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Waking Up In Indian Country
Old West Survival Templates that Remain Relevant in the Urban Setting


Summer is coming to Harm City in all of its miasmal glory: 90 degrees of heat soaked in 90% of humidity; the kind of heat that makes people feel claustrophobic about their already circumscribed lives. With the coming of the violent season, and the retreat of the forces of occupation, I have increasingly become aware that two Old West metaphors alternately apply to my survival in the very same space.

Indian Country, has long served as code for ‘patrolled enemy territory.’ In the Old West this applied to specific ranges, though one could wake up in Indian Country if the natives went off the reservation or went to war—largely, as now, thanks to government actions.

Dodge, as in Dodge City, is really a mythic misnomer for a socially violent place, where competitive males fight over honor, money or women. It was, for a while, applied to Miami, over 30 years ago, when the drug war went into overdrive.

In culturally diverse, postmodern urban centers one in the same place might by defined as Indian Country or Dodge, at alternating times, or at the very same time.

Usually I wake up at night and go out into Indian Country, and come home in daylight through the very same physical range in Dodge, where my only real danger is an easily managed social altercation of the unlikely kind. During our late April purge the entire area was Indian Country 24-7.

Negro Country

This morning I thought I woke up in Dodge, but walked outside into Indian Country. Down the street walked a full blooded buck, wearing only shorts, sneakers and a wet wash cloth [I kid you not] on his shaved head, his arms flexed out, his jaw clenched, his chin jutting, and sporting a glare of unrefined menace as he strutted down the street daring any man to cross his path.

The scaled back police patrols have been scaled back the most in residential areas, in the morning, and the thugs are adapting.

It was 6:53 a.m. after I let him pass, and headed down the street in his wake. As I approached the sky blue Church Bus fifty yards from the intersection of White Avenue with Harford Road, across White Avenue from the large stone church [which now hosts more recovering addicts in basement meetings than Christians at service by a margin of 3 to 1] I noticed that, every 10 seconds, the van squeaked, as the wipes pushed across the pollen-covered windshield.

[I am a mechanically disinclined pedestrian. So you gear heads and carjackers might want to leave a comment as to what I am describing.]

Seeing no one within, I passed the full size utility van on the sidewalk under the ‘Lawbreaker Beware’ sign that is spray painted over with a gang tag. As I passed the passenger side slowly I stepped on the cubed pea-sized remains of the window, which had been shattered by a stone from the crumbling wall down at the corner—from which I once heroically saved a stumble-drunk babe who had sprawled across its rubble.

The wipers continued to squeak mournfully every tenth second.

The ignition had been bored out with what must have been the wrong tool, for the metal within the housing was shredded, as if someone had tried to work aluminum with a steel bit designed for wood.

The passenger side seat was covered with the cubed glass beads, some of which have been removed where a person had apparently sat with naked sweaty legs. I surmise that that someone was a young female who exited the van in haste, along with her male accomplice, based on the purse left on the seat. It was one of those cigarette/cell phone/tampon purses about the size of a double-thick biker wallet, made of tooled brown leather and attached to a long dainty leather cord so it might hang just above the shapely hip of the petite hip hop honey. These purses are as essential to the hip hop ho as the telltale ammo pouch of any specific WWII soldier type.

Just like a raid on the livestock pen was a sure indication that a homesteader was on land reverting to Indian Country, this attack is a signal to the recently returned and surviving whites that White Avenue is in the process of reverting to Negro Country.

Example of a Conflict Path

Just like certain trails or traces in the early days of America were literally known as ‘warpaths,’ so too are certain byways in your area prone to concentrate violence. Identify them and either skirt them or be on high alert while traversing them.

An example of Dodge would have been this past Wednesday night, as I walked out of the lower end of the neighborhood, past another crime scene I am about to describe. For some reason, this artery in and out of the neighborhood is a confrontation vector.

I had an undercover cop try and pick a fight with me here when I was writing Taboo You in 2014.

In 2011, when I was writing When You’re Food, two thirty-something white men in a pickup truck tried to pick a fight with me.

In summer 2010, while returning from training, a group of black teens targeted me and began to cross the street in a sweeping attack, until two of them noticed my left handed grip on a case of sparring sticks and my right hand holding the exposed grip of my ash wood bag stick that I keep in the outer slot.

