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Parting the Curtain of the Lie
Walking on the Corpse of a City in the Wake of the Ascension of Freddie Gray: Part 1 of 5
Megan is a woman I have known for ten years, much more of a Baltimorean than I, a girl who grew up in East and Northeast Baltimore with the system, luck and gender against her. She was being beaten and attacked by white men back when cops laughed at such crimes. Now, at the other end of a topsy-turvy life, she works at a “financial center” in Hamilton, being threatened and stalked by Dindus daily, in an age when all Dindus are saints and martyrs and no sensible cop will raise a hand to them.
Megan has gotten by on heart and character her entire life, which makes her heart ailment especially troubling. Last year, after knocking on her Cedonia door to see if she and her roommates [women, children and a disabled guy] were okay, I had four Warrior Martyrs of the Lie chasing me down the street, their leader calling for weapons as they closed in.
Megan is now moving to the tip of a wind-kissed suburban Peninsula, four miles from the closest extended bus line, in a bypassed enclave, off the Dindustan map. Her daughter and infant grandchild are now teaming up with her to make a go at life in a manless society—for daddy is a Dinduized paleface who believes work is for women and chumps.
There remains the problem of income. Megan makes her living in Hamilton and her daughter works one block from the Media Riot Zone. They must both manage a daily or nightly escape from Dindustan. When Megan asked me to help her move, I was expecting to haul her few bags of clothes.
The financial center closes at 4 p.m., before dark in winter, when the Dindu hunters rise from their Dindu dens. Her daughter would be available to pick her up at seven. That leaves Megan in Dindustan for three hours. She had already transported her clothes and needed me to walk her to the dollar store so she could buy baby clothes, pillows, sheets and various things for the tiny person she calls “Tweet.”
This woman knows Hamilton, and knows well that she can’t walk these streets without an escort. She was also motivated by a morbid curiosity to see firsthand, on foot, what became of her girlhood homeland. There was also advice she was seeking, wondering what ideas I might have for evacuation methods when The Paleface Purge heats up again: what she should do in a snow storm, the safest way out of the city for her daughter in periods of unrest, what streets should be used to get from Hamilton to the interstate when her daughter shuttles her to and from work. Much of this will hopefully be applied to her use of a car as soon as she can purchase one.
Then there was the matter of family heritage. Would I be willing, maybe one Saturday a month, to escort her and her granddaughter to see her grandmother’s old store, her family’s ancient, Catholic church, the Aquarium, the Science Center and Fort McHenry at the Inner Harbor—to get an ice cream cone or snowball without fear that she wouldn’t be able to protect her Tweet? Her life is one of daily death-threats and beating threats by younger, larger more numerous males and females of the Dindu kind. For a person for whom sex would be a coronary death sentence, the prospect of fighting off men and beast women with her fists, as she did in her youth, is terrifying.
My answer was, of course, yes. I trust her to sit down and curl up in a corner with the baby and then give an exonerating report to the pigs when they swoop in, in their Dindu support role, hopefully keeping me out of their clutches.
What follows is a ridiculous amount of Harm City material, collected over the course of a half mile stroll on a sunny, breeze-cooled, Saturday afternoon, followed by a brief chat over a sipped shot of whiskey in my room, in front of this godlike typewriter. But first, there is the ascension of the city’s patron saint to consider…
The first three of the six cops to be tried for the crucifixion of Freddie “Jesus” Gray do not reside behind bars. Indeed, the presiding judge [black] has castigated the prosecution, ripping their case apart. The lead detective for the prosecution [black] wrote notes last year indicating that she felt compelled to relate a patently false “narrative” to the grand jury. The police officers are preparing to launch law suits for slander, etc.
On White Avenue, Palefaces quietly whisper about the case, becoming hushed as I walk by.
Blacks loudly argue the case, becoming louder as I walk by, shouting their arguments from five feet apart.
Every time another negative report concerning Baltimore City’s crusade to lynch three blacks and three whites for the death of one Dindu drug dealer, Megan has customers come to her window and threaten her with violence for the color of her skin, even as she provides their financial service and wishes them a good day.
Half of the hackers [older black men] who have provided her with transportation, have been robbed at gunpoint by young Dindu Warriors.
One of the [black] security guards, whose job it was to protect her, was executed by three masked men only a few weeks back.
She does not want to work in Baltimore, but she is aging, white and in bad health, putting her at the bottom of most hiring agendas.
Even when she gets a car, merely visiting her mother’s grave will be dangerous.
Her surviving brother’s daughters have chosen to be impregnated by Dindustani men, who they insist on bringing to family gatherings, even though these men steal the cash, medication and other contents of the older aunts’ purses while they are preparing the meal for these predatory cross-breeders. In the face of this she plans an isolated nuclear family life in their waterfront haven away from a toxifying extended family.
The young men in her extended family are all drug addicts.
Her ability to acquire male protection is limited to paying elderly black men a small fee to see her to her front door—a task that has claimed half of them in the name of the Hip Hop degeneration—and to call up a never-was boxer for a walk to the store.
I received the call at 4:10 p.m., as she stood on my land lord’s porch, having hired a ride to bring her. I could have walked down into Hamilton and walked her up the hill, but uphill walks under the summer sun are too much for her heart. We will stroll along the ridge line, a quarter-mile wide along Harford Road.
What follows is a middle-aged, urban, paleface, pedestrian saga, that lasted from 4:20-6:38 p.m., on a sunny Saturday evening, at the End of Civilized Time.
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Sam J.Jun 27, 2016

I'm going to say something mean. However mean it is it's still true. Women at one time picked Men a bit more trustworthy. Not that plenty didn't but many more did. As the State intervened and proclaimed Women not guilty of any and all malice in all cases they began to pick Men that were less trustworthy and more exciting. After all what good is a Man that will look after you instead of a Man that makes your loins wet and beats you. The problem being they expect Men to look after them when they're older while they wasted their youth on wild Men who made their loins wet. I can't say as I know what to do about this. Probably nothing to be done but it's worth noting and also it's worth telling Women that we know what is going on with the situation. Maybe they will eventually make better decisions. I wouldn't bet any money on it though.
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