Narragansett Pier After Midnight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

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In the heart of the “sanctuary” province of Narragansett Town lay the section now creatively titled District 1, once a bustling metropolis, now a shadow of its former self. The district’s decline began subtly, with the closure of the steel

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mills that had been the lifeblood of the local economy. As the factories shuttered, the vibrant glow of prosperity dimmed, and the streets, once alive with the symphony of urban life, fell silent, and sprouted tents.

District 1’s architecture, a blend of art deco skyscrapers and Victorian townhouses, stood as a testament to its golden age.

The grandeur of the past was etched in every facade, but the glory days were long gone. The city’s parks, which had been the lungs of the community, were now overgrown with weeds, the fountains dry and cracked. The town authorities had still not cleaned up the volumes of garbage left by the tent dwellers who had been chased out after the last illegal alien slashing of a White third grader. They probably considered the garbage to be a detriment to the return of the tent people, sometimes called CHUD.

The downtown area, once the crown jewel of District 1, was now lined with boarded up shops and empty cafes. Theaters that had premiered golden age films were now home to nothing but memories, dust, and patrolled by dark smelly hookers rather than cops. The city council, plagued by corruption and mismanagement, had failed to stem the tide of decay. Indeed, they found it personally lucrative to enhance and exacerbate the rot.

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Understand that while not non-existent, it was not necessary for an official to line their pockets with direct bribes. Rather, it was businesslike to form ventures with which the government contracted to supply food and housing to illegal aliens. That the government, through no bid contracts, assigned the

“franchise” to an entity they controlled at a rate of double the cost, was not anything the taxpaying citizens could legally challenge; only something their rising taxes would have to pay for.

As the years passed, the population dwindled. Those who could leave, did, in search of better opportunities. Those who stayed were either too dumb, lazy, stubborn, or too poor to move; leaving them and the benefitting illegal aliens, who had been successfully trained by those who control the main stream media to hate the remaining Whites, as oppressors, ostensibly ignorant of the simple fact that these were the people who were paying to house and feed them. Perhaps more curious about how things will end than interested in doing what it takes to stave off the end, they merely watched and virtue signaled as they were personally systematically squatted, swatted, potted, rotted, and sotted while their city slowly succumbed to the ravages of time, governmental crime, police de-funding and neglect.

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Yet, amidst the obvious decline, there was an obscure spark of defeatism. A group of artists and visionaries saw inevitability in the ruins. They squatted and transformed abandoned buildings into studios and galleries, breathing new death into the desolate spaces. Graffiti murals began to appear on the walls of decrepit structures, telling the stories of District 1’s past and expressing hope for its low-end-egalitarian future.

The city’s youth, inspired by these acts of destruction, and champing at the bit to defy their foolishly supportive parents, started grassroots movements to wear out their home. They organized garbage-ins, uprooted “racist” gardens, and held community lootings to bring the people together. Slowly, the asshole of the city began to throb again.

District 1’s story was far from over. The city, like an ostrich, was preparing to dive into its own ashes. It would not regain its former splendor overnight, but with each small act of decay, it was taking a step towards a new blackout.

The narrative of Narragansett Town’s District 1 is a tale of loss and hope, a reminder that even in decline, there is the potential to make a bad situation worse. Artistically, it is much easier to destroy rather than create, though the untalented assure us that the seeming duality is equally burdensome to both

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sides. Sigh. They would emphatically state that to paint “The Starry Night” was no more difficult than burning or throwing packets of fast food ketchup at and on it. It is a long journey, filled with challenges, but the spirit of the city endures, carried forward primarily by the hearts of its criminal illegal alien inhabitants and the fashionable resident “artists,” the sons, daughters, and blueing whatevers of financially supportive parents still trying to buy a true love that is non-existent in parasites.

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