Yesterday I stopped at the ghetto food store to pick up some deals and it was packed with subsidized oppressed individuals getting their checks cashed—checks issued to drug addicts by a city program. Two of these black men were threatening white employees, and another was threatening a white drug addict for being alive, as they waited for their turn at the window.

All I found to purchase was heavy whipping cream for 2 pints per dollar, an excellent price, if I can figure out what to use it for—Ramen Stroganoff perhaps?

As I left, a girl that once worked for me, who saw me chase thugs off the parking lot of another store years ago, was standing outside grimacing, waiting for her cab to show up as she looked warily at two young thugs who were loitering and smoking, scouting for victims, for easy marks. She said "Hello, James."

I asked her how things had been at work.

She said, "Well, it's been almost two years since it was safe to take the bus, and all these news motherfuckers talk about is Freddie Gray and Black Lives Matter and we're [ working whites in Hamilton] getting our asses kicked. Theses news people won't let it go, like they want another riot. The girls and I were talking about how it's going to go this year. If the first couple people they hit don't fight back it'll be on, they''ll be jumping on us as soon as we hit the pavement. I hope they come after you."

"Oh, come-on, Kelly, I know I was a prick but I don't deserve that."

"Prick! You were a fucking asshole. But you fucking have balls, not like that security guard hiding inside from these guys."

"What, you mean these two faɡɡots?" I said, as I pointed to the two innocent, unarmed, oppressed youth harmlessly assessing everyone that came and went.

"Oh, there's more, a lot more. They're multiplying—a couple of real men and they'd be gone."

"I don't do public services and the Guardian Angels have been barred from patrolling by the City and the County. If they lay a hand on me, I do promise to disembowel them. I always carry a knife now."

She gave me a crooked sigh of relief as the two thugs walked off [they had not heard us], going their separate ways with whatever intelligence they had gathered, and said, "Thanks a lot, Lonny Tune. You drop Mammas Little Boy anywhere near here and they burn Hamilton to the ground. What a world. Later, space invader."