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They Didn’t Want My Money

This story is one of hundreds Colin Flaherty planned to publish in a book before his death. American Renaissance will post one a week.

In 1994, in Wilmington, Delaware, a black girl I went to school with threw a party. Her house was in a good area, but a block this way or that, and you were looking for trouble. While I was at this party, I ran out of cigarettes and figured I’d walk to the corner store. I made it to the store and started to head back. When I stopped to light a cigarette, six black guys around my age suddenly surrounded me. It was as if they appeared out of thin air. One of them put a gun to my head, and when I told him I had no money, he said, “F*ck you cracker we don’t want your money!”

At that point, I figured I was going to die, and decided to go down swinging. I remember making contact with just one of them before hitting the pavement and getting pistol whipped. The five without a pistol kicked and punched me over and over again. I don’t know how long it lasted, but I remember looking at the pavement and seeing a huge puddle of my blood. I played dead, and it worked. One of them said, “Yeah, he’s dead!” and they left. I got up, soaked in blood, and wobbled my way to my friend’s house. After about a hundred feet, the gang noticed I was alive, and came back at me, this time with their belts in hand. They beat me with the buckles and I was knocked to the pavement, again, and I passed out.

When I woke up, I managed to get on my feet and started hobbling towards my friend’s house for the second time, praying I would live to see my son born. Then a truck pulled up with its high beams on. When I saw the driver’s door open, I dropped to my knees and said, “F*ck it, kill me.” But the driver was a concerned citizen. “I’m not gonna kill you!” he said, before asking who shot me. I was so drenched in blood he assumed bullets had to have been involved.