Chapter 1 --- Social Justice
The "Honorable" Louis Farrakhan wiped the sweat
from his brow. It was time to give the signal. This
was the time and it was his role to explain to his
people what must be done. He surveyed the
audience from behind thick lenses. Strong , angry
youth packed the bleachers. They all wore
identical hoodies and their faces bore the same
grim expression.
"My Brother and Sisters, let us look closely at the
order within the seeming chaos. A holy chaos
which Allah has prepared for us. This is not a time
to mourn, not a time to fear; this is a time to trust.
We must trust each other first and foremost. We
must trust our black brothers and black sisters, for
we know that the days of the white devil are at an
end. Yes, the End of Days is here." The youth
were all African-Americans. They nodded
vigorously at the words of their leader. The
tension in the air was palpable. He continued:
"The End of Days is the time when Allah
pronounces His judgement upon the white devil,
the mischief maker, the sons of the evil one. It is
the end of their day, not ours Brothers and Sisters!
For six thousand years, the white devils have
ensnared our people, enslaved our people, raped
our people! Now, I am giving the sign. You heard
it here first! It's time to end black on black
violence and direct it to righteousness. Your anger
has been misdirected. For too long the whites
turned black on black, given us crack, mass
abortion, slavery, dependence, illiteracy, syphilis,
and degeneracy. Now it is time to throw off the
chains and to take back what WE built!" He
slammed his fist on the pulpit.
The crowd cheered its assent, for America was
indeed theirs. This was their promised land. The
Transatlantic Slave trade was a Trojan horse, for
Allah had planned all along that the Black Man
would triumph over the present world darkness.
The suffering of the black man was put into a
broader historical context that night, and these
young men saw themselves not as thugs or
criminals but as liberators, soldiers, and heroes.
Again, the race demagogue wiped his glistening
brow. The room became silent, expectant. "Even
now as I speak, our people are being liberated. All
the prisons are opening their gates and the streets
of America will soon run red with the blood of the
White Capitalists, blood which they first drained
from our ancestors!....."
The soldiers were told overtly what had been
insinuated in the mass media for decades. The
genocide to come was not spontaneous. They
never are. These children were born to hate the
Infidel, to kill the Infidel, and to inherit the New
World. A world with New Rulers. The way it has
always been: Total slavery for all.
The message they recieved contained an implicit
directive. It instructed them that the American
Mind must be erased, that American
Exceptionalism is a failed, idealistic experiment,
for humanity is not upwardly mobile--it's a
kneeling, grovelling animal. For the goals of racial
fascism and world totalitarianism to succeed,
Freedom must go to Hell.
The Soldiers of Allah were supplied with
machetes, m-16's, and marijuana. Their appetite
for the coming struggle wasn't the selfish,
small-minded hunger of the looter or thug. No,
their zeal stemmed from the righteousness they felt
for finally doing justice to their ancestors. This
was Social Justice, and it was ordained by the
truest and severest of all Judges, Allah.
Chapter 2 --- Black Friday
Whether the flash mobs brought the violence or
the violence brought the flash mobs, the results
were the same: random carnage orchestrated by
mass-text message via government issued
Obama-phones. As to the originator of the
hate-texts was King Samir Shabaz, leader of the
New Black Panther Party acting at the behest of the
Department of Social Justice (the restructured
Department of Justice, courtesy of King Obama's
permanent cabinet).
Alex was not a mall goer and even on the rare
occasion when he had the money to purchase new
clothes, he tended to buy from Walmart. Prices he
could afford, basic designs, nothing gaudy, and
most of all, he could avoid the strutting peacocks
and trendy mall-punks. He located three matching
pairs of non-pleated black slacks. He was alone,
which was unusual these days for "crackers." He
knew he ran the risk of getting beaten up but that
was unlikely. First of all, the black flash mobs
don't attack the younger white males; they tended
to go for the weak, the elderly, and females.
Second, Alex was still in denial that these
increasingly frequent events were evidence of a
race war. This was America afterall. The least
racist nation on earth...at least it seemed so before
King Obama was enthroned by George Soros and
the World Illuminati Network (the WIN).
