I have occasionally written about the crime-vectoring nightmare that is Walmart. I understand that Walmart parking lots, by virtue of being the busiest, are magnets for sex traffickers looking for blonde merchandise.

Other than that there is no other reason why a Walmart should be such a center for crime. I discovered the answer at 321 Yellowstone Avenue in Cody Wyoming on 9/15/16. This Walmart had no Dindus!

Nice paleface whelps stocked the store.

One of these teens even helped me find the note pads—paleface teenagers actually work in Wyoming!

Polite matrons manned the registers.

A really fit, little, 40-yer-old brunette, in her hipster miniskirt jogging outfit even tried to make conversation with me in the register lane, where in Baltimore she would be a beastly, bubble-butted Dindu, cracking her gum at the cashier and batting her eye lashes at me.

Up the road, two days earlier, in Red Lodge, Montana, at 201 Oakes Avenue, just a block from Liver-Eating Johnson’s actual cabin, stands the Beartooth Market, staffed by a young lady and Garth. This store is the size of an early 1970s, East Coast supermarket. I purchased a six-pack of Montucky Cold Snack beer, which is a cross between Coors and Rolling Rock in a 16 ounce can that goes good with food and mixes well with rye whiskey. The lame beer selection was made up for the Columbia River wine, Lindeman’s, a strong pinot noir going for only 5.99.

Garth was still stung by the previous day’s crime wave. On 9/12/16, Red Lodge Montana had its first mass shoplifting case! He told me what happened.

Garth was ringing out a man at the express lane, who had a $200 order. He suggested that he use the self-checkout, where his coworker could assist, but the man waited patiently. Then the woman that had just bought a gallon of milk walked behind Garth and dropped the milk in the doorway. As she skittered off in embarrassment, not to be seen again, Garth swung into action, excused himself—the customer being very understanding—and cleaned up the milk. As he looked up from the cleaned spill he noticed that the man had pushed the entire cart out onto the lot, loaded it into a truck driven by someone else and disappeared. I introduced myself as the Ghetto Grocer, touring the Far West, warning the outlanders about the upcoming Dindu invasion. This thieving couple were forty-something palefaces, passing through. I gave Garth a brief on what it will be like once former high school linebackers begin tucking a ham under their arm while their four-hundred pound Dindu wench shoves steaks down her tube top and they then begin stampeding toward the door.

“But, Sir, they are so big?”

“Do not worry, my boy, whatever happens, we have the Maxim Gun and they do not!”

The Ghetto Grocer never rests!