Under an overcast sky the fat baker—who has closed his retail shop—turns the key to his bakery and sneaks in, locking up behind him like a fairytale pig under siege.

The liquor store, once owned by Inchon John, is well-merchandised by the Sikh proprietor’s two amiable sons. Rather than the stout, gruff, American-hating Hindu who normally works the counter, the patriarch himself towers behind it, his distinctive turban immaculate, his great sweep of coarse beard covering his long torso to the navel.

I select cheap Irish whiskey in a glass bottle and cheap American beer in an aluminum can. As these are placed before him he says, “Good morning, Sir, how are you today?”

“I am good,” I said, deciding to purchase my sesame snacks and sunflower seeds there. When these are set on the counter he places the sunflower seeds thoughtfully in the bag without ringing them up and only charges me for the one snack. We wish each other good day, as he makes a lesson for his sons out of my appearance, that regular white customers are preferred and when the last one walks out that door the plexiglass shields go up over the counter and the life of the business plays out under active siege.

Crossing Hamilton at Harford, I notice that the anchor business location, vacant for these past years, is now occupied by a beauty supply super store, sure sign that the drug gang is the dominant business model in the neighborhood. The windows are decorated with ads featuring the African American beauty standard in women, which is anything but African. These women are so mixed with white and/or Asian DNA, and selected for their slight frames, that the resulting image of womanhood is closer to Han Chinese than anything ever found in Africa. As a serious crew of three gang bangers, concerned only with their business and the cops and not at all with hassling old palefaces, walks by the very imagery of the stunning beauties they spend much of their money on, something becomes ominously apparent. The younger teenage thugs who have gone into the robbery and terrorism business rather than following these older teens in their drug-dealing footsteps are absent, as their day has not yet begun, not like these early-rising 11:00 a.m. dope slingers.

The drug gangs have received much cover from the BLM umbrella for their enterprises. They would never vandalize these images selected to fuel their lust. Not only have all of the exterior posters of these mostly non-African, mixed-race beauties—the representatives of the race that the dominant media believes we should all become—been torn down, but graffiti has been waxed onto the windows behind which the surviving images yet sparkle. The tag reads KNOW, with minimal flare.

Harm City has a new host of gangs; hundreds strong, these feral packs are purely anarchistic, black-identified, African-American, pubescent insurgency cells. Their missions are limited to defying the police, terrorizing whites and vandalizing any sign of material prosperity, even the crude, bottom-feeder businesses that cater to the drug-gang dollar. Inspired by the high school students who fought the Baltimore City Police Department to a draw, these feral savages, walking behind masks, under hoods and even wearing jackets over their heads, are a new element, ignored or miss-identified by their advocates in government and media, who advocate for that which these beast people want not at all, a place in the existing society. Like dogs that see a dying animal they are simply moved to finish it off based on some predatory sense. Ignored by the very evil beast that spawned them, the same corrupt body politic which they gnaw upon aimlessly, these systemically orphaned sub-humans, with no mindful destination, will end up somewhere. It shall be interesting to see where.