As I make my way around Harm City on foot I make the odd acquaintance. The most complex of these are human-canine pairings.

There is Penny the doll baby beagle and her bearded hipster master, ripened wheat awaiting the hoodrat sickle.

There is Joe the boxer who keeps mistaking me for his master as his co-owner—a cougar named Ellen—assures me that I must be a good person if Joe think I'm his master.

There is May, the border collie whose redheaded human guide will someday soon be attacked by my enemies as she politely wanders side streets at night where I no longer go unarmed.

There is Russell, the big hairy mutt who belongs to John, a black fellow of about my age who marches about deliberately with his 80-pound dog carrying a large oak stave, knowing that the vile spawn of his younger "brothers" will one day attack him for his dog in hopes of feeding it to a pit-bull.

John and I know that the young thugs of Harm City have and will attack us under police sanction and that we are on our own. The rest are clueless, potentially-suffering meat for the ever-turning psychological spit of Black Spring, of the secret race war against palefaces being launched in plain view as the media, government and cops look the other way.

I just met another man, walking his dog on my street, who has altered his route due to a recent incident and was inquiring of me as to the thug matrix, virulence of the hoodrat infestation, etc., just this morning as I took out the trash.

His name is Shane, a Vietnam Combat Veteran who served one tour with a unit one of my step-brothers served with. He wanted his unit obscured along with his name. Shane's dog is a 120-pound German police dog named Odin, who is a good boy and nuzzled me after I petted him.

A few days ago Shane was walking Odin late in the afternoon when three bike-boys [14-16-year-old blacks who work for drug gangs as scouts, spotting cops, likely robbery and burglary targets, and—at two a week in Hamilton—seize dogs for use as pitbull bait.] These patrols wax numerous and aggressive at the end of the month, now concentrating their activity between the 26th and 30th. This incident happened on the 29th, at the very time when hoodrat mammas send their spawn out to pillage and rob on their behalf.

The three hoodrats stopped peddling lazily in the middle of the street and the leader walked his bike toward Shane as Odin stood ready beneath him, ready to act. The leader said, "I like that dog, yo. I thinks I needs myself a dog. I thinks this is my dog."

Just as Shane decided that this was it, that he was going to fight these hoodrats to the death right here, rather than hand over the family dog, Odin let out a roaring bark that turned into a slathering snarl, and the hoodrat scampered onto his bike and peddled off with his subhuman fellows.

Shane said, "I'm not backing down from those motherfuckers! This might be the hood now, and I can't afford to move, but I'll fight before I roll over and die. I will walk my dog where I want."

I informed Shane that the usual course in such a situation was for the white owner to get intimidated, confusing his dog and then to let the blacks pet the dog—further confusing the dog and betraying him as well—and then to have the most skilled dog handler among the blacks walk the dog off as the owner abandoned him in the face of verbal threats and assault [threatening posture and crowding.] I warned him about letting his wife walk Odin, unless he is the type of dog that is aggressively territorial, in which case he would probably protect her as she called the cops, who still protect white women on occasion. But even so, she could get knocked around and dragged. Odin also has to learn hatred of blacks, so that he cannot be coaxed out of a yard and into a van.

I hope Odin and Shane never have to make hoodrat contact, otherwise he might end up in Jail and/or prison as his dog is executed by the State. For just last week, a police officer in East Baltimore encountered a thirteen-year-old hoodrat wielding a pellet-pistol which was an authentic nine-millimeter replica and is now facing the inquisition for shooting the little bastard. If the bully goons of the State are persecuted for defending themselves against gun-armed youths, what will happen to a paleface and his dog when the Hoodrat Lives Matter paen goes up over the ruins of a city that was and the evil song of the MediaState takes up the shrill chorus?