Click to Subscribe
▶  More from Harm City
The Ghetto Grocer’s Last Trek
A Gutter-Side Abdication of a Low Sort

Some readers have contacted me, wondering if I’ve been eaten by hoodrats yet, not having a way of knowing without my rabid posting. So here it goes

Monday Night, 12/11 to 12/12/2017


I walked lightly down Sefton from my dwelling on Caucasian Avenue, my steps short as my hip was catching, but able to get along without the T-cane, which I cradled lightly in my left at the balance point. In knit hat under heavy canvas coat and hood, my hearing and peripheral vision were somewhat limited, so I stopped every 50 paces and at every corner, and did a 360 degree scan.


Crossing Glenmore and heading up over the ridge which runs parallel to the one traced by Caucasian Avenue all was quiet. Then, to my left, before crossing the alley street of Royston on my way down to the paved drainage that is Northern Parkway, I heard two bruthas arguing on the porch of a house.


I looked both ways before making a right on Westfield as it is a through way from Eastern Parkway [where that girl was raped and butchered and burned by 5 hoodrats two years ago] to Harford Road for pedestrians, most of them young and up to no good. It was clear. For 100 paces I stepped along, hobbling a bit now that I was on the flat. Just as I made a left onto Glenoak, two men, my size but much younger, of unknown race, were making a right onto Westfield from Eastern Parkway.

As I changed direction from east to north, they changed from south to west in time to see me turning.

But did they see me?

By the time they cross Glenoak I should be 50 paces down the way toward my bus stop.


20 paces down the way I hear, “Sir!”

This angers me, as it means that they doubled up their pace to close with me.

I pretend not to hear, continuing and I hear, louder and closer, “Sir!”

I still pretend not to hear and continue, but louder and closer yet comes, “Sir!”

It was the voice of a young paleface. Just as Cooke and Custer and Miles used Indian scouts to hunt down the Nez Perce, Sioux and Apache, when ebony race warriors come into a paleface area they sometimes use paleface scouts.

My hip is no longer catching, but when I turn, I lean on the cane as if it is needed in order to draw the bum rush so I can smash their bones. I am in a white hot rage as I notice that this is a salt and pepper, ebony and ivory, reparations recovery team. The white kid is a light heavy at 5’ 10” and 220, who I have seen around the area for seven years now. His long black hair falls to his leather trench coat as he holds up his hands in a visual command for me to stop as his shorter, heavier black accomplice, in heavy plaid coat and ski cap, breaks to their left and tries to get behind me on the sidewalk.

For any liberal thinkers and civilized white race suiciders who think I misunderstood, who think I am a creep for imagining that they did not reverse their course to deliver a Publishers Clearing House prize to yours cruelly:

I have walked this street for seven years, been attacked by dogs and men on this street, harassed by a pig on this street and have never seen these guys here. They do not live hereabouts. The white kid lives on Hamilton Avenue, over a mile away. They spotted me and turned their south-west zigzag walk into a south-west-north U-maneuver.

As I have written often, one verbalizes with negroes at his peril and only with a group of negroes when one wants to be attacked.

Groups of palefaces are a mixed bag; the rednecks act like negroes and will increase cohesion, and justification for aggression against you in response to verbalization, while the white trash will whine and simper or threaten and argue while trying to get close. As for civilized palefaces, why they’re no longer human enough to be a threat, so no thought has ever been required on my part arranging for their punishment.

With this mixed race pair of idiots I decided to verbalize to prevent my incarceration, for my rage button had been pressed. The increase in aggression against me by young whites has now gone from zero to equal to the predation by blacks since my recent onset of arthritic decrepitude. I’m not a racialist, but the thought that young palefaces have been seeking to do me in purely to relieve some of the emasculation brought about by bowing to their ebony masters sends me into a fury!

As Blackie tries to get around behind me, Paletard holds out his palms in a suppressing way, as if I am some rearing stallion that needs calmed and asks, “Sir, where is Glenoak and Mary?”

I growled loudly, “You’re on Glenoak.”

Blackie is halted by the raging tone of my voice.

“But where, sir?” simpers Paletard.

I pointed up Glenoak as it rose steeply into the dark behind him, “That way!”

He steps closer and his black dog comes forward in a crouch as he asks, with calming hands, “Could you show us, sir? Could you take us there?”

“No!” I roared as I put out a stiff arm at him and stepped back with my right foot and shoulder-loaded the T-cane, with them now within ten paces. I set the arc of the cane to travel through Blackie and glanced at him to determine if I had guarded for a proper stroke and I had. My body is rotting but my time and measure is still sound.

Plaetard was still advancing on me, asking me for understanding as I calibrated the flattening of the neo-African skull with that three pounds and 38 inches of hickory.

