1:05
I awake, late again by hours. Is my alarm clock broken or is it me that has lost his sense of time?
1:13
At Harford and White the driver of the #54 had engaged me in conversation, complimenting my handmade cane, wishing the elderly man offloading in the ghetto a safe night, and letting on a clueless, cashless Indian college student lost in asphalt hell, talking on his Bluetooth to someone in high speed Languid.
1:38
Offloading at South & Baltimore, there were fewer than 20 afterhours partiers backtalking the ten cops in seven cars attempting to herd them under the canopy of the hustler Club to the east.
Two tall, lithe, light-skinned dancers in jeans and sweaters walked away to an UBER with backpacks.
1:45
A crippled old man scrawled west past me in Baltimore, an ebony Smeagle in a Hiphop stage production of Lord of the Rings, dragging an empty handbag, momentarily resting next to me, seated on the brass wall hydrant fixture, literally in my relatively youthful shadow. He crawled off in sidewinding fashion like a hunted amphibian looking for water in a parched land.
A five-man homeless camp on canvas rolled up to sleep on the northeast corner, sleeping in an outward facing watch formation like Cherokee war parties of old.
Must of the junkies firing heroin, electing to squat behind the parked cop cars in front of the precinct garage, except for one, a tall bearded, middle-eastern man, who slammed his head into the corner of the marble-faced 7-11 for a full two minutes before leaning off into the shadows mumbling in loud tones.
1:55
Three chocolate sluts, decked out in cleavage-spilling vest tops and donk-exposing miniskirts, clonking along in high heels, drunk, smoking blunts, cussing in thunderous tones—and pregnant, at 3, 6 and 9 months respectively—howled on by, throwing the finger at the cops [who corralled their cars like a circle of covered wagons] and glancing angrily at any men who might bar their savage way. They had come to watch the strippers, drink and "ged me some gooood dick," but found none, "'cept triflin' limp-dick bitch-sonz."
Thankfully, these wenches had no idea that I had an ebony-certified masters degree in heavy chevy white daddy friction engineering and I was thankfully not selected for what would have been an experience so brutal that—had I survived—my cock would probably have assassinated me in my sleep...
One skinny, shivering black boy stood with me at the bus stop, encouraging me that the bus would come, that I wouldn’t have to wait as long as him, who had been there for an hour, his only possession a bus ticket. When the wenches came by he crouched down in the gutter behind the trash bin.
He posted himself in the middle of the south lane, looking for the bus, seemingly worried that I would fall asleep where I leaned between my propping cane and the marble corner of the vacant stationary store doorway, ebony Smeagle twitching at my knee.
2:05
Then two 25-year-old black men, each wearing about $500 worth of clothing, carrying $400 smart phones, one small and dapper, the other a heavyweight with $400 in braided Asian hair woven into his nappy scalp, walked by eating each a snack sausage, having just exited left from the 7-11 on the corner, like most 7-11s in Baltimore, operated by Southwest Asian immigrants.
The following dialogue passed between them as they pass between me and my shivering usher.
Dapper: “This shit is expensive.”
Braids: “I know, but I’m gettin’ kinda’ nervous ‘bout shopliftin'.”
Dapper: “Me too—and I jus’ sold a thousand in drugs back there!” [pointing to the congregation of cops and drunks with his sausage]
Braids: “You know they [pointing with his sausage at the 7-11] be actin’ like this is they own country!”
Dapper: “Shit’s off the hook up in here—shit ain't right, yo…”
As they walked off and out of earshot and I considered the injustice just exposed by their edifying conversation, that immigrant businessmen are falsely characterizing shoplifting of snacks as theft and frightening the pet negroes of Sissy White America, my shivering usher—all of 17 years and 100 pounds at a narrow six feet tall—said, “Sir, our bus is here!”
As he refused to board first and wished me a good night, I could only muse over the strange tilt the social axis of our dying city has slipped into.
2:07-2:48
The Orange Bus, which had once been the #23, the second busiest bus in the Baltimore Metro area, and always filled wit 45-plus passengers after midnight to 3 a.m., before the riots of 2015, now carried a dozen men, all lonely fellows with backpacks, from 18-60, glancing furtively at the passing sidewalks, jerking their heads at the kid with the handgun sprinting across Baltimore and President behind the cop cars with their flashers on, having run from the direction of Perkins Homes.
As each man offloaded he behaved like an Intel asset which had just been dropped by the CVIA outside the perimeter of some fire base in a wor torn country, head on a swivel, feet padding quick, seeking the shadows.
In a town were bus drivers once callously left anyone running for or hailing the bus out in the cold as the patrons bemoaned his uncaring determination to make his scheduled time, the bus driver—as most nighttime pilots of these midnight refugee trains now do—scanned for people stuck on foot, waited for them or pulled over and picked them up at an unauthorized stop, waiving fares for the destitute, the injured, the clearly frightened, the clueless, the old...
As the shadowed concrete and asphalt sped by—gentrified 500K row homes sprouting between barred liquor stores and boarded up crack dens around the Johns Hopkins complex—we all silently waited our turn to offload, the bus driver giving one last hopeful instruction, like a Jump Master supervising static line drops from a C-130 over hostile territory—and then we'd dart into the night.
2:49-3:07
At Old Eastern and Stemmers Run I offloaded with two others, one disappearing behind me to the south, me hobbling over the concrete of median and curb, determined to get to work before 3:15, with my cane, past the larger, dark-skinned man who offloaded from the back door, limping terrible on his unset and obviously broken left leg, screaming into the anonymous shadows as I hobbled past him:
"Come and ged id' muvafucas!
"Punk bitchez, I was breakin' heads fo yo ho mamma was suckin' dickheads!
"Bring it lille niggas—Heavy G, niggas, Heavy G fightin' back!
"Bring it bitchez—I hates da dick-suckin' whorl!
"I hates you, niggas!
"Come and ged it!"
His voice finally muted as I developed a good, biomechanically correct stride out Old Eastern through the park, a raccoon, easily 20 pounds of dumpster-fed surliness, grudgingly making way as I marched into my shrinking oblivion.
This is how we limp into the moonlit night of our dying world, wounded, scattered, broken men, none of us a tribe to which we might belong, scattered and cast out by Our Bitch Goddess: Civilization.
Under the God of Things
The thing is, Muslims (I assume this is what you mean by "South Asian") are currently Pope of the victim heirarchy, so they can get away with demanding human behavior from ghetto blacks. If a white guy did the same, he'd have every news van in the city parked in front of his place of business reporting on how he'd savaged innocent black yoof.
I think they tried bringing Muslims into Detroit also. It hasn't slowed the decline of the city. The only thing that would is getting them all elected to city council and setting up shari'ah law where thieves have their hands cut off.
I used Southwest Asian to describe a few groups: Indian, Nepali, [both Hindu], Sikhs and Pakistani [Muslim]. In Baltimore the running of gas stations, liquor stores and convenience stores [the three places ghetto blacks buy their gaily groceries] has passed from Greek/Italian/Polish/Jewish/Korean to these three.
The best thing would be to raze Baltimore, disperse its inhabitants and turn it into a hunting reserve. There doesn't seem to be anything there but crime. Right now, immigrants are brought in to shore up the services such as gas and groceries to people who would be better off starving until they cleaned up their acts.