The ‘ghetto grocer’ you say.

Who really goes to a ghetto grocery store you may wonder.

So you doubt the existence of The Realm of Squalor do you?

Perhaps you assume that your tax money is shipped directly from O’Sauron’s overflowing vaults, in the form of food and goods, to the heroic oppressed shivering or sweating—depending on the season—in their dismal urban dens. I ask you, did the actual Dark Lord, the omnipotent genius which the current occupant of the Tower of Power merely imitates, send care packages to his orks and goblins, trolls and Easterlings? No, he did not! He set them loose upon the land and bade them scavenge at the expense of his enemies.

The following tales of insane behavior come from Joel’s Stop, Shop & Rob, a low-end discount joint in the hood: otherwise known as Fort Hood, Baltimore, located in the Mid-Eastern Territories…

Jesse, the grocery manager, was on duty one evening, when a pack of hood-rats broke into the courtesy booth and began robbing the till. He called the cops and then locked them in the booth. As they shoved on the door from the other side he pressed his back against it. The spryest hood-rat among them leapt over the wall and shot Jesse in the leg, permitting his compatriots to escape over Jesses’ prostrate form.

Mister Joel was robbed at gunpoint in the store. Being a good citizen of the Fraternal Order of Retail Food Honcho’s, he took the very clear security film to colleagues, so that their loss prevention people might examine it and be on the lookout for the gunman. He soon found out that the film of him being startled and robbed at gunpoint had become a diversionary tonic of sorts among his peers, who sat around laughing at Joel’s plight, and replaying it for friends. I remain woefully uninformed as to the brands of snack foods consumed at these viewings.

On one occasion, Joel, an older man, tackled a shoplifter running off with his goods. He wasn’t the accountant he once was and was having difficulty holding onto the hood-rat’s hind-quarters as they rolled on the sidewalk. He called for help. His help came in the form of Patsy, ‘not the brightest bulb in the pack’. Patsy darted inside, grabbed a gallon of milk, came back out on the sidewalk, and emptied it on the shoplifter’s head—another $2.99 down the drain…

Missy was running a register while a young mother and heroin addict [in this hood 8 out of 10 white residents are heroin addicts] was drinking from her ‘baby’s sippie cup’. The baby seemed very happy, and it was discovered that the cup they were sharing was filled with vodka. The addict was on her federal flip phone cursing a stream of profanity to the ‘baby’s daddy’. This impelled Delvin, the security guard, to eject her.

Thelma was running Register #5 recently [late July 2013] when an unusual number of normally broke ghettoites flooded the store. These people normally have very little of anything to spend late in the month, as the food stamps are generally gone by the 20th. The people were smiling and thanking, ‘God’, ‘dem Dunbar bankers’, and ‘dat fool driver who foget to lock da back doe!’

As it turns out the backdoor of a Dunbar truck came open at 30 MPH just down the street from Fort Hood. A box of money bounced out and burst on the centerline of the busy secondary street, and the ghetto erupted as if for VJ Day 1945. The driver stood and watched as all of the money was looted, and the guard in the box stayed there with his shotgun primed to repel boarders. But, thank God, there had been more than enough money in that crate to purchase enough steamed shrimp at Fort Hood to feed the entire hood!

Molly is often accosted by panhandlers when coming and going to work, and while smoking on her break. She has recently learned that some live under the wood deck of the snowball stand across the street and scavenge the change that falls through the slats. Her stories of panhandler inconvenience and rudeness are legion. Lately, one of the most persistent beggars has invested in a guitar, “His tall goofy white ass stands on da cona strumin’ his guitar while da two drug dealas dat owns him stand behind as if dey got a leash on ‘is neck. En dare he is, as I walk by en da drug dealas sayin’ ‘Hey babay’. Dare he is, singin’, ‘I need a dollar ‘cause I don’t know where I am!’. His ass can starve singin’!”

There you go: a sample of the doings and deeds of the ghettoites and the overworked traders that man the Fort Hood Trading Post, exchanging corporate foodstuffs for the variously ill-gotten cash of the Barbarians of The Interior.