Apparently not knowing that I couldn’t charge or lunge, Blackie’s instincts were good, having figured out I was going to beat him broken while warding against his accomplice. He then mumbled “N,n,n,n,n!” to Paletard as he squatted with his knees together almost to a kneeling position and put both hands out before the top of his head, extended as if he were begging mercy from Xerxes at the court of The King of Kings. His steppin’ and fetchin’ “please don’ whoop me massa” antics actually lit a spark of warning in the idiot low Caucasian mind, and Paletard stopped and whined, “Please, sir, could you show us where Glenoak and Mary is?”

I commanded, loudly. Something I have never done in my life, “Turn your dumbass around. Walk up that hill behind you. Walk across it, across Glenmore and walk up the next hill and you are there. The ridgeline before you hit White is Mary.”

I must have woken people in their beds.

Paletard then made a T symbol with his hands and asked, “Like this?”

I barked, “Yes!”

Blackie then nodded to me and saluted and shuffled to put a hand on Paletard’s shoulder and hushed him as he tried to continue the conversation and I turned and walked off, snarling under my breath, toward the bus stop, hoping they would follow so that I could stroke with that cane until my guts ripped and then go to the knife and stab and rip forever.

In retrospect this might have been a hunt for an aged paleface mark, or I may have been asked to serve as a guide to a retarded drug buy. If so, I hope they overdose.


MTA Andrea, the redbone bus driver, inquired as to my health as I hobbled onto the bus, the tension of the encounter having irritated the strained ligaments in my hip and groin.

“I been missin’ you, sir, been lookin’ out fo ya. You Good?”

“Gettin’ along, tryin’ ta make it until Christmas. Then I’m done.”


When he dropped me off in the deserted, night, where, seven years past cops patrolled and a dozen or more patrons offloaded, he said, “Take care out there, sir—don’t let them hoppers run up on you!”

The walk out was enjoyable and time taken, not a soul along a mile of secondary road in car or on foot, other than the Pakistani owner of Gussies Liquors—who is surely not Gussies’ son—dragging in his chained sign and gating his front door as he retreated into his fortress-shop-home.


At the 7-11, two black, 30-something heavyweights with booty sacks [canvas bags used for looting around Christmas time in and around Baltimore] were skulking round the place, looking for a mark. They were paying particular attention to a young white women climbing into her SUV and stopped their converging advance on her when one spotted me. They homed in on me at the corner as Old Eastern bent to Eastern Boulevard, and, my hip now loose and lateral motion seemingly in my power, I simply stopped, loaded my T-cane on the shoulder and watched them closely as they first became tentative in their approach, then backed away, then walked widely round, then headed off the way I had come, still cross-checking with each other visually as they stayed separated by 15 paces, still on the hunt.

Professionals are so much easier to dissuade than amateurs.

I watched them go, not knowing then that this would be my last walk through that nighted crimescape, they my last Middle River night foes.

I was alone, walking through Middle River Park and no headlights ruined my view of the river as the tide rushed in and I saw the Great Egret, which must be four feet tall, standing in the shallows as his prey was washed in with the tide. I have seen that same bird, on and off, sometimes in flight before the grey dawn, but most often standing sentinel in the shallows, there, just south of that eastward bridge, for seven years now.

He is now forever in my mind, lost to my sight, me being one who avoids re-crossing old bridges.


As I got into the first phase of work, breaking down my two tons of dairy freight in the refrigerated meat room, I sneezed and my left testicle caught fire—then sneezed again and something felt wrong when I stood with that case of butter between my hands.

My left nut was now mostly behind the right one, not next to it.

“Just lovely,” I thought.

Since Doc told me that I had two small hernias I had been careful about coughing, sneezing and yelling. In retrospect, the yelling—which I have never previously done—probably set me up for this disastrous cough.

7:57—End of the Road

I finished the shift, did the job and reported to Larry as he stood before his boss, John, who was waiting to discuss some matter—the two men that hired me in this same aisle 7 years and 3 months ago—and handed over my case cutter.

Larry looked at me and said, “You mean you’re done, you’re not coming back?”

“You’ll never see me again. I’ll never work in a supermarket again. I’m shot. I can’t lift things for a living anymore.”

He nodded to me and said, “Good luck.”

As I walked by John, who could not raise his eyes to face me, after 50 years of being beaten down managing the feed pens of decaying humanity, I said, while walking by, “Thanks for the job, John. Sorry I couldn’t finish the year.”

A Matter of True Importance

After I clocked out, I saw that Liz was loading the lottery ticket machine. One of those rare women who went from petite youth to an hour glass middle age, she, understanding that I enjoyed the softer things in life, always made sure she said “Good morning,” while walking behind me to the coffee bar as I rotated the yogurt stock, so I could turn around and check her out. I stopped by the lottery machine, where she stood in her black slacks and white sweater and said, “Liz, I’ll miss watching your fine figure in the morning. You take care.”

