All around the United States of Decay mobs of black youth are attacking Asians and Whites for no other cause than hateful expression. In Baltimore City and Baltimore County dispersed groups of two and three youths are beginning the great summer hunt. I have spent most of the winter and spring indoors, training and trying to publish as many books as I can before going in quest of The Liver-Eater.

Part of this effort must include a return to the mixed-race sports bar to do follow up interviews with the regulars who work in all corners of Baltimore. This means that I will be preyed upon coming and going to the bar about one out of six trips. I can halve this to 1 in 12 by picking my times carefully. Then there is the route to consider. I can go the front way or the back way.

The front way has been charted for available weapons, and I would have one within reach approximately every half block of the five. The aggression is also more confrontational and testing and less serious than what might happen going the back way through the church yard, lot and alley. However the front way will generate more encounters. I also would not want to return via the front way if harassed or marked coming down into Hamilton that way.

So the back way must be scouted, by day.

The Church yard offers numerous garden bricks.

The lot is large, unlit, has four egress points and has few handy weapons, favoring the aggressor.

In between the church yard and the lot behind the bar is a narrow walk with an oxygen supply compound behind razor wire and a thirty by twenty foot fenced in playground for the children who attend the church daycare. This is a dirt or mud compound depending on the weather and is a wonderland of boyhood. What boy does not like to build forts?

I saw one boy screaming to get back into his construction site when his hipster parents came to pick him up. This play ground has hardhats [real ones], boards, tarps, buckets and other things all strewn about. I am not in the habit of looking into the compound because I do not want the young women who work there when I do my afternoon shopping to think I am some barbarian who would make them dress up like Barbara Eden and say "Yes, Master..."

So, with election today, and with me confident that the degenerate citizens of this decaying state are fully capable of choosing the masters they deserve without my input, I walked by and stopped, taking inventory of the arsenal.

Most of the lumber is too big. Buckets don't have stopping power and the hard hats are too small. But there are four 24 inch spades, fully serviceable miniature dirt shovels that look more vicious than WWI entrenching tools. I tested the fence and was able to leap it easily enough despite my torn guts. This is my weapon cache in case I am hunted through these parts this summer. I imagine using a power-assist stroke or thrust with my stick hand gripping the steel haft right above the handle and my off hand grabbing the cross-piece of the handle in an under/over apposing grip. Access to the ribcage and brain should be a simple matter from a tight guard.

I feel much better now.