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Pakistani Liquors
5/13/20: 4:50 P.M.
I decided to shop at the old dindu liquor stores, run by the Russian and his girlfriend for whoever the owners were. I walked in and priced the miller lite six-pack bottles at 6.99 and the 12-pack at 12.79 and got the 12-pack.
The man charged me $17.18, that is one of two Pakistanis behind the plexiglass shield which did not used to be there.
I thought about saying something but saw the hard scrutiny of the backmost man off to the side, who I took to be the owner and noted an ebon warrior behind me and thought, “This is where white trash gets shot or arrested,” and left.
I got back to the Land Lady’s place and ask her to check on her smart phone what the tax should be and it should be 10% not 25%.
She wanted to fight, argue, call the better business…etc., you know, the entire search for justice in an unjust world. She wanted to know why I didn’t argue and I sapped, “I had a n&%%$# behind me and two sandn&%%!@# in front of me and a precinct full of cops on call who are only allowed to jack up white dudes. That shit is not worth three dollars. I will never shop there again. I’ll walk an extra mile—it’s done, over and now I know that we have really seen the paradigm shift.”
Was a time that J#$%, Koreans and Pakistanis charged Bantus more and waived taxes on palefaces in neighborhoods going from paleface to Bantu. Now that has shifted. They have read the tea-leaves and now know who they can fuck-over and who they can’t. I will survive the $3 loss. I will not survive if I fail to imbibe the rule change they just reminded me of, the social shift I long ago predicted when I saw a Korean charging black kids five times as much for a loaf of bread as he charged me at the same counter.
The reviled merchant class are the mediators of social intercourse, keeping careful watch on who is on top and who is on the bottom and treating all of mankind according to their status.
I know where I stand and know that lurking is a better mode of operation than shouting and grandstanding.
I feel better now, the weakness erupting as anger, instinctively repressed on the spot, purged now of this writing and locked away in the hate hold that used to be my heart to unleash in focused form when the Whiteman in uniform comes for me, his quarry, his target, his feral enemy.
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