Think of the most dangerous fighter on the planet: the current UFC champion, whoever he is.

Imagine you—whoever you are—walking down the street next to him in a beanie hat, pink pajamas and yellow slippers with a baby bottle full of formula, sucking away, holding out a diaper to passersby in hopes that some Good Samaritan might change your diaper in a doorway.

Which one of you gets mugged first?

Okay, the ultimate fighter, scary looking mutant jock that he is—only gets mugged by an armed gang, a squad of coked up college ball players, or a hood-rat with a pistol, and then only if he is drunk, obviously distracted and flush with cash, or with a woman.

You, in your cartoon infant getup, are obviously insane and therefore safe even from aborigine headhunters! Nobody mugs the clearly insane if they can help it, and even fewer want to change adult diapers.

Okay, now sit that dangerous man down in a car, in the driver’s seat or passenger’s seat. Hire a 15-year-old ghetto girl to kill him. Give her an empty wallet and a straight razor—or give her brother a UNICEF envelope and a brick. Either way, for 500 bucks any 15-year-old hood-rat or ghetto girl could turn this stud into a draining piece of meat in seconds…if he is sitting on his butt.

I spend my life passing between the ghetto and suburbia, from a predation zone that everyone knows is a predation zone, to an artificial paradise. Although the numbers pale in comparison to ghetto stats, every major suburban sprawl has multiple violent felonies per a day. Yet all of the suburbanites I know, exhibit a total lack of vigilance when in suburbia, making them an absolutely doable deed if anyone decides to prey upon them. Then when they go into the city they prance nervously about, their fear on display or walk blindly about, unaware, once again an inviting target. There are so many of these easy marks out there, that your typical suburbanite will, like zebra on the savannah, wander aimlessly through life without being targeted. But, on those occasions when they are targeted, these people are already a done deal. There is no self-defense.

I do not believe in self-defense.

I do not believe in justice.

I am a survivor, and I believe in vigilance. My sense of vigilance makes me incompatible with society. Let me give you a typical example of how the over-weaned comfort-craving slaves of our consumer economy always react when I behave rationally, vigilantly. The following happens virtually every time I get into a vehicle with any female, and every time I first get into a vehicle with a man. If some person is nice enough to give this old pedestrian a lift I think the least I can do is look out for them. Why, I am already looking out for myself. It requires no extra effort to look out for them, so I do.

In our culture the vehicle is our mighty chariot, our badge of nobility, a projection of our environmental superiority. People who drive assume the position of power, and often argue with and threaten other motorists when they would never get confrontational on foot. Conversely, they usually show great courtesy to pedestrians, who they assume are totally harmless potential victims of their driving. As a non-driver I find no end to the fascinating observance of the completely irrational behavior of many motorists. Civilian vehicles offer a sense of power where this is none. Consider that even commanders of main battle tanks are reluctant to enter an urban environment without accompanying infantry support.

As an obsolete relic, whenever driving with ladies, I shut everyone into their seat, and then go to my door and shut myself in. I do not shut myself in until I note that no fit male is within a five second walk. Some females take great offense to this, the young lady that drove me into town on her way to work this morning for instance. This morning we were in Utopia. Knowing better than to hold her door for her, I just stood and watched the service man across the street to make sure he was a service man, and not just someone casing her house for burglary. If I thought he was a criminal I would have a talk with him about my primeval belief system, the fact that I worship Woden, etc.

As she fussed with her vehicle and all of her dainty nic nacs, and enough supplies and equipage to get her through a work day and me through a hazardous ordeal in Antarctica, she became angry that I would not take my seat at the very first possible second. Any sane person on this planet would always sit as soon as possible, right? This is what our society believes, that comfort and coziness and a fetal lifeway are the only true universal good. I can’t blame her. But, I have told her that I will not sit until I am sure there is not a potential combatant within five seconds. She knows this but a battle of wills ensues as she insists that I take a comforting seat before she gets in. I stand, and stand, and stand. Eventually, thinking me insane, she gets in, perhaps wondering if I have been punched in the head too many times.

The most awesome human killing machine on our planet—Navy SEAL or Anderson Silva—sitting in a passenger seat, is nothing but meat waiting to bleed, a skull ready to cave in, a throat ready to gush.

I am sure you all think I’m crazy. But consider this: I know that I will not be taken unawares unless hunted by a professional assassin—and I don’t rate that compliment. You, on the other hand, sliding into your artificial rolling uterus as soon as humanly possible, without even a look around, and making no effort whatsoever to safeguard yourself, your property, your family, and burning perhaps one calorie less than I, have actually invited an attack: a carjacking, a mugging, a hold up. I know a former torturer—a man who trained army intelligence officers in how to torture Vietnamese soldiers at a Maryland military base [where, he claimed, they actually tortured and killed POWs in the 1960's and 70’s] who was robbed at gunpoint by a "ten-year-old kid" as he sat in his car. If it can happen to him, it can happen to you. Sit the UFC heavyweight champion on his ass, and I will find a 15-year-old that could brick his head in where he sits.

Why ask for it?

Why not be vigilant?

Because you are meant to be socio-economic food, raised on a 300-million-person cattle farm to feed whoever is hungry. If, by ill-luck it is your turn to win the lottery of suburban crime, or the higher stakes urban game, your misfortune, that you begged for—were indeed conditioned to invite by reliance on our police state—will serve our masters in the form of more calls for increased police protection, accelerated erosion of civil liberties, more monitoring of the life you are supposed to believe is private.

I don’t believe in advocacy. And, aside from looking out for friends, family and readers I encourage the trend toward people-farming. The more mindless potential victims are wandering about out there, convinced of the armored invincibility of their chariot or the sanctity of their couch, the greater are the chances that I will not be targeted, that there will always be a softer target for the criminals to prey upon.

Remember, when seated—indeed whenever you are comfortable—you are out of danger, your place of comfort assured by others, who will surely be there to protect you if the need ever arises.

Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny

Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny