This fair Autumn morning, of 10/4/16, at 6:40, in front of Larry’s Buy Rite, two of our valued customers were leaving after making their morning purchase: a plainly clothed woman in her mid-twenties and a tattooed paleface in flip-flops, shorts and a wife-beater—and he was beating her, whether a wife or just a rental. The smacking and thudding of his hand and fist could be heard inside the store, echoed by her plaintive squeaks. The representative of my race was not seriously going for the KO, but administering a “come along, bitch” beating, of the kind that was very common in my childhood. Back in 1970s Baltimore, any white dude worth his skin beat the shit out of his old lady.
Of course, I am of the opinion that she is with him precisely because she wants to be beaten and slapped in public. I know better than to stop a man from misusing his own property, for women of this used sort are notorious for turning on their rescuer.
However, a young Dindu of the same spry age happened to be on the sidewalk charging his phone in the outlet. He raised his voice and said, “Yo, don’t beat her. What’s the matter wit you?”
This angered the undersized Bluto who turned on the disapproving Dindu and began calling him a “nigger” trying his best, for a full two minutes, to get the Dindu to engage in sneaker versus flip-flop, parking lot combat.
The Dindu said he didn’t want to fight, but just wanted the dude to stop beating the woman.
The woman-beating dude then pointed his finger with increased venom and snarled, “You’re just a NIGGER!”
The Dindu hero began to flush with anger and then reached deep inside for that vestigial whiteman planted there by whichever Caucasian ancestor accounted for his light complexion, and in a demonstration of unparalleled impulse control, retorted, “Well, you just a police niցցer!”
This stunned all present, including the woman-beater, whose face crinkled into a crooked mask of dismay as he placed his finger on his own chest and said, “But that shit don’t make no sense? I ain’t no police an I ain’t a niցցer either, am I, Baby?” he said, seeking approval from his battered mate, who shook her battered head in the appropriately agreeable manner. Shaking his head as if to clear it of some strange ague, the paleface, then placed his arm over his woman’s shoulder and walked off into the sunrise with his loyal, white bitch.
The onlookers continued to shake their heads, trying to figure out what a “police niցցer” was, ultimately asking noted Urban Ethnobiologist, James LaFond, for his opinion. Even this venerable ghetto graybeard was baffled. However, he claims to be inspired by this incident to write Men without Honor: Black Pack Rapists and White Sissy Wife-Beaters in Baltimore, Maryland, 1968-2016
When Your Job Sucks
What would have happened if they did fight and the cops show up? Who gets arrested? Who gets beat?
Neither one of these guys is very dangerous. I would give the advantage to the Dindu because he was actually wearing shoes!
As long as no one was seriously injured no one would have been arrested unless they gave the cops shit.
I see this—if it had gone further, as a punch and push affair lasting a second or two before the dumb bitch, the backup Dindu and the parcel pickup clerk get in the middle of it.
I could see you holding the white guy under one army while you sidekick the black guy. Seriously, if both of these douche bags jumped you they could make you into the next Jet Li!
If it went physical, depending on who the cops were, how busy they were, who was hurt, how cool they were with the cops, you get neither, one or both locked up.