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A Mugging Gone Wrong
© 2018 James LaFond
In Baltimore, when a criminal or criminals come to grief the news reporters advertise it as a crime “gone wrong.” Here is one that they did not get to so announce as a community tragedy, as the men who came up on the short end of their own caper were man enough not to advertise their demise.
Luther is a man of another name, whose occupation and previous involvement with government and nongovernmental organizations will not be discussed here. Suffice it to say that in late 2017 recently he was released into the civilian population of Baltimore City. After purchasing a smart phone Luther decided to hit an old bar on Eastern Avenue, the kind of place his old man used to drink at, but was now primarily serving Spanish speaking men who he unfortunately referred to as “fucking wetbacks.” I managed to get over my liberal repugnance at such language and went into the tactical aspects of our interview.
This incident happened almost exactly where my friend Joe was stabbed in the neck by one of three Reparations Recovery Agents, a 2016 autumn attack which likewise occurred about dusk.
“I was walking down a street that runs parallel to Ponca Street up in Greektown—which is now about as Greek as the niցցers I did time with. I was drunk, neglected to move tactically—you’ve got to understand, after the fucking shitholes I was in, I did not frame Eastern Avenue as a war zone in my mind. I know different now.
“I’ve got my face in the screen and I see two sets of feet in front of me on the sidewalk and look over the phone at these two fucking fathead wetbacks. The short one in front is asking me something and as I start to tell him to fuck off the one behind him punched me in the face over top while the fucking worm in front of me is scrambling for the phone, which I lost...affecting a great humiliation which required revenge.
“I was then hit from the side by three more of these fucking wetbacks, so it’s fucking on, Brother. I used to box and held up pretty well, long enough to deploy my knife [draws and presents a seven-inch, tanto-point tactical folder] and open the face of the fucker that sneaked me. I could see his bone as the face fell away—fuck him.
“At this point I’m being swarmed by these fuckers and I’m stabbing—bit bone twice, popped a lung once. I’ve popped lungs before and I know what the fuck it sounds like. That thing collapsed.
“I started fading, not least from the booze and I end up in the gutter getting my head kicked against the curb. But I’m not Freddie Gray man. Those fucking’ pigs tried to kill me and here I sit. I did not lose the knife. I was in the combat zone. So when someone grabs me and tried to haul me up from the gutter I lashed out and cut his leg.
“I would have felt bad, since the guy was a Good Samaritan, but he was a fucking niցցer—fucking blood enemy, Brother. No remorse. No fucking cops. No doctors—no government bullshit. I headed home.
“The three wetbacks I didn’t shank…I heard from a reliable source that bad shit happened to them. But bad shit happens to all of us. What can I say but it’s a bad fucking world and I’m not going down without a fight—I’m gonna step out for a smoke.
Five minutes later.
“You’re still here. Good deal—I’m getting drunk.”
End of interview and the beginning of a bout of hard drinking that emptied two wallets.
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