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Ken & Barbie Goldenskin
Impressions of Post Apocalyspic Bust Bowl Life: Denver to Utah 9/12/2022
© 2023 James LaFond
Before I continue with my impressions of Implosion America from Salt Lake City to Oakland, California in this, the Third Year of Our Lord and Savior Floyd, I need to give some context. I was saving the following tale only to use as a starter for a science-fiction novel. But it fits very well here, too well to neglect.
On the train from Denver to Salt Lake City in August tourists began to return. This included an upper middle class mulatto WIFE and hushband. This queenly woman was deeply offended at my bald, one-eyed pale presence across the aisle and summoned the conductors, two young white men, to negotiate an upgrade in their seating. I was never mentioned, though she pointed and nodded at me as a menace to her, even though I had in friendly wise assisted her husband in boarding.
The two conductors insisted that they were the hushband’s brothers, fans of the same college football teams, graduates of similar universities, and coming from law enforcement families, just as he was military. The new conductor in training from a Delaware law enforcement family kept eye fucking me hard as I pretended not to notice that I was the terrible presence that they had been summoned to negate. The handsome couple, and they were that, a Ken and Barbie of their golden-skinned kind, insisted on being seated with the upper middle class white tourists they had met at the station who were now in the next car up.
This change in seating arrangement had been demanded for an hour, by the WIFE queen from the dark-skinned Chicongo matron who was the car attendant. As Ken Goldenskin begged the dark matron for an upgrade, she calmly explained that she was not the adversary, that she was following directions, that cars were loaded according to destination and those empty seats in the car ahead were scheduled for someone.
Then Chicongo Queen noted, “Oh, oh! I see somebody gots an attitude with me, don’ she!” looking at the boiling, fuming, Barbie Goldenskin—and it was one like glue-on nail kong. Both women invoked the invisible White Master, one of THE RULE and the other of THE CLASS.
Both bitches threatened the other with the White Man. The attendant, who was in the right, that the White Man’s Rule, which she was just enforcing, would back her up and these high class light-skinned demi-negroes would stay put in their assigned seats. Barbie Goldenskin demanded also a reckoning with The White Man, and she got it.
The matron sensed that her service to the White Man and his strict Rule would be punished in favor of class solidarity and beauty, for the couple was handsome and spoke standard university English, while she spoke like a woman from her home town of Chicongo.
The hushband, Ken Goldenskin was sent forward for the conductor, even after the matron had paged that White Man of Rule to the back car. At this point, I still thought this was not about me, but about the fact that this was the last car and that other than Ken and Barbie Goldenskin, we were all working people, with 26 on the car being Amish. The car ahead had vacationing upper class whites, not elites like in the sleepers, but uppity ups of a kind who had been worshiping these two people in a spasm of negroidolatry back in Denver.
The attendant, was old, unattractive, overweight and upset, in an Aunt Jemima porch panic that her two cars of people were going to think she was some kind of tyrant. Since the entire nearly full car had been listening to this, she took her case public, walking down the aisle:
“I am not the enemy. I am not trying to maintain control. I’m here for you all. You need anything, I gotch you. I clean the bathrooms—if dey a mess, holler. We got rules on the train that I don’ make up. You’all seated on this train based on where you headed, this car to Salt Lake City and the next car up to California. This train is sold out. There might be seats empty, but dey slated for someone who is gettin’ on ahead, and they need a seat.”
Barbie Goldskin was stewing and mumbling and seething. As Ken returned she hissed, “Oh, she trifling!”
He soothed, “Baby, the conductor is commin’.”
The attendant, almost in tears, my dark heart going out to her, almost broke down and cried, “A course he commin’, I paged him,” and backed out of the train, was hugged by the senior conductor, a man in his late 20s, as the conductor in training posted up on me like a bar bouncer cornering a drunk who had thrown a glass at a stripper on stage. All I had done was help Ken with a question he asked about luggage, as he had assumed me to be an older Army vet. But after his wife noted my unapologetic tone, speaking man to man, rather than as guilty to godly, she had hissed at him to cease speaking with me.
I had even walked forward with him to the viewing car to show him where the cafe was.
Still, I thought she was just a bitch keeping her man cut away from other men, until the double team of conductors he had personally talked to in a car ahead, treated me, sight unseen, as a big city cop treats white trash on sight, as a bust ready to be made, begging to be cuffed.
As Ken declared his military and university and football pedigree, and the conductors did the same, and the one with the short black beard, eye-fucking me, spoke of his deep law enforcement roots, I was put on notice with eyes and body language, that I was being watched, that I, white, masculine, alone and not begging forgiveness for the condition of my birth and belonging to no sports, or government or university network, was to stay in my place.
This was reinforced a half hour later when the conductors had returned from moving Ken and Barbie Goldenskin forward. They returned, glared at me, and laid down rules for going to the public viewing car, that due to the beautiful scenery and the sold out train, that we would be sent up in one hour shifts with timed vouchers. The lead conductor then said, “If you want to go to the viewing car, raise your hand.”
We all did.
I was the first person on the front of that car, habitually taking the seat that nobody likes because of the light and the noise at night. The lead conductor looked away from me as his wing man eye fucked me, and I was not given a ticket to go forward.
I did note later that four other persons were not given tickets to go forward. The Amish and the people of color had all been given these informal passes. Myself, and three younger, lone, working class palefaces, had been excluded from the public car.
Later, when I walked forward to get a coffee, I noted that Ken and Barbie Goldenskin were the center of a racial worship circle, surrounded by six upper middle class college educated whites, who laughed at everything he said and the women constantly complimenting both of them on their physical beauty.
This experience had in August informed my view of the changing world I would journey through this October, a mere ten weeks later.
Poor Ken Goldenskin, slave to a cu’łt and jester to soulless ghosts with no morality or essence beyond unearned guilt to guide them through the night of their own extinction. I pity him almost as much as the train attendant, betrayed by her white master for a younger, prettier, lighter-skinned woman.
Real History Month
hobo history
America Tent
america the brutal
orphan nation
the gods of boxing
song of the secret gardener
winter of a fighting life
broken dance
solo boxing
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