“James, the answer you gave Maureen is excellent, we build foundations, We add to them through life, you have added to mine, that to me is worth gold, I will work with any man that desires to improve, but we are witnessing males that in my opinion are beyond redeeming. I would like to have a few lessons on knife fighting. I like you, have worked to be a good Hunter, as you a fighter, spent many days afield, still need improvement, my defensive football coach said that your never arrive, you simply try to improve, I think he was right.“

Your friend,

Ishmael.

Thanks, Ishmael. In Maureen’s defense, she is just trying, in her own way, to promote the survival of her race. When she insinuated that I was squandering time training black and mixed-race men when I should be spending time making nice with cowardly whites, I kind of lost it and suggested that if she didn’t like my stance she was free to send some White Nationalist enforcers to Baltimore and that I would engage them in a knife fight. This is actually my fantasy—I’d love to go out in a blade fight. I know, after hundreds of blunt steel duels and a dozen or so edged encounters, that I’m taking at least one with me. On another level I’m still sore about the attempts on my life and my cousin’s life by skinheads in the 80s and 90s and any attempt at forcing me into a race-based political movement is going to raise the white hairs on my back. Furthermore, as a fighter and coach, I have a sacred bond with these men I train and would never betray them for some white faɡɡot who wanted me to hold his hand while he dared Dinduspace.

As for being old and favoring the blade, it is the only way short of guns. Knives do not require strength and specific torsion that bedevils injured oldsters like us. I no longer have the physical prowess to KO men half my age in a fist fight with the kind of reliability I demand of myself in cases of fighting for what is right against evil. In prize-fighting, I never sweated a loss but used it as a learning experience. But when it comes to people trying to impose their will on me when they have no business, the only thing that matters is the finality of the sentence passed upon them, and I’m really only fit to do that with a knife. As long as my hands work I can drag faɡɡots to hell with me.

In a stick-fight, I can still beat most men, even most stick-fighters, but can no longer even touch the top guys. This is due to a sudden lack of dynamic mobility, which translates to me only being able to take out one of Maureen’s boys with a stick before the rest mob me. Until my hip went, I was confident—supremely confident—of beating a mob with a stick. But that was based on a very high level of mobility that most stick fighters never attain. I can no longer do lunging triangles and counter-steps—I’m stuck in the pocket, so need an edge.

When we go on our Medicine Wheel climb, I hope to have Bart along so that he and I could do some sparring on the top. It will only take about twenty minutes to triple your effectiveness with a blade. For old guys I recommend modifying sentry removal methods for face-to-face work.