I headed to work at 10 last night. I saw a lone teen who did not worry me. The only lone males who have ever threatened me were clearly insane, and this guy seemed with it. I then walked past two loitering teens and was reminded that since our recent unpleasantness out in Fergusson that attacks against lone white males by groups or armed and unarmed teens have doubled, and that the reporting of these attacks has been suppressed by the police and the media, so there would be no police countermeasures.
Not wanting to become a ‘juked’ police crime stat I changed up my route. When I crossed Belknapp I saw two more youths walking away from me, then heard a crunch under my boot—a used needle. I was on red alert all the way to the bus stop on the main drag about a mile away. What was really bothering me about the night was how hot the day had been. This summer in Baltimore has been so mild that I have been wishfully welcoming the end of this interglacial and the coming of a new Ice Age, so that I might get my Neanderthal groove back on. This summer in Baltimore has been less violent than usual, and it has been attributed to the lack of summer heat. I just figured the raiders would be out tonight.
I waited for the bus on an unmarked stop. The sign had been plowed down by a drunk driver. The bus I do not use passed and a cop did a U-turn. Usually cops—who have never taken the bus and do not realize that they have various destinations—will hassle me for loitering if I don’t board. My bus was late and I was sweating it. But the cop let me off the hook.
“What gives with the permissive porker,” I thought.
The bus was a half hour behind because it was packed—many folks out enjoying the warm evening. I got off in Baltimore County, late for work, and considered catching a connecting bus instead of hoofing it a mile and a half. Two young dudes were sizing me up from under the darkened shelter so I headed off on foot while maintaining eye-contact and they did not follow.
The cops were noticeably absent from my route. I was then considering the fact that, since growing my white Civil War era beard, and transforming from a guy who looked 45 to a guy who looks 60, I have neither been hassled by cops or black youth. Since donning this ugly beard the only verbal threats from young blacks occurred when I was walking with Dom—a younger clean-shaved tattooed muscle guy.
It hit me like an epiphany: I had been taken off the cop and yo boy menu with one hairy stroke of sloth! I am still fit and very aware, so have not yet fallen into the easy prey category of those WWII vets who are being stomped and beaten by black youths around the country during the commission of predominantly for profit crimes. On the other hand, the young race warriors who seek to avenge Florida Skittle and Tiny Teen of Fergusson, wish to earn street cred by beating down white men in their prime.
Just as I was beginning to mourn the loss of my story-generating prey status a roaring pickup truck full of drunken rednecks thundered by as two young white men screamed, “Fuck you fаggot—we’ll fucking kill you—fucking looser!”
Just my luck, the only one of my three hereditary enemies who still thirst for my blood is the pussy wagon crowd, utterly lacking in character. Knowing that whites never backup a threat I did not even check to see if they followed me as I strolled through the darkly shadowed park by the river.
I could see two buses stopped, and that the cops had a massive roadblock ahead. I walked past a quietly insane black man about my age—homeless and sitting with his hand bag as his palsied leg, jaw, and arm twitched and he spoke voiclessly to someone who was not there.
The intersection where I work—a very dangerous intersection that I rarely dare to cross because of the three way traffic and the turn on red sign—was blocked by 10 cop cars. 2 cop cars peeled off to pull over a motorist that tried to get through the parking lot, so I thought it was a drug checkpoint as Middle River has been targeted for drug raids this week.
I saw no shell casing markers like last year when the three young people were gunned down here.
I saw no wreckage.
All I saw was cops.
When I got inside I found out that a coworker’s wife had just been ridden down and killed while crossing the intersection on foot.
Ten minutes later, almost precisely at midnight, a tall muscular young man in jeans and a wife beater with blood running from a blunt force gash in his chin came in looking for a paper towel to stop the bleeding before he went out to speak with the cops. I wondered if he had been involved in the accident. He had not. He had just left his house back in the neighborhood to come to the scene of the accident and was jumped by three innocent unarmed [except for the piece of dull metal they hit him in the chin with] black teens. He fought them off and had no time to discuss the particulars.
His mother was the lady who had just been killed in the crosswalk. My coworker then walked out in tears with his bleeding stepson and his hollow-eyed stepdaughter.
