We sat at the bar, each of us with our back to an exterior door, watching the other’s back, last Sunday afternoon, in the last bar in Baltimore City which I know caters only to whites.

Luther winces at the beer prices, “This bar is okay, but three-dollar beers is a bit much.”

“I don’t drink here alone, Luther. I determined that this was the only bar in Baltimore where I would not have to worry about you going at it with our hereditary foes. They don’t have draft, don’t serve whiskey, won’t put ice in your beer, don’t carry the ghetto brands and keep their prices higher than the other joints. That’s the only way you keep a bar dindu free.”

Luther snarls, “Oh, I can think of another way, a better way.”

“Dude, anytime you’re ready to go to war against the U.S. Government for disciplining their pets, that path is wide open.”

By this time the owner of the print shop three doors to the left has entered and left over a dozen times and Luther was beginning to go into combat mode—knew something was up. I told him I was watching the guy over his shoulder and knew him and that he was harmless, that he lived above his shop with his mother and came here regularly. The barmaid then began yelling at the man who paced nervously and blurted, “Two blacks have been standing outside my door. I can’t get in without letting them in. They just stare at e and won’t leave. I called the cops and they say they’re here but won’t come out front.”

The entire bar erupts, “Don’t let the pigs in here!”

Everyone at the bar has done time or has friends who have been killed by the pigs. Brent comes in from smoking out back and says, “They’re some fucking pigs in the alley.”

The shopkeeper scampers out the back way and the cops, afraid to confront the two ebony sentries at his door, stand guard as he lets himself in through the back.

The state of our manhood has been tried and convicted in a prejudicial court.