This morning I sat on the back deck of the #55 bus to get a better view of the 4900 Block of Hazelwood Avenue, where five County palefaces have recently been attacked by immigrant hoodrats from the City. After refreshing my visual impression I fell asleep, and woke in the city at Overlea Station.
At Overlea Station, which, like the corner of Hazelwood and Kenwood is a Purge Marshaling Point, three black men and a woman, all ranging in age from their late 20s through early 30s, boarded, speaking loudly as they tramped up onto the back deck. They were dressed for some kind of work in khakis and blue polo shirts. The alpha male, a big silverback, then began to speak as to how white men who have the audacity to sit on the back deck will henceforth be treated.
1. White men who do not ask permission to sit on the back deck will be thrown off the bus.
2. White men who sit next to a black man instead of standing in the aisle, will be thrown out a window.
3. White men who smile will have the smile slapped from their face.
4. White men who do not apologize for boarding the bus will be beaten.
5. White men who sit on the back deck will be stomped by the entire group.
I was not addressed directly.
An 18-year-old white man, who ran and caught the bus was heckled by these adults, who directed the black, male bus driver not to let him board at this stop, but make him run to the next stop.
The driver did not comply and did wish me a “good, safe day” as the young white man cowered in the front of the bus.
Back in my prime I made certain to always sit on the back deck with the criminals—when I packed a knife and wanted to die by any random violent means that would take me away from this vile garden of lies.
A mature man, slowing, weakening—but armed again—I seek a more meaningful, more specific end.
I will henceforth always sit on the back deck, if there is room enough to seat my pale, narrow ass.
I have found myself fortunate, that a mere five days after my last stick-fight—my last possible life-affirming event—that I have finally arrived at my death wish.
I want to be slain by the partner of the pig I am eviscerating for attempting to avenge the decapitation of he who finally attempts to make good on such threats as uttered by the silverback above. Last year I ran from four predatory Negroes—never again.
After getting bruised up and having my fencing mask split fighting with Sean this past weekend, I thought I would never again experience beauty.
How wrong I was.
As I smiled up at my unworthy foe, I saw again that God provides for us all in some fitting way.
At 6:47, the bus pulled off and I walked down the middle of the street, blacker than that stupid ape will ever be.
At the crest of the first ridge, as the moon still hung grayly in the cloud-streaked morning sky, a crow on the light pole above flexed its wings and cawed once, angrily, I thought.
The thrill that animated me at that moment could have only been heightened if a rare and delicate flower would have sprung from the crack between the asphalt and the concrete there at Glenoak and Remmel, so that I might have crushed it under my boot.
Whether it takes a day or a decade, I have confidence in the truth of the omen and am content in embracing my Fate.
God does care.
Getting your mask split? Perhaps it's the underlying head trauma that is giving you this euphoric feeling?
I hope you have some kind of notification system to let us paleface and darkface readers of your timely demise.
Perhaps you are correct. I had my shielded face [got my hands up in time] slam into a windshield [barely touched it before the airbag blew me back] at 40 mph yesterday and I feel even more euphoric. Was reading Moby Dick when my friend slammed into the back of a suddenly stopped car on the interstate. That hardback 4 pounder almost put a whole in my chest!
Everyone was ambulatory, and as I got out I did look skyward for an angry crow.
I have made no arrangements for anyone to let Charles or the readers know when I get whacked. My family dislikes my writing and have no real contact with my associates. If I get attacked by my perennial foes it should make the local news.
My, you are a cheerful fellow this morning.
I really did feel right, and good writing this.
Recall the crow often.
Rage against the dying light brother ....
I remember what rage feels like and I do think it is buried in here somewhere. This is much better, whatever it is. Before I fought for the last time on Saturday I became sleepy, which is how it has gone for the past 10 years before a fight—ready for a nap. This kind of feels like that, like a replacement experience?
Yes, the dying light.
Take care.
Split mask!? HUZZAH!
The shot on my left crown with the double batons took the back rim off the mask and bent it sharply.
Damn, that is some good stuff. I wish you luck in your death wish, although I hope that you are able to decapitate many enemies before having to eviscerate a pig! NO White man should die of old age. There are too many enemies for that sort of bullshit.
"No white man should die of old age."
-The Woodsman
That is going in as a book quote for Run to the Hills.
Thanks.
