Sunday afternoons should be among the safest times to be out and about—maybe not so much…

4:15: I leave my house in two T-shirts, jeans, sneakers a bush hat and an olive drab canvas jacket, with my wallet over the left breast pocket to protect my heart. Most Dindu attacks on individuals now involve a knife.

I have a razor in my back right pocket, a pen clipped to my outer T-shirt, a pen in each jacket pocket, and a skinning knife tied to my belt loop and hung upside down in its sheath in my front pocket for an ice pick grip draw.

The traffic is crazed, the Baltimore Ravens have just lost and there are a lot of angry people behind the wheel headed home from football parties, half drunk.

Ten minutes out from home I am passed by two palefaces on the opposite side of the street, walking in from the suburbs. The small guy is lagging behind, struggling with his grocery bag. The lead man is 40, 6’5”, 185 pounds, carrying two bags with a swinging stride and belting out a marching tune while passing the church parking lot on Old Harford Road. I catch three lines:

“Back in the alley

Between those big titties

Finger-fucking big fat Sally!”

The small man does not pick up the tune and the big man shouts, “Come on man, it’s a good tune. Alright, bro, hang in there, we only have ten minutes before we’re home.”

That’s great, I thought, these reprobates are my neighbors! But, when the Dindu horde sweeps through, the big, spirited guy will be nice to have around.

4:45: On Old Harford, a block before Moore, A big black man is cooking out on his porch, the railing of which is right up against the passing sidewalk on the other side. A young paleface couple and their child engage him in conversation about the Orioles baseball game on his radio and he is soon passing hotdogs over the fence.

As this is going on three Dindu Youth Patrolmen on stolen bikes, designed for five-year= olds, come out of that side street and begin to cross toward me on their way back to the Dutch Village Apartments. Every day they do a mission in the white area of Parkville to the East. These are the guys that tried to take Shayne’s dog, who earlier in the day blocked the 7-11 parking lot and prevented white women from leaving in their cars, for no one may strike a sacred Dindu with their car. Dindus own the world and these guys knew it as they eyed me up, limping along, white-bearded and obviously poor by my attire.

There is no way they were going to attack me in front of that giant race traitor handing out hotdogs to crackers. The key to instituting the full-bore reign of mob terror that the U.S. Department of Justice wants is to make sure that black men who do not hate whites are silenced, marginalized and eradicated. They are the only brake left on the process.

Whites cower in their dens, waiting for the big black wolf to blow their door in.

The cops have totally given up crime deterrence and only answer calls and prosecute the Drug War.

Media and politicians say that black-on-white aggression is a myth, is not happening.

Judges put the youth mob thugs back on the streets within three days.

I stopped to let them pass and they declined, waiting for me to move. I walked very slowly, swiveling my head and they split. The leader rode in front, the small kid by my side, the big six-foot-four, 190-pounder taking up my rear, pushing his pink kiddie bike.

The leader turns onto Moore, toward their majority black territory. I follow. I am headed down Moore, across Perring Parkway.

The flanker joins with the leader and they turn and await my approach as the big man comes up behind me.

I cross the street to the other side, where the walk is narrow and butts up against a wooden stockade fence.

They shadow me together from the other side.

After we reach the next cross street on their side, they turn their bikes into the street and head toward me.

I stop, turn and look at them.

They halt.

I take the wallet out of my chest pocket, show it to them, and slide it into my back left pocket.

They stay where they are, eying me intently.

I take off my jacket and wind it in the middle so it will work as a blinder as I grip it with my left hand.

The big guy backs up slightly.

I place my hand on my right hip.

They turn tail and peddle up the side street, looking over their backs as they peddle.

I continue on my way.

5:00: The mule who hauls dope from the Dutch Village Apartments up into Oakliegh, heads towards me from my destination, speeds by and heads up to the apartments.

5:05: A muscular young black man of 30-35, smoking a cigarette, crosses the street in front of me, a grocery bag in his hand. He looks at my Baltimore Ravens shirt, calls me “Brother,” and we discuss the loss, me pretending I care.

He continues in front of me, talking over his shoulder.

He then looks at my hat and says, “You’re wearing a boonie hat, are you ex-military?”

“No, I just sunburn easy and don’t want to be mistaken for a redneck.”

He said, with a smile, “You know, I was thinking the same thing, but thought it would be rude to say—so thank you!”

We had a laugh and went on our separate ways.

5:30: As I approach the Oakliegh Convenience store in what has recently become a high black crime, majority white area, with a large influx of section-8 housing vouchers and where police maintain a general hands off attitude, the young mule in the rattle trap car, dragging his muffler and killing the speed limit in this purely residential zone—other than this one business—tears into the parking lot as three different bike-mounted trios of 8-12 year old Dindus descend on his position to receive their supplies. Each group will operate as a “cash-runner-stash” team.

Does it strike the reader as odd that I saw only 12 bicyclists in 90 minutes and that these were each grouped on threes, by age and operated as teams?

No, probably not.

I’ve walked six miles from the northeast perimeter of Baltimore City and still have not exited Dindustan.