“You’re quitting, or retiring?” she called after me.

I waved, and grumbled, “Expiring—I’m out of date, baby.”

34 supermarkets & 3 delivery trucks, from September 11, 1981 to December 12, 2017—over and out.

I still have book completion projects that will prevent me from returning to regular and guest posting until Christmas Eve, when you can expect posting to return to normal.

Thank you for your support.


The Boned Zone: Surviving Urban Predation

Don't Get Boned: The Harm City Handbook

Paleface Sunset: A Guide to Cultural Resistance in the Age of Felonious

Alienation Nation: Surviving Cultural Free Fall

A Once Great Medieval City: 2016: Impressions of Baltimore Maryland

Let the Weak Fall: A Guide to Urban Strife for the Misanthropic Man

T. Spoone Slickens, Inquire

Right on White Time: The Black Spring Manual for Reparations Recover Agents with Justin W. R. Justice and T. Spoone Slickens

The GQ Mugging Inquest: A Study in Masculine Culture

Good Morning, Dindustan!: Urban Life at the End of Caucasian Time

The Streets Have Eyes

How the Ghetto Got My Soul

Rubbing Out Palefaces

Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback

Welcome to Harm City, White-Boy

Dawn in Dindustan

Conducting the Moral Autopsy 0f a Nation

Equidistant Drowning Babies: Confessions of A Virulent Race Traitor

Narco Night Train

The Hunt for Whitey

Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny

Panhandler Nation

Thriving in Bad Places

Kindle Edition

When You're Food: Raw:

A Fighter’s View of Predatory Aggression: The Forever Autumn Press Edition

Waking Up in Indian Country: Harm City: 2015

War Drums: Forty Miles from The Big House

White in the Savage Night: A Politically Incorrect Life In Words: 2016

40,000 Years from Home

Habitat Hoodrat: Yo-Nation: Harm City U.S.A., 2016-17

Habitat Hoodrat: Ho-Nation: Harm City U.S.A: Winter 2015-16

One Soul Under God: The Humorously Examined Life of Columbine Joe

Add Comment
Sam J.December 28, 2017 10:16 PM UTC

"...I will try an address through weight loss first..."

I'm not your Momma but just so you understand you must get surgery for this. You can't patch this up. It will get worse and worse. I don;t know the final effects but having you're guts hanging loose can't be good. You also should try to get on disability. it would pay your way to writing. You could live good compared to how you've been living.
markoDecember 25, 2017 10:46 PM UTC

Time for you to do what you need to do James.

Glad to hear you gave that shit up. Took re-roofing part of my house to convince me to give up the heavy shit.

Finally found my way back here. Been away too long.
responds:December 26, 2017 2:58 PM UTC

Nice to have you back, Marko.

Contact me at, please.
Sam J.December 20, 2017 4:58 PM UTC

I know someone that that had a hernia like I think you have. With your level of income, none, you should be able to get on medicaid. Then you can get an operation to fix this. Maybe you already know this and I'm sure you do but just in case. You have a ripped membrane that holds your guts in place. To fix it they put in a mesh that does the same thing.
responds:December 23, 2017 3:33 PM UTC

Thanks, Sam,

I will try an address through weight loss first- I pretty much gain all my body fat interior to the abdominal wall, so even if I do get it surgically addressed I want to loose weight first so it will hold.
LaManoDecember 19, 2017 10:45 AM UTC

Remember Puran Bhagat, from Kipling ....

".....and the fact that Dewan Sir Purun Dass, K.C.I.E., had resigned position, palace, and power, and taken up the begging-bowl and ochre-coloured dress of a Sunnyasi, or holy man, was considered nothing extraordinary. He had been, as the Old Law recommends, twenty years a youth, twenty years a fighter — though he had never carried a weapon in his life — and twenty years head of a household. He had used his wealth and his power for what he knew both to be worth; he had taken honour when it came his way; he had seen men and cities far and near, and men and cities had stood up and honoured him. Now he would let those things go, as a man drops the cloak he no longer needs."

That's 60 years ... 20 years a youth, 20 years a fighter, and twenty years head of household. More like 10 years a youth a 50 years a fighter in this case, but anyway, SOMETIME it's time to retire and sit on a mountainside and just think, or meditate, or write .... and sounds like that time has come ....
KoanicDecember 19, 2017 5:27 AM UTC

How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!
Al F.December 16, 2017 9:11 PM UTC

How are you going to earn a living now?
responds:December 17, 2017 10:37 PM UTC

Writing is the only reason why I bother breathing, so I will write.
JS RaggmannDecember 16, 2017 4:06 PM UTC

I want to send you a money order, but I don't have a mailing address for you. I should have done so already, because of the value I have gotten from reading your posts over the last two years. In the last three years, my understanding of people in general, and reality in late phase America (The DSSA) has grown greatly. Your blog, among others, has been very valuable in my recent education.

