As we walked out White Avenue she spoke whimsically of Mary Avenue, the third of the five parallel streets that travel east to west across this ridgeline. I told her it was not safe to walk on by day anymore, as the apartment complex three blocks to our rear and north was now infested with section eights and vacancies were sprouting up alongside for sale signs, foreclosure signs and steel door and window bars. Half of the foot traffic on Mary is juvenile and drug deals are conducted in the middle of the street from double-parked SUVs.

We walked past the last house on the right, which she noted, “…belongs in a country orchard, not here.”

I noted that this had once been a country orchard.

We walked through the church parking lot, across the overgrown alley—a thicket hunted by alley cats and foxes—and across the Harbel Community Center [which supports the influx of drug addicts into the neighborhood] parking lot, to Mary Avenue, behind the former expanse of the Peter G. Angelos law firm, which grew rich on Mesothelioma suits against asbestos manufacturers on behalf of shipyard workers, and permitted the lawyer a seat on the Baltimore Orioles Ownership Board.

Crossing the not very busy mainstreet of Harford Road, is a ten year old blonde girl, in a dress, with a purse and a little on the heavy side, looking nervously about as she cradles the book she seems to treasure against her purse, obviously coming from the library across the street that is barely out of sight. As she crosses and begins walking down Mary, Megan groans and mutters, “Whoever her drug addicted bitch mother is should be hung up by her twat for letting this child walk these streets.”

The girl glances at us and looks nervously behind her, and we see him there. There is a Dindu boy of about 12 that was walking out Harford Road, who looked at her, looked around, looked at us, looked at her and then changed directions to follow the girl.

Megan said, “We’re not letting this happen and stepped up on the far corner and turned to watch the pursuit. She knows me well enough to know that I would normally—as a Darwinist who sees no sense in saving a dying blood line—let the blooming crime develop rather than risk martyring the Dindu boy-saint and ruining what is left of my life as the next George Zimmerman. She also knows that I’m subject to her moral approval and is using me to do a good deed. We stand and watch as the pursuit develops, my gauging the distance and relative food speed. I’m still fast in a sprint up to 100 meters. This punk is between us and my second floor armory, and if I touch him, I’ll be fighting members of his gang set [they show up in the next part] along with uncles and cousins and at least one big fat MaBabayDinduShit bitch in a probably unsuccessful bid to get Megan home. But she cares less about herself than this girl—wedded to motherhood and outmoded notions of right and wrong as she is.

More Dindus mill about further down Mary.

Megan stands next to me whispering to herself, “Please, Little Girl, don’t go down Mary.”

The girl cut into the Harbel back lot in the direction we came from, toward White, and Megan growled, “Good Girl—your mom might be a dumb bitch. But it doesn’t mean you have to be.”

The Dindu boy then looks at the girl and stops. He begins to follow her and then looks over his shoulder at us, seemingly undecided. Megan snarls under her breath, “Keep going, Coon!”

The boy resumes walking down Mary, takes three steps, stops, looks at the girl as she glances fearfully over her shoulder at him, clutching her story book [It looked like a Golden Book], picking up her pace. It is as if she is in an adolescent never-never land where parents never reach into to aid a child, as she never glances at us for help or consideration, and seems totally alone in the world in her mind.

The Dindu boy looks at us again and Megan shudders as she clenches her fists and snarls, “Keep going, Coon!”

The boy then looks specifically at me, looks back at the girl, who is now out of our sight behind the building, and looks back at me as I step toward him so that I can get the girl back in my sight. He then gawks open eyed, turns on his heels and walks down Mary as if nothing had ever passed between us.

As we walk on, Megan rants and raves in muttering tones about cооns, drug-addict white bitches and slacker vagina faɡɡots, until we hit Harford Road and the smell of Restive Dindustan hits us.