Ken the Kang and Boomer Fred

Our junk, or shacks, our asphalt tracks, our concrete streets are all aspects of our divine space wherein the Faith of Civic entitlement and ancestral guilt hover like Apollo Helios in his shimmering aspect about the braided head of Delphi’s drugged, bimbo Pythea. Our civic space is our holy place, where we worship at the altar which has swallowed all others, the altar of consumption.

So today, on the way to Boomer Fred’s Baltimore County digs, the bus drove me through a construction site in Whitemarsh, Maryland, where five six-story, hotel sized low income housing projects are being placed dead center in the middle-class urban flight zones where two generations of Baltimoreans have fled from the seething urban crime of the Citay. Each of these buildings is a barracks for the invading forces of occupation being removed from Baltimore City to make room for hipster homesteader bug people to serve the dark lords 30 miles down the rushing road.

Here lives Boomer Fred, a father of four daughters, injured, retired, guilty, nearly expired. The eldest girl lives with a working paleface in rural Pennsylvania, the two fled rather than be dead.

The three younger girls are all hoodrat incubators, impregnated, owned, and abused by Knights of the Master Race.

Fred wants to keep the family together and has the slacker sperm donners who hate him for the terrible guilt of his race over for dinner.

Yesterday, for Sunday dinner, when the youthful incubator showed up with her knightly master, the Ebon God, Kenny the Kang, insisted on calling Fred’s daughter vile names, threatening Fred’s wife and otherwise disrespecting Fred in what might once have been imagined as his house.

Fred is flummoxed, wondering if he should have a fatherly talk with Kenny the next time he visits, suggesting decorum, perhaps going so far as to suggest that Kenny should not scold his daughter as a bitch and a whore in his house.

It was painful to be regaled by the old friend about his fall from knight to serf and the elevation of a member of the race who had hunted him in the streets as a youth into his honored place.

What was more painful was Fred’s guilt-mired lack of appreciation for yesterday’s incivility. He actually thinks this young man attacked his daughter and his wife out of some lack of impulse control, some quirk in a parentless upbringing, when in fact, an intact and unguilty paleface could tell at a breath, that Fred had been usurped from his throne, stripped forever of the dignity of the only office he has ever aspired to.

So withers a wretched folk in the civic space of America, the Cemetery of Races.

The next Harm City post will be an addendum about Ken the Kang and Boomer Fred.