Steve was walking from the bar on Friday night—apparently not having gotten the same memo that I did, that these Dindu faɡɡots are going to pack-up and hunt our white asses down if we attend neighborhood businesses after dark.

[Another business in my neighborhood has closed down due to Dindu harassment of customers—the blight before the night comes.]

These three innocent, unarmed, black youths caught up with old Steve and one of them stuck a gun in his face and he had to give up the rest of his paycheck and cell phone. The little brown faɡɡots then ran off, so Steve underwent the humiliation of being stuck up by a bunch of bitch-raised, milk-dud brats.

Once the gun comes out there isn’t a whole lot you can do. People who sue guns in the commission of such crimes are terrified and almost always feel the deep vaginal need to bring one or two wingmen to corner you, black third person visibility of the gun, and to keep you from doing anything heroic.

The only way to avoid this is to foil their selection process and or outmaneuver them. I have done this hundreds of times. Every man I know who has lived on foot in Baltimore has been stuck up, mugged, mobbed, stabbed or shot, except for me. That is only because I am the only one of us who accepted my pedestrian status as a condition I would be called upon to survive and took countermeasures against my hunters. The point is stick-ups are easily filed if you know what to look for. If you see the gun it’s too late. You maneuver with an eye towards denial of opportunity.

Stick-up artists are ore skittish than muggers, mobbers or knifers. This is not a must happen situation that the FBI has statistically consigned you to experiencing every 11 years.