That is two Dodge and one Indian Country encounters at the same time of night on the same stretch of road.

This past Wednesday, on this very same stretch, a small black Nissan pickup was rolling towards me swerving from side to side, as screaming came from the cab. I stepped out of the road and took to the sidewalk, past the litter of juvenile raccoons that were chattering in the gutter and yard.

The pickup did not have its lights on. As a responsible citizen I am supposed to signal to these folks that their headlights are not on. Fortunately for me—as a man leaves his house behind me and heads to his car—I am not a citizen of this or any other society, but merely one of its feral semi-captive creatures, who feels minimal cultural attachment and no responsibility for its other denizens. As the pickup passes I notice that the woman in the passenger seat is fighting with the man who is driving, as he slaps her with one hand and drives with the other.

The creatures are white.

Fortunately, since they are not human, I do not feel any responsibility to aid the woman in her struggle or the man with his safe driving, and continue on.

As I reach Pinewood Avenue the man who is going to his car yells to the driver that his lights are off. The pickup screeched to a halt and an angry subhuman emerges into the street with profanity on his lips—and I could give a shit, as I head to my bus stop.

Obviously, as the suction like confines of The Boned Zone may be accessed from Dodge or Indian Country, all subhuman encounters—with those who resemble me and assume tribal obligations, and those who do not—are potential threats.

Interestingly, one street over from where the angry man exited his pickup to finish beating his wife through the body of another man, there had recently occurred a raid by the savage native youth that roam this portion of Harm City.

One street over, last Saturday night, a woman my age left her honor-student granddaughter home alone to go out to work the overnight shift. Last Sunday morning at least three savage bucks entered the house to rob it—bucks who could very well be associated with those who smashed into the church van this Sunday morning—and ran into this girl, who knew them. They taped her to a chair, raped her with a broom stick, slit her throat, torched the house, and left.

Is that not precisely the kind of attack a community can expect from bands of parentless young would-be warriors set loose among the working communities of the city as the dependents of subsidized two-legged bitch-egg hatcheries with $90 per month housing vouchers?

Does the tragic end of that girl’s promising life not read like a lurid 19th Century ‘blood and thunder’ dime novel tale of an Indian raid?

When Liver-eating Johnson [before he became the Liver-eater] went hunting for the winter and left his pregnant wife, The Swan, alone, and she was butchered by young untried Crow warriors operating on what was essentially their home range, they were acting no differently than these black savages, who were also seeking to literally carve their own tribal identity from the body of an innocent person.

On a strategic level, just as young Crow scouts—who were unable and unwilling to take on the Liver-eater when he went on the vengeance trail—watched his movement, and even spied on him when he returned to her bones to leave the scalps of his Crow victims, so do the savages in your home range spy on you. The unemployed, government subsidized, innocent, unarmed black teens in your community know when the dangerous man comes and goes and who he leaves in his lair. They must be convinced that you are not only too dangerous to attack, but that you are too dangerous for them to attack those you care about when you are absent. I guarantee that your worshipped government that you pay tithe and homage to is even now taking money that it has stolen from you, and is using it to plant violent criminal teens in your community. You might wish to act accordingly.

Young men—even innocent unarmed black male youth—are inherently, biologically, tribal, and will seek their own violent tribal expression in the absence of a true tribal order complete with manhood rituals. Is it any surprise, that, in a womanly society run along female lines, where manhood is essentially outlawed, that boys will appeal to the god Death in their pathetic attempts to become men, and that these appeals—coming as they are from boys—will naturally come at the expense of the weak and innocent?

Postmodern Urban America is reaping the sour harvest that it’s greedy mothers and absent fathers has sown, and Death is grinning.

Add Comment
Ben RumsonJune 16, 2015 12:45 AM UTC

JL - A very old "Army RANGER" friend of Ishmael here. Wife and I just did a read of your article. Very analytical, spot on, percetive, true, current and futuristic read. We live on the "left coast" with the same problem every day - different scale. We carry kubatons always, bible verses in mind, God willing on our side and a few bucks in our pockets for fear of getting rolled when we hit Freeattle. Can't take a chance. Appreciate your cador and vision.
responds:June 16, 2015 9:01 PM UTC

The kubaton is a great little key chain item. The ones with the two knuckle posts are considered to be 'brass knuckles' in some municipalities, and even the plain ones get confiscated sometimes. But I don't know of anyone that has been arrested or charged for carrying the simple model.

