It was Friday the 5th, under Cedar Mountain, at The Chosen Plantation, where Toki Eric came to visit as I was packing. He brought a husky puppy, an abused female with a lot of energy that played with Toby, the canine HNC of opaque hue, innocently braved the claws of Evil Annie, and wondered at the chickens in their fenced enclosure. My host brought her an elk bone and she was in heaven, at her master’s feet as he spoke to James Chosen and this one.

Eric has long hair, short beard and dresses in black. Next to the seat of his beater, ‘urban assault vehicle” driven an hour out from Everet, a small town near Seattle, is a sawed off baseball bat. He wears a neck razor on a snap cord, and, when asked, he demonstrates the three methods his art uses to deploy this blade. Eric has a young bride and has knocked her up, a woman 20 years his supplicant. For this he gets an ataboy from James and I. When asked what brought him to this part of the country, he confided that his opinions and observations might seem extreme, even disturbing. With this admission James said, “You are in good company. I hate niցցers. They always start shit at work, despite their lack of skill and a work ethic. They either can’t or won’t do the work and blame it on racism when it is noticed. They run the government end of things in the field, making it their business to make building as inefficient as possible, ten of them watching me work. I’ve been attacked by them in California—it was open season, groes always coming for your stuff—my sons singled out for being white in Tacoma and Georgia. Then, when you beat their ass, they call cops, lawyers. My oldest son is attacked by two big gorillas, bouncers at a club, and he puts them in the hospital and it costs me tens of thousands to make that right when he should have gotten a medal!”

The local patriarch having addressed the ever present American taboo, the greatest sin in civic space, to declare disapproval for our dark masters, to laughter, the ice was dully broken. Eric breathed a sigh of relief and confided, “…I suffer from severe Negro Fatigue.”

“The school I attended was designed by a man who built prisons. It had 5 levels and 5,000 students. The Asians and the Jеws were on the top level. Next the gifted whites. Then the normal students. The bottom level was a thousand niցցers and me. I got attacked, and had to fight to survive, every single day. That school was an actual model of the greater society.

“So, I have severe urban PTSD from growing up in Minneapolis, being hunted, challenged, hated by people I somehow offended without saying a thing. To this day, with this three-D printed knee replacement, I still have to do something exciting. I balance that with gardening and home schooling and it seems to settle some itch. I moved west to get away from all of the niցցer bullshit. Then, I discover that the white people, in this utopia, worship niցցers and want to bring as many of them in as possible! You just cannot get away from these idiot shitheads. Still, I never could figure out why they were so different, why they always lied, always attacked a weak or unaware person—why they are the only people that rapes grandma and with no remorse.

“That changed when I took up capoeira. I had done plenty of fighting with mixed results and dabbled in training and was looking for criminal awareness integrated into a fighting form. Capoeria was developed by blacks in Brazil, where my teacher was from. It doesn’t take long to fathom the black mentality after you train it. The entire art is to be evasive, to feign retreat, to avoid contact, even if by cartwheel. This is all predicated on one goal, which is to get the other party to commit to a use of force, ideally reaching, and then to use a concealed razor to cut his guts out before he even knows he is in danger. This is perfectly in line with my experiences with these fucking people in person, sneaking, groveling, begging, shouting, back stabbing—flaming angry in an instant and the next moment praying for white daddy to protect them.

“I don’t know how much is genetic, how much they are like this where they originally came from. I do know, for certain, that when you take religion away from black people, than all you have left is an animal seeking pleasure and weakness, taking advantage by any means and doing harm without remorse.”

I got into stunt work, was a stunt man for 15 years as a way of scratching the itch that developed being in constant peril in a sea of angry niցցers. I was local and regional, never progressed beyond that. It’s like a mafia situation. Even the guys who are making six figures, the top guys, have to sneak on sets and try and insinuate themselves into the process. It is just so sleazy. Besides, I used to do cart wheels, now I’m learning to walk again. There is a kid in Seattle I used to teach who has a gym. I might start to work with him. There is certainly a need for a men’s group around here—a yearning, but a lack of a gathering.

“Do you still drink?”

“Well, I quit yesterday—but since you put it that way, the wagon feels kind of slippery…”

Eric gifted me a bottle of Japanese Toki Whiskey, best I ever had. It was for sipping, but somehow survived only to Oakland, California 5 days later.

Thank you, Eric, for your inspiring conversation.