At 5:08 Ulric dropped me off in the north bound lane of Harford Road, right across the street from the Mixed Race Sports Bar. I went in, ordered a beer, said high to Mister Al and Rus and Nancy, and then a second beer with Quin, who just lost his mother, last week, on his birthday. They all wondered why I had not been around and I told them that I have had too many close calls with Dindu hordesmen. They all leave in groups now and Mister Al, who turned 74 today, hits the road before sundown. The sun was actually going down as I left.

As I hefted my backpack, loaded with training gear and fencing mask, and then picked up my stick sheath, Rus said, “Look out, there’s a little fucker sitting in the doorway out there phoning in marks.”

As I turned left out of the bar door, I saw a little, 14-year-old Dindu sitting in the next doorway. He looked up at me and started tapping on his very large smart phone as he huddled in his blue jeans, brand new sneakers and gray hoody. I walked by the Dindu youth and then reverse stepped and crouched down to look at the large smart-phone screen. My son has this two-pound smart-plone the size of a brick and this kid has one to rival it, and I bet he’s not a financial consultant. On the screen were three words:

“Funee hat man.”

He pulled his phone into the front slot pocket of his hoody and looked at me with cagey, slit eyes. I smiled, drew the leg-breaker stick that I keep in the side slot of the sick sleeve half way out and said, “It’s a bush hat.”

He made no facial expression—quite a little gamester.

I walked up the street past the usual ambush spot by the church and the ATM machine, stopped, looked around for Dindus, saw none but the sneakers on his feet protruding from the doorway and continued on my way.

When I got home, I noticed that my editor had sent me a bunch of texts, chastising the author for being uncommunicative, for leaving the editor worried about his safety.

I called the Cuddly One and said, “I’d like to thank you for not calling or texting like I asked. It’s bad enough this other bitch sent me six text messages in an hour. I’m so glad you’re not the one I have to discipline…”

In perfect Clintonian form, she answered, “In that case I’m really glad I kept my worries to myself and didn’t text. I’ve got six chapters of Skulker Jones edited, and you don’t want me to worry—it’s a horror story based on your life! By the way, the rich, dumb bitches I was talking to today are going to pitch a tent downtown and feed the Dindus to support their fight against the police state. One even said a black guy was trying to break into her house and she didn’t call the cops to report it because she didn’t want to support the Police State.”

“Well, you know hunting my old ass is harder work than it looks. These Dindus need a high performance diet if they’re going to run me to ground.”