Making his way to the self-checkout counter, he
noted a swarm of youth entering from both the
entrance and exit doors, blocking any shoppers
from leaving. Oddly enough, they appeared to be
inspecting bags. Alex scanned his purchases and
paused when he heard a scream followed by
shouting. The youth were confiscating bags of
purchased goods from the shoppers and a blonde
haired, blue eyed pregnant woman was on the
ground screaming as several of youth were
dragging her away by her legs. Another youth, an
exceptionally large male in a hoodie picked up her
husband by the neck and threw him down
roughly, yelling, "This is for Trayvon! We're
gonna kill your cracker ass baby!" A blood
curdling cry could be heard above the din as the
youth mob flooded into the store.
Alex's instinct was to help the people being hurt
but his reason took over. The mob was
single-minded entity and had all the legal authority
to conduct its business. To oppose the youth mobs
was to risk incarceration if not worse. Shopping
carts were overturned, children and their parents
terrorized, televisions were carted out the the door,
and all the while, the youth took every opportunity
to beat up the shoppers to the unanimous battle cry
"THIS IS FOR TRAYVON!" Alex ran to the
sporting goods aisle, two youth hot on his heels.
He looked up at the security camera, imagining the
NSA spies tracking him, daring him to resist. He
understood that to not accept the "beat down" to
come was to risk being dragged out of his
apartment in the night and charged with "terrorism"
and "resisting social justice."
This wasn't the first such mob attack to occur---but
the media blackout made the sheer extent of the
problem an open secret. To mention it was to be
accused of racism, which meant re-education if
not forced labor. Alex was fed up with the tyranny
of political correctness.
He grabbed a Louisville slugger and about-faced
as the two African-Americans in hoodies closing in
on him. They both bore striking resemblances to
King Obama---had his highness sired male
progeny, they would undoubtedly look like these
two youths.
He swung that bat twice, hitting two home-runs.
He trampled over the unconscious, bleeding
bodies and sprinted to the door.
The mob was busy looting and all around the
non-black victims lay bleeding. Alex was
determined to check upon the pregnant woman
who was initially dragged away. Her husband was
rolling on the ground clutching at his broken legs.
She was lying still in the corner, her clutching
herself and staring blankly at the wall. Two youth
stood over her jeering, one saying to the other,
"Heh...White girl bleed a lot." She wasn't merely
staring. She was dead. Alex crept up behind the
two sadists and went to work with the Louisville
slugger.
The metal bat rang like a bell as it slammed into
skull. It rang like the Liberty Bell itself.There was
no turning back. The counter-revolution had
begun.
Chapter 3: Bash and Slash
Reverend Al Sharpton addressed the camera, his
final address before tomorrow's One Hundred
City Protest. This video missive would be on
every Obama-phone simultaneously and would be
the catalyst for the inter-racial violence which
would justify the response by FEMA, which he
and the other black leaders sought. Their goals
were consistent with the W.I.N.'s agenda.
"Brothers and Sisters, it is apparent that until as
many white teenagers die as do blacks, society
will be an unjust society. Blood for blood, life for
life, for every Trayvon we know about there are
many more which have gone unnoticed over the
past four-hundred years."
The reverend's stark white hair slicked back with
three ounces of Murray's Superior Hair Dressing
Pomade imbued him with the dignity and gravitas
of a man who has seen death, war, poverty, and
hopelessness. He was bigger than Nelson
Mandela. He was even bigger than Morgan
Freeman. Yes, the reverend's time had come.
Watching this video, one might think that the
reverend was himself a former slave. His was the
most indignant and rightous face to ever grace
cable network news.
"Now is the time to throw off your chains! For too
long we have allowed the devils to oppress our
people. From this day forward, we must not allow
a single Caucasian to wield the power of white
privilege. No more will wicked Jew devils like
Zimmerman stalk our babies through the streets,
lynching the best and the brightest of our young.
No, those days are over. Now, it is time take back
what is ours, what is owed to us!"
The video ended with a still shot of Revernd Al
Sharpton, Jessie Jackson, Eric Holder, King
Obama, The Honorable Louis Farakhan, and King
Shabazz, all marching together, their right fists
raised up in defiance of white power and
institutional racism. As it concluded, a voice-over
gave the final call to action:
"When you march down the sidewalks tomorrow,
remember, we are marching with you. No one will
stop you, the police will not dare stand up to any
one of us. Walk as the Kings you are! We are not
slaves, we are the original race, all the others are
de-evolutionary spin-offs. We are the new school,
they is the old school..."
