inflictor of racial oppression did enter the store and ask Ron for a copy of the video for use in court. Hopefully this means that our latter day Nat Turner is going to turn the tables on that sneaky white devil—who intentionally held back from punching just so our Hero would take all of the heat—and file counter charges.

Now that one of our warriors have fallen into chains it is incumbent upon another of our number to rise up and throw off these four hundred years of wicked lies—and whooping some white ass while you’re at it cain't hurt, brutha!