I believe it is true and that when our time comes, if possible, we should go with an escort.
Ideally we will all be gifted by a locale for your final dance with good surveillance coverage. In any case, make sure you have someone committed to telling us the tale.
Charles will mark it on the map, I am sure.
The problem will be finding an articulate witness.
I'm sorry but you are under fan obligation to keep running, at least until "Run to The Hills" (the last on your upcoming books list) is done! Or do you plan to dictate it from a hospital bed?
Just write a masterpiece of violence novel to vent instead, whatever you had in mind in 1981, the falling down scenario!
Moving is also still on the table, you and junior could pool resources and get out of Dodge, i hear flyover country is nice.
Or Europe, they currently take everyone, no questions asked.
Thanks for the suggestion.
I am in a rush to get out the 8 books that are done and unpublished and to finish the other 6 I'm really into and will try to stay mostly in doors and off buses until then—hopefully it blows over.
But things have changed and I'm going to devolve if they touch me.
''No white man should died of old age. There are too many enemies for that sort of bullshit. ''-The Woodsman
I will definitely get a t-shirt with that printed on it !
Try to forestall your blaze of glory...You've mentioned your grandchildren. All that I can say is that my Granddad was key in planting subversive seeds in my young mind. The guy died before I turned eleven. His stories and way of looking at the world affected me greatly—An antidote to the crap that even from a young age I knew was BS. Not sayin..."Think of the Cheeeldrin!!!" but....tell those crows to stay away a bit longer. Loki is a trickster.
A better way to go would be to OD on Viagra with one of those Ms Bum Bum chicks. The view would be alot more pleasant than anything you're gonna encounter on the #15 or #19 line.
Thanks for the thoughts, Oh King.
I tried Viagra once and never again—a funny story, actually.
I'm sure this seems strange, but my interest in sex is generally around zero when not actively competing in some form of combat.
I burned bridges in my mind like this in 92, 94 and 2010. Then the wretched survivor kicks in and I find a way to game my own parameters—like staying in writing tonight instead of risking a final walk.
The grandchildren?
I am writing largely in hopes that my grandson rejects his father's distaste for reading and discovers me after I am gone. I have rarely been allowed contact, not out of malice, but as part of my extended family's understandable mainstream dislike for who and what I am.
I'm going to do everything I can to survive the next year, short of letting a hoodrat touch me or a pig cuff me.
Civilized people who welcome fights never get hassled. That's how it works.
Sure, I do realize that committing myself to fighting these bastards—and being totally confident in that I am packing multiple edged weapons which I am better with than most humans—greatly reduces the chance that one of these creatures will actually touch me. I successfully played that game from 93-2005, and, I suppose miss it.
My problem is now, that I no longer fight ritually, which, I know from experience results in me becoming increasingly aggressive and irritable. For my last year as a store manager I didn't fight, resulting in me having murderous nightmares every night, and being unable to look into my employer's face without visualizing violent action on my part. As soon as I quite, gave my money away and began boxing again serenity returned. I won't box again. I've been hallucinating while writing and working recently and passing out a lot at the desk and I think this is related. Notwithstanding, I really felt alive with that weird conviction on Thursday morning and wished to wrote of it.
I can tell you this—the idea of being civilized—of being pegged as that—raises the hair on my back.
This has been a far more interesting sojourn in The Pit of Humanity than I could have hoped for.
Thanks.
But it's not fate if you are almost pushing for it.
Hood rats are not worthy "standing your ground", they should be seen are mere social obstacles to maneuver around as frictionless as possible! If that means running, so be it...
This isn't rational, it was just the only decent feeling I had in a good while. I burn my own bridges periodically, mostly out of self-loathing for having chosen a wretched form of survival over something better. I'll give myself a few days and then try to look at it rationally. I have tactically limited my exposure to these people quite a bit. I had a close call with a State Trooper later that day that helped my put things in perspective and face the fact that I'm being a total asshole by most any measure. I've had some critical emails on this and will address them in a follow up post.
Thanks for your support, which is an unexpected sentiment. I began writing due to the absolute lack of support for and rejection of my person and ideas by my own family. Not a person with a drop of shared blood has red a single post or book of mine.
Having committed the blasphemy of assigning a crow as my personal God—a crow who appeared to dislike me—I felt good about myself for the first time I could recall and just had to wrote about it.