I must cut the winter journal short in order to complete histories and fictions. I shall hide if need be and not write. Nic, from gutter Guard is here to sell us new rain gutter systems. I have been negligent as a pet yeti and have not checked for water damage under the eves. In the meantime, in order to finish writing Bondage and Carnage, Norns of Aryas, Moonstruck Trails and Aegis, I need to put a fork in this dubious journal.
Trump derangement syndrome is strong in Portland, though some Injuns are Trumper traitors. Ken is thrilled that the Commander and chief might do something terrible to Iran, to avenge the death of a dozen of his good friends at desert one in 1980. He was happy with my arrival as we shared dinner at Golden Dynasty. Ken is the model for the Sergeant in Nat Star—Timejacker!
Ken’s Monologue
I was full of piss and vinegar as a boy of sixteen. But I did not want to follow in my brother’s footsteps. He escaped from garden state Prison in Salem, Oregon. He knocked on the back door and I said, “hey, they let you out early!’ ‘Not exactly,’ he says, and he says, let’s go for a drive. He had a 1954 [forget the model] with two guns in it. I get in with some of my friends and we are having a good ole time driving around with my brother, who would escape from prison numerous times—it was regular pastime of his. He says, ‘Look at that old lady. I’m gonna rob her. Give me my gun.’ I take the bullets out and hand it over. He was caught in short order, of course. But, I did testify in court that HE took the bullets out of the gun and things went more easily on him. I volunteered for Vietnam at 17. When I came back after my first tour at 18,, he was already out.
“That reminds me of my favorite fellow sergeant on embassy detail in Saigon, and my favorite weapon, the only one I could hit anything with, the M-79 grenade launcher, the weapon that Rocky Blyer of the Steelers used in Nam. As embassy marines we are trained on every weapon in the arsenal. They kept the M-79 but mounted under the battle rifle so that every marine could have fun. We were on the roof of the embassy and he bagn randoming lobing grenades about saigon. He was kicked out of the country by the President of Vietnam with a letter saying he may never return. He was a good man other than that.”
I was visiting with Dog Soldier, and telling him about boxing in the kitchen with Paul Bing Ham in Missouri, that Paul was dark and is often mistaken for a Mexican.
“Bro, I know how that Cherokee feels! I was down at the bottle drop, you know where you return bottles and cans for ten cents a piece. I had a big load. They even have security guards down there because tweakers will jack chinks for their shit. My land lord drives me down and he’s waiting outside, and he’s waiting. He eventually come sin and there I am hand cuffed and sitting on the floor while two Ice Agents are running my Tribal I.D. I’m like, “You guys are wasting your time, I’m a fucking Native man—I ain’t no spic. I’m a powwow playboy, come from royal lineage, I’d rather take a beating from a fat niցցer in the joint than pick fucking lettuce for you white boys!”
Dog Soldier’s noted lack of diplomatic skills fails him when he tells them, “Look, I might look half a spic, but I’m fuckin’ Native man—first you take our fuckin’ land with bullshit treaties, then you turn our mothers into fucking half-white Karens bitching about every fuckin’ thing, and what, now, this hatchet face here looks like a spic to you!”
Dog Soldier was uncuffed and released by ICE and related to me a week later, “Motherfucker, I wish your cracker ass had been there, fuckin’ Confederate General and shit… Man, fuck, I’m out of Hurricane… Oh, thanks man, shit, that’s two, three-packs. Cribbage cracker, you up for that without the eye patch with your secret card-reading camera in it?”
In local news, various rapists are none to have been released and are raping women on the street at knife point, and Dog Soldier is all sympathy, “Fuckin’ fat ass bitches! If they weren’t such hogs they might outrun those niցցers! A niցցer with a hard dick can’t run for shit.”
But his mother, Dove, who he describes as “Far whiter than you,” is at dinner with Angela and I and they both, along with the barmaid, all recount tales of cab drivers taking them home form the bar then down a side street for rape. It was during the early cell phone era, so they all bailed, with Angela taking a picture, which she still has on her phone 15 years later of the pervert under a street light next to his license plate. That picture went to Angela’s cock blocker, an X-Marine Bull dyke who hunted the Cabbie down and pistol whipped him. He was a radio Cab operator. Currently a couple girls have also been raped by Uber and Lyft drivers who seem to be illegal aliens using bogus IDs.
Portland murder rates never topped a hundred—not enough Negroes. But violence against women and sissies is up to early 1980s Baltimore levels. It’s nice to see sanity restored, with women once again looking for protection from not the policeman. A very fine young lady, of the sort, who used to scold traditional men for holding the door for her, not only thanked me heartily yesterday, bt smiled and winked over her shoulder as she passed us. She was 5.6”, 130, with wide hips and athletic shoulders, wearing a tight leather jacket and skirt. Dove warned me, “Don’t encourage that bitch. I bought a red truck just for sluts who tempt my honey bunch—got it?”
“Absolutely, my utter innocence aside, I wouldn’t want any harm to come to your bumper—unlike that gal, it’s made overseas.”
“Urrrl,” she growled, as she and her friends passed under my arm, “My man is home, and he’s too charming by half.”
This cracker will be hiding inside and writing until its time to roll.
Thank you for your support.
JL, 2/14/26