I will try to mention your website when commenting on other websites. Some kind soul on Zerohedge sent me to your website the first time.

I use a cover name here and am using the library computer because i must be careful. Although I am in my early 60's, I still need to work and must be careful about posting on-line.

I think that you are crazy to remain in Baltimore, but if observing and recording the degeneration of Baltimore into the chaos and squalor of Africa makes your life meaningful, then so be it. Reading your observations of destruction of civil life in Baltimore helps me to understand the destruction of America in general. It is also instructive to have the scales fall from my eyes and see that the degeneration and destruction is being enabled and controlled by some hidden hand. Some may think the collapse of civil society in Baltimore is planned by local people like the idiots who have been the mayors and governors in the last few years, but the educated eye sees that they are getting their marching orders from someone else.

Your website must have many, many readers over this country and the world. If 1,000 people would each send you $50 a year, then you could live well on that, even buy some beater car to avoid the street predators, and continue to send us dispatches from the dark world you live. Otherwise, the dindus will eventually kill you and barbeque your body for dinner.

I suggest that you offer subscriptions to your website. Read free for a year; then pay $25 or $50 a year for access. Maybe buying one book also buys access to read. Commenting would cost two books or $50; posting an essay or story would entail buying three books or $100.
responds:December 17, 2017 10:52 PM UTC

JS Raggmann, I am flattered by your support.

I spent the weekend with my son, and he set me up on paypal and patreon.

To donate via pay pal you just need my email address

Patreon is actually a creative site where I have posted free content at, and will post exclusive content for patrons who subscribe.

I did not want this to be a subscription site, because I want poor guys who can't afford anything to have access to it. So we are setting up the secondary outlets I have suggested, including The Crackpot Podcast and Lynn Lockhart You Tube channels, which will end up with donation features.

Lynn will have buttons for all of this set up soon enough over at the BlogSpot.

If you would like to send a paper donation for security purposes just email me and I'll send you my address.

Thanks so much,

BobDecember 15, 2017 2:42 AM UTC

Hernias, even with the best surgery, are often recividist. I hope you're able to get some relief from a change in lifestyle.

I miss the news-trickle of violence from Baltimore.
responds:December 15, 2017 11:46 AM UTC

My intent is to move close to a boxing gym and lose 30 pounds, which would help a lot.

Low crimes and civic misnomers will begin to trickle out on Christmas Eve.
LaManoDecember 14, 2017 7:04 PM UTC

Aside from everything else, I no longer look at grocery stores the same way I used to before I started reading "Ghetto Grocer" experiences.

I never really considered the amount of heavy, cold labor that had to be done; now, when I'm in a 'Food Lion' and I hear over the loudspeaker "Truck at the dock for unloading", it means something to me - cold back muscles, potential hernias, maybe fights on the loading platform.

I look at the yogurt in the cooler and try to figure out how much of that stuff goes through the store. I eat probably a gallon a week of it myself, so it's got to be a lot.

So amid the self-reliance, the self-defense, the breakdown of society, the self-degradation of urban blacks, the head-on-a-swivel advice for staying alive on the street, I've learned a lot about how the food I eat gets from the warehouse into my shopping cart ... !
responds:December 15, 2017 2:39 AM UTC

A supermarket in a good location will bring between 1-3 tractor trailers of freight in the back door daily. These are full trailers, with only one actually being full, the other one or two trailers representing single to quad pallet orders from many wholesalers.

That one solid trailer arrives at night and is sorted and stocked by a night crew of 5-10 clerks.
Sam J.December 14, 2017 6:13 PM UTC

I sorry to hear this. I have health problems myself. It sucks getting old. I had a boss tell me once,"There's nothing good about getting old". He's right. Well you do know more stuff but you're not in any shape to do anything about it.
responds:December 15, 2017 2:42 AM UTC

Yes, the irony of aging!

I have had two readers—both schooling for physical therapy certification—who have sent me video material that should help me recover as a pedestrian and fighter. But as far as lifting goes, I truly am shot.

Hope you are well, Sam.
ShepDecember 14, 2017 5:56 AM UTC

Good to hear your voice, James!
LaManoDecember 13, 2017 10:28 AM UTC

End of an era.

I quit working for a living 3 years ago this week. I still have dreams at night that I'm at work ... I worked for 44 years, doing what I had to do.

But at some point it's time to stop and do something else. I still do a lot of stuff but it's not for a living.

Looking forward to continuations of the postings, and see how it all works out as time and events move forward ...
responds:December 13, 2017 4:15 PM UTC

Thank you, Sir.

Congrats on your release from toil three years ago.

Lynn is evaluating my writing log to help me plot a writing routine that will be most productive.

The hard part is yet to come, going downstairs to tell the man who has not raised my rent in five years that I'll be moving down to a cheaper rental elsewhere.