There’s an old saying in Baltimore about white guys in the city. If you see a white dude walking with ten black guys, watch out for that guy, because you may not want to know what he did to be accepted by them. Speaking of how white dudes get picked on in the city, there was this fight club we had going when we were seventeen-eighteen, our last year of school. My friend Lander and I were heading over there after school. Lander was a karate guy—Shorin Ryu—but knew it had limitations, so boxed to shore up the weak spots.

Lander brought this white dude with him. I knew nothing about the guy, can’t even remember his name. Lander is fixing this guy up with a girl we know and white dude guys to get something to eat at the Chinese joint. He’s got his tray and there is this group of black guys—about our age—hanging around. One of them—and I have never seen shit like this before or since—puts his entire hand into his General Tsao’s chicken, sucks down the handful and is standing their licking his palm and sucking on his fingers. Of course, he’s got three friends standing behind him egging him on. I don’t even know this guy and I’m wondering what to do, and this guy takes his tray and smashes him in the face with it—like some prison shit—sinks a punch in and the guy is falling back with this startled look on his face like he knew he had messed with the wrong guy. The white guy follows him with a combo and the guy is laying their looking up at his friends like he could use some help.

The white guy is standing there ready to go with these guys, like in a movie. And even though they had possibly put him up to it and didn’t do anything to discourage it, they just looked down at their buddy like they didn’t know him and walked off laughing at him.

Now that was funny.