For my four-year stint as a city supermarket manger living across the county line, I can recall the following, excluding the hundreds—indeed it was over 2,000 I think—incidents in which I had to confront and impose my will on criminals haunting the storefront. This is all part of hierarchal human management and really has nothing to do with my person, as I had basically taken my soul out of my body and set it on a shelf for four years while I put my son through college. I will only note those times I was threatened on the job by law enforcement people, and otherwise stick to my private life, which was basically non-existent, limited to one chick or another picking me up after work, feeding me and fucking me, and then dumping me back off at the place for my next shift, that might last as long as 26 hours.
The only part of this life that was worthwhile was the little bit of fighting and training I still got in and the twice a week dinner dates with my son, where we would try out the next upscale eatery on his list and close the place down, discussing life, business, and even kitchen management with the chef. I dropped as much in a week on dinner as I now make in a month, but it was money well-spent.
84. 2008, Belair and White, night: One of the chicks in the rotation got into my phone—ykes, and it was the psycho! I avoided being run down on the first occasion, her weapon of choice being a rental at that!
85. 2008, Belair and Rosedale, night: avoided becoming road pizza, hailed a cab, said, “Man, forty bucks just for losing this bitch!” and my man came through. I based the Hack Wilson character in Buzz Bunny after him.
86. 2008, Belair and Northern, day: I finally walked up to the bitch at a traffic light and told her I was going to rip her head off and go bowling for hoodrats with it—I said this in front of some hoodrats—and she stopped the stalking, but did not stop the calls until I got a court order.
87. 2009: Belair and White, night: an off duty Baltimore City cop demanded I open the store after hours for his personal shopping experience. When I declined he punched the glass, tapped his badge—as he was not in uniform—touched his gun, and told me he would beat me up and arrest me the next time he saw me on the street—1 black cop
88. 2009, Belair and Kenwood, night: A girl I was dating was giving five of my dollars to this scumbag panhandler who I had chased off the lot for pinning old ladies in their cars numerous times. I went berserk, chasing the bastard up to the county line as he screamed for the police. The pursuit was decided by that fortune in steak I had consumed over the past three years, when I busted a gasket at about the half mile mark.
89. [X8] 2009, Rockville MD, night: This was personal. I did this without pay as a concerned parent of the 18-year-old head judge of this 300-person card tournament. I will not include the accounts for which I was being paid at larger venues later on in 2010 and 2011. I escorted 8 top finishers from a card tournament as a gang—including two Cripps wearing colors, who were armed—waited for them. I managed to bluff my way through the pack of predators eight times with nothing but threats, and a sweater that you would think had CIA emblazoned on it. These are eight five-on-two group-on-group aggressions, the guys I was protecting generally tiny Asian geeks, the aggressors all middleweight and super heavyweight blacks. When I saw how cute the one mother was, I actually wanted to maim one of these guys in the hopes she was into that kind of chivalry, but they kept darting in and backing out, all of them much larger than I. I even had them blocking my people in with cars and pulling out a 9mm handgun and nunchuckas, but the plantation master in me rose to the occasion and I made those insolent negroes mind. I was charged by the group twice, and only had to use one stiff-arm.
90. 2009, Rockville, MD, night: I bounced this seven-foot tall faggot named Xerxes, a college basketball player turned mugger, out of the venue above—I mentioned something about the low bone density of his elongated shins and how important they are to his NBA hopes. I did this right after finding Mark Finn’s book on Robert E. Howard, Blood and Thunder. I’d like to think old Robert inspired me. The owner gave me the book in return for protecting her customers from the D.C. gangsters who prowled around the strip mall.
91. 2009, Rockville, MD, night, a 350 pound escaped field hand charged me at the door in an attempt to break in and take the tournament prizes set aside for the Final Four. His name is Deitrich, he’s a piece-of-shit, Washington D.C. negro, and I’d rise from the grave to castrate that bastard, terrorizing 80 pound kids—you giant puss! I actually stopped him with an extended hand that must have projected my superior Caucasian will into his tiny ape’s brain. He lost his nerve right before I stabbed him in the neck with my only weapon, a real sturdy brass pen that the owner had left laying on the counter after registration. I called the cops twice and they just advised me not to hurt anyone. Breaking Deitrich's will at the door broke the will of the group and they moved off to the burger joint up the road where the cops finally gave them some shit.
Group Involved: 8
Weapon involved: 13