I have been going with a heavy pen, or a hand umbrella or rolled magazine lately, since the cops have been tightening the screws in Maryland.

Thanks for checking in, Ben, and have fun in Freeattle.
PRJune 14, 2015 7:42 PM UTC

"They must be convinced that you are not only too dangerous to attack, but that you are too dangerous for them to attack those you care about when you are absent."

How is this accomplished? For starters, you would have convince them that you will find out whodunit if they attack your loved-ones in your absence and that you will retaliate when you find out whodunit. White men have much to lose and are afraid of going to prison. The DA and Media will happily create a sob-story about the dead yoof you avenged yourself upon.

It seems to me that prevention is the best strategy. Do they try to avoid security cameras? If so, it's wise to put them up. Are dogs a deterrent?

What if they move into your neighborhood and the cops are largely disinterested in your reports of their behavior?

Overall, what recourse does the common family man have against government neighborhood engineering using black yoof?

We can be assured that whatever action we take in defense of loved ones or property, we'll be criticized by other Right Thinking Whites. I have personal experience with this.
responds:June 15, 2015 12:08 AM UTC

This is a huge dilemma.

I accomplished deterrence in this manner by taking risky illegal action [which I detailed extensively in When You're Food and Taboo You]. The hoodrats have to believe that you are willing to die or go to prison, which is not too good for your family if it happens.

A dog is a good idea. Having a dog reduces burglary a lot [I forget how much] just as a noise making device with great hearing.

Having a big dog that lives in doors at night does cut down on home invasions.

Visible cameras are not much of a deterrent thanks to hooded sweat shirts—garb of the innocent.

The common family man is screwed—by design. He is harder to control than a welfare mother or a convict behind bars, which is what our social engineering is currently geared for—his extinction is an actual State goal, in my opinion.

I will address this in Hoodrat Hatchery.

My landlord rented to me and for a while one of my fighters—and has solicited other of my fighters for renters—specifically because he believes that having "scary looking white guys coming and going" is good yoof deterrent.

Invite some biker friends over for starters. The only thing that blacks fear more than big mean dogs are bearded tattooed white men with spiked helmets riding noise machines. You ought to have seen them all cringe on Harford Road the other night when The Chosen Sons rumbled by.

Thanks for the input, PR.
PRJune 14, 2015 6:53 PM UTC

" guarantee that your worshipped government that you pay tithe and homage to is even now taking money that it has stolen from you, and is using it to plant violent criminal teens in your community. You might wish to act accordingly."

Yep:

http://www.zerohedge.com/news/2015-06-11/here-comes-affirmatively-furthering-fair-housing-rule-how-obama-will-centrally-plan-
responds:June 14, 2015 11:23 PM UTC

Thanks for the link. I will use it in the Hoodrat Hatchery article.
SMART ASS WHITE BOYJune 14, 2015 2:56 PM UTC

Couldn't agree with you more on the fatherless , leaderless without a tribe young men we see now days !

My tribal ritual came about in the military as a young man of nineteen I learned what the spirit of the bayonet was with: ' to kill, to kill, Drill Sergeant ' . My Father had died young at the age of 27, so I went with the tribe of the military to learn manly skills and to start my masculine journey . I think it helped me become a better person because of it and that the world does not revolve around me.
responds:June 14, 2015 11:28 PM UTC

Men like you are the best argument for our military.

I have a friend who is Swiss, and did his mandatory time in the Swiss Army. There were things he and his father did not like about being soldiers. But when he talks about Americans and looks around at all of the young manginas, Maurice seems to think compulsory military service is not such a bad idea.
IshmaelJune 14, 2015 11:05 AM UTC

James,this is why I sent you the story about Washakie, you know what happens when old men go on the warpath. Ishmael.
responds:June 14, 2015 11:49 PM UTC

Six scalps as proof of his undiminished abilities at age 70!

We need some Washakies walking the earth today.