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Poaching Ghost Cheer
A Harm City Christmas Story
© 2018 James LaFond
I was supposed to be at this location tomorrow, finishing a book. But I will be spending tomorrow rolling out for hoodrat abatement duty in the deep suburbs of Baltimore County, 5 miles from the nearest extended bus line, 6 miles from the nearest hoodrat enclave, which means this threat is car-borne.
Emma’s first present was stolen from the welcome carpet by her front door.
Other packages in the apartment complex have gone missing, which is a mystery, as no ebon thieves inhabit these burrows. In this working class ghost place there are no welfare mammas, no section eight dens. Everyone works and has no need to steal.
Then, today, someone stayed home sick from work and saw a car driven by an ebony queen pull up in the parking lot and disgorge six or seven sticky-fingered ebon bucks, just a half hour before the postal truck pulls up. They staked out apartment stairwells and stood, waiting, like dimwitted sentinels, until the police came, found no Identifications and no ability to name a single street name or address in the area. The police made these boys walk on out to the main road and the thugs even had to be directed as to what direction their homeland was in as they began to walk to an uninhabited waterfowl refuge.
So here we are at the end of rational time, with guilty ghost folk wondering why their ebony counterparts do not make certain their adult-sized children are in school, when in fact, the ebony adults keep their children home from the only warm meal they get each day, transport them to strange environments and direct them to steal Christmas parcels until mamma comes back to pick their asses up. You see, Paleface, in the ghetto that is what a white Christmas means, robbing and stealing from your dumbass while you are slaving for The Man.
Emma’s magnetic blocks are coming tomorrow and I will be there to drive off the looters.
We “could” learn from those who are wiser than us, but alas, we don’t live in The World of Can but rather wallow pathetically bleating in The World of Should.
A White Christmas
‘The Sissy-Fication Process’
harm city to chicongo
A Harm City Holiday
the gods of boxing
the greatest boxer
fiction anthology one
taboo you
z-pill forever
menthol rampage
sons of aryаs
Ruben Chandler     Dec 20, 2018

droogs don't run do they bro
LaMano     Dec 20, 2018

It'll be interesting to see if they come back after the bronze has rousted them out once.

If they do, it'll also be interesting to see if they come back after being rousted out this time by a wild pale face with a heavy stick who is obviously not scared of them, and doesn't have to follow any police rules ....

Out in the country where I grew up, when I was about 15 (dad had died last year), we lived a mile from our nearest neighbor. A bunch of local boys fired from the road right past our house and killed a deer out-of-season. Mom came out of the house with a shotgun leveled at them and told them to get away and never come back. No one bothered her or stole anything for the 45 years after that. She was "that lady with the gun ...." Word gets around when you take action ....
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