“Man, Albakracky is one rough city. I played a show with my old band out there once. A kind a festival thing. While walking around one early Friday night with a couple of friends, we passed a cop with a Mexican gangsta on the ground. Cop had his boots on dude’s head and was grinding his head into the ground. My friend said, ‘Nice day, officer,’ as a greeting and the cop said, ‘This shit hasn’t even begun!’”
“Be careful in that city. There were three or four popo with a canine unit and ARs, rolled on a homeless dude sleeping in a park with his tent setup. They told him to gather and leave and dude complied. Cops decided to flash bang him, which disoriented the guy. He pulled a knife, stumbling around. Cops lit him up, then sicked the dog on him after he was dead, then shot him with less lethal bean bag shotty rounds. Judge said good job blue boys.”
-Banjo, from a text on 10/18/25 as I offloaded from the Greyhound bus at Union Station
The greyhound experience had been mellow enough in Denver. The station attendant is an overweight black woman who eats pizza with one hand under her wig and limps on a cane with the other. Her security guard is a less-lethal armed man of 5 feet, 95 pounds, Caucasian, with neck, hand and face tattoos, and a deep voice for his size. He compliments a deranged, homeless, blond male to female tranny who needs a bra, on washing its feet in public.
The buses, local, charter and long distance, all drive through the escalator cavern under the railroad station, which has a host of light rail coming and going. A fat, black, cripple woman sat the head of the line on her seated walker and forbade anyone to stand within five feet. She was masked. When the bus driver arrived, he scanned her ticket and told her she was waiting for the wrong bus, then sent me up to seat 11-A, which was the window.
The man who boarded to seat in 11-B came on at Colorado Springs and was a polite, muscular Aztec with a light pack. The driver was a Christian who preached civility to us in English and Spanish. The passengers, at 70% of capacity, were well-behaved, with four young crippled women and one older crippled man among them—walking wounded. The Caucasians my age were, like I: shorter than normal, cagey, fit for our age, older and polite—our survival set. A bus handles roughly half the capacity of one train car.
Leaving at 7:10 PM Friday, 10/17, driving on a single highway with mountains dark and dotted with refuge light on the right to the west, and the level lights of a strip of cities and burbs from Denver to the New Mexico state line to the east, visible out of my window, I nodded and drooled: my expiration date drawing nigh in the night. The driver, a strong, bearded man, reminded us that he was not our janitor, was our captain and that we were all made in God’s Holy Image. We stopped at a Love’s and another 20 minute break stop. Pulling into Albuquerque, at the Train/Bus station, he reminded those that were headed on to Texas, to keep our luggage on the bus, that would be serviced for an hour, taking valuables with us.
A tall, lean, bald Mexican/American, at 6’ 2” and 180, stood by the open bay under the bus refusing to leave while it was serviced, as he had a heavy pack of valuables. The 450 pound Navaho security guard told him to step off and that he would “guarantee” his pack. “You can’t guarantee shit!” and it was on. I wanted to stay and watch the affray. But, James Pozun, my boss and “Whitey Massa” had sent me a text: “NIG Colonel said you was commin’ to Alba! Whitey Massa tracked you down, NIG! Don’t you run!”
[He was in town from Selek, Washington helping family recover from illness.]
I walked out along the Morrish stile arched porticoes trying to avoid the various smokes of the passengers, who all smoked, and the vagrants sleeping on the benches. I decided on standing in the brick driveway to avoid this. Then an SUV I didn’t recognize screeched up, almost hitting me and the driver, a muscular man in shorts, sandals and short shirt stepped out and commanded, “Get in NIG—Bad Nig! Don’ you know you can’t escape from the Whitey Massa—
I was trying to open the hatch to put my things in, without success.
“Nig, that’s a door, its mechanical, invented by the white man, let me open that—get in, it is only Four AM and a bar is still open in this shithole!”
I get in as the 30 odd passengers scatter and hunch in fear, eyes bugged wide at my plight, what might have been there’s, as my Master pulled off smiling, “Got my Nig again—how you been Nige? Hope your cribbage skills are up to par, or the Nigerian Cribbage Team will be indentured again!”
“Bro, I love this town—the women, are good to look at, the men are dumb as the day is long—and stoned—I have all of the advantages, I don’t drink any more—except when I do, and then only Vodka, none of that devil beer or barley corn—drinking your Potato Niցցer plant! Woowoo!”
“Off to the Indian Casino, Bro, they got no reason to scalp us anymore, thieving Injuns! You still packin’ a squaw, drafting treaties between your Injun kin up in Portland. We meeting the Colonel for breakfast. Till then, I’ll show you around this place. There is so much construction along Rio Rancho, a city of its own, cops, crossin’ the line right here. They must have tapped God’s own well to get all this water—nothing like shortsighted planning for prosperity. These houses are a million. Look, the mafia guys by this land on the cheap, scrub, then put in the sewers, the water, the electric, all ready to go, pave the streets, Vista that, Vista this, Vista whathaveyou, with the usually American lack of imagination, that you can attest to, you runaway Nig! Look, right here, see that curb and gutter to nowhere, where I’m gonna piss while you protect my vehicle with your life—someone buys a lot and they bring out the saws and cut the curb. All concrete, block, brick and stone. The landscaping, nothing that burns. All HOA—you pick your model and they build it, tweaking it all within the HOA guidelines—a bug farm for rich men. There is going to be lonely trophy wives, left at home, watching that first wrinkle crack—and I figure, you as the pool boy and landscaper, and me, Johnny on the Spot with the uneeded repairs!”
Another two hours of my low energy meeting with this supernova high-rise construction ramrod, offered a couple more nuggets, “These fuckers don’t want me to take off a week each month to come take care of The Geeze [dad]. So I got notes from his doctors for family medical leave and I’m stuffing it to them. Whitey Massa might be off a year, Nig! Where will you run too then. I might show up in blackface in that horrible city that coughed you up! So good to see you, Bro!”
He then showed me the picture of a folded up sedan in Seattle, at an intersection, “Look at this, Big Red [Ford, 450 Diesel, 1998] took out this Mex. The guy stops, has no turn signal, no break lights, no insurance, no I.D. here illegally. A lady cop sees the wreck, I plowed his ass. She calls a real cop, a Fifty-year-old white man, who shows up and is going to let this guy go. I said, “Bro, DO YOU’RE JOB! If it was me, and I was uninsured, on an expired license, with no I.D., you would impound my truck and maybe lock me up.”
This cop said he didn’t see this man as any threat, which implicitly means that my cracker ass, paying 50K in taxes a year, is the threat. Fuck him. He cited the report falsely, actually wrote that he saw the accident when he had to be called to the scene. I’m going to court and burn his ass—try not to cuss out the tranny-dyke judge; Whitey Massa gotz ta get out of Washington, Nig. Don’t think you can run and hide, I’ll sick Toby on your ass—wish I had him in Big Red to lay the enamel on that non-driving Mex who is more important to this traitor country than I am… Hegstaff, bro, Hegstaff for president—let’s have a civil war: Jimmy, you can carry my ammo!”
We had a nice breakfast.