***********************************
It was obvious to Alex that wherever the black
mobs were gathered, the police were absent. Thus,
he was able to leave Walmart, bloody baseball bat
in hand, and drive away without any fear of being
caught for his actions inside. Of course being
white, he was a targeted for arrest anyway. The
Obama administration had issued a de facto
pogrom against whites under which the blacks
could act with impunity.
He sped his red Ford Ranger across the parking lot
and sure enough, there were buses full of black
men arriving even as he left. Looking back, he saw
that the entrances and exits to the Walmart were
blocked. The blacks that were filing in were
wearing hoodies and carrying machetes. The
White Genocide had begun and there was no one
to call to for help, even if he had owned a phone.
Being white, he didn't qualify for an
Obama-phone, and in this economy it wasn't
feasible to buy one.
Minutes later, he was lost in the busy downtown
traffic. He pulled into a drug-store parking lot,
searching among the cars for the one belonging to
Diane, his girlfriend of six months. He spotted it.
There wasn't anything out of the ordinary
happening on this side of town. Not at the
moment anyway.
He chose to leave the baseball bat in the back of
the truck and ran inside. He grabbed a backback
off a shelf and two hoodies from the clothing
rack--they bore the high school football team's
mascot (a Spartan). Into the backpack he stuffed a
case of bottled waters, several high-protein candy
bars, and all the beef jerky and Red Bull's he
could fit.
He rushed to the pharmaceutical counter. "Diane?"
An African-American woman in blue scrubs
approached the counter, beaming with joy.
"Alex! What a surprise, I was just thinking about
you!" She leaned forward for a kiss. Their lips
touched and the events of the last half hour
disappeared from his mind for the moment.
"Diane, it's time to go. The Department of Social
Justice is bussing in an army of killers!" She
looked into his eyes and then at the blood splatters
on his shirt and pants. He put the hoodie on and
handed her the other. "There's no time. People are
being butchered! Let's go." She shook her head
slowly, eyes squinted. This was too unbelievable,
even given the excesses of the youth mobs over
the last five years. Could they have turned
murderous?
The electronic doorbell rang several times in rapid
succession as a dozen people or more entered in a
tight formation. Diane and Alex looked up at the
mirrors up on the walls, placed strategically to
give the managers the ability to monitor their
customers. The group which now blocked the
door wore hoodies and carried weapons.
Machetes, iron pipes, knives, and more.
She threw on the hoodie, no longer questioning his
claim. He jumped the counter and together they
crept toward the drive-up window. He led, she
followed, out the window and directly towards his
truck. Sure enough, a bus was parked in front of
the drugstore, its armed occupants filing out after
an orderly fashion.
Screams emanated from within, screams which
chilled Alex and Diane to the bone. There was no
option available to them, no one to call for help.
They pulled their hoods on and kept their heads
down. Once in his truck they locked the doors,
both sighing in relief as they exited the lot. Neither
dared to look back.
Driving to their shared apartment, they passed two
other buses headed towards their own bloody
destinations. Neither had the inclination to raise
their faces to look at the occupants. Alex kept his
mind on the road, mentally taking inventory of his
gun safe which his father had left to him.
Alex's disdain for guns and the gun-culture was
replaced with a belated sense of gratitude for the
values which his father tried to impress upon him.
In his youthful arrogance, he had often criticized
the very notion of gun ownership in advanced
societies, after all, the police provided all the
protection the citizenry needed, right?
His father's voice rang in his mind clearly and
poignantly from beyond the grave: "Alex, don't be
naive. Gun control is about social control. If they
take our guns, we lose our ability to defend our
property, beginning with our bodies. If you can't
defend yourself you are a slave or you're dead."
