I lived in the middle of a large black ghetto, in Long Beach, California, from 1973 to 1975. Twice a day I had to pass by the corner of Anaheim Street and Walnut Avenue where, on the north-west corner of that intersection, was the “stroll,” for all the pimps and hoes. I’m talking a lavender Cadillac, with Long Horn Steer horns affixed to the front of the hood, owned by the knee-grow standing in the street next to it, who was wearing a pimp suit that was the exact shade of lavender as the car, and a ginormous lavender pimp hat. He was probably packing a Walther PPK, but I was packing a snubby revolver. On a Monday, in the summer, my only day off, I had driven somewhere and was heading home at about 8:30 pm. The sun had gone down but there was still a lot of light. I was in the left turn lane and, to my right, was a vacant lot, which had been vacant since the big earthquake in ’33. I noticed around 25 darkies milling around in the lot. All but two of them formed a circle around two of them, both women, who were in the middle of the circle, engaging in mortal combat, with baseball bats. People in the crowd, men and women, were yelling encouragement to their personal champion, things like, “Kill dat bitch,” “Hit dat motherfucker upside her haid,” and other, even more colorful remarks. From some of the comments, it was clear that the fight was over a MAN. It’s too bad that I couldn’t stay and watch the festivities, but I would have had to shoot my way out of there, leaving a few niggers dead.
So far, it’s just your standard, garden-variety nigger chimp-out, but the two combatants were fat, middle-aged black women whom I’m positive were both GRANDMOTHERS. Two women that looked like Hattie McDaniel, and they were trying to kill each other. Who knows, the man could have been the preacher at their church. Never date a black woman, even if you’re a black man; they be crazy.