Chapter 4 #Going Dorner
De'Marquise Elkins was awakened by the sound of
the Obama-phone's emergency signal. The
smartphone screen had a phrase preceded by a
number sign. This phrase reached millions in
De'Marquise's demographic: poor, black, young,
and unemployed. It granted them a license to vent
and to take what was rightfully theirs:
#GOINGDORNER
It was from Eric J Holder's Twitter account. All
messages from the Department of Social Justice
were to be taken as direct orders. No further
prompting was necessary. De'Marquise
responded:
"@DOSJ, I'm bout to give back to the community
#GOINGDORNER"
Many other similar tweets flooded the
twittersphere, few as cryptic, fewer still even
remotely grammatically correct. There was a sense
of competition of the good-natured kind. Everyone
wanted to outdo everyone else; tweets promising
rapes,arson, stabbings, looting, and worse. The
Department of Social Justice added a follow up
tweet: "One more thing kids. Pics, or it didn't
happen! #GOINGDORNER ."
The expression "Going Dorner" had come to
define a new kind of spree killing. Unlike the
random spree killing, this new strategy is more
strictly terroristic---as opposed to merely
deranged---in that there is an explicit political or
social message attached to it, and the individuals
committing the acts are in a dialogue with their
targets, usually through letters written to
newspapers or entire manifestos uploaded onto the
Internet.
"Going Dorner" in the context of social justice
however, was an expressly racially motivated
killing spree, named for the fallen Los Angeles
police officer who exacted revenge at the
department which fired him, specifically those
who had discriminated against him for being a
black man. The youth were Going Dorner for
Trayvon.
De'Marquise, nineteen, rushed out the front door
where he was joined by Lamar, who was
fourteen. Together, they ran to the park and
headed directly toward the first white person they
saw: a young mother pushing a stroller.
De'Marquise blocked her path. A little baby,
perhaps a year old, smiled at the black brothers.
He addressed its mother.
"Give me your goddamned money, cracker bitch!"
He pointed a gun at her face. "Give me your
money or I will kill your cracker baby!" She
cringed and De'Marquise pulled the trigger. The
explosion temporarily stunned the woman and her
baby began wailing. The round grazed her cheek.
Lamar was reaching for her purse.
"I don't have any money. Here take my Android!"
She handed her smartphone to Lamar. Lamar
shoved it roughly back at her.
"The Obama-phone's better than that shit, bitch!"
Lamar punched the baby in the stomach. She
protested, screaming as she reached for her baby.
De'Marquis fired again, this time shooting her
thigh. She slumped on the ground and watched
helplessly, horrified, mortified, and disheartened
as the teen fired a round into the stroller, silencing
her cracker baby. Lamar used his Obama-phone to
upload a picture of the bloody scene to his twitter
account.
The youth pulled their hoodies on and headed
towards the downtown business districts. Lamar
was proud to have pulled of a heist with his elder
brother. "De'Marquise, why dint we jest rape dat
bitch too?" They both looked back at the park. The
wounded woman was attempting to give the dead
baby CPR which would be futile, for it scarcely
had a face left.
There were no police in the area. They were
concentrated downtown where the massive looting
was occurring. Rape was fair game. De'Marquise
looked at his younger, virgin brother. "That's my
boy."Together, they confidently swaggered back
to the park, eager to claim their just reward.
Chapter 5: Heroics and Hoaxes
George Zimmerman sulked in the back of the
gas-guzzling sports utility vehicle, clutching the
fire-extinguisher to his chest the way a petulant
child would cling to a teddy bear for moral
support. Although the bullet-proof windows were
tinted so dark as to render its passengers invisible,
he still felt exposed. Each of the three men on were
high value targets. George had a ten thousand
dollar bounty on his head and his brother Robert,
while not as reviled, was nonetheless as high
profile a target due to his thirteen consecutive
appearances on the Piers Morgan show. But most
of all, it was the driver who had the most to fear if
his personal location was to be twittered to the
liberal fascist mobs: Sean Hannity.
Sean was at the wheel. After all, this was his sports
utility vehicle or the "Hannibot Brigade Mobile
Assault Vehicle" as "she" was called."This is all
Dana's fault George. I told that broad to have the
fuse on the incendiaries lit before they arrived at
the crash scene. Never leave the pyrotechnics to
the broads. Maybe one of her stupid kids should
have handled that for her." Sean was fuming. "I'll
have to remind myself to slap one of the
housekeepers today. All broads are but different
manifestations of the same incompentent she-bitch.
It doesn't matter which one you punish. Any sense
you can knock into a one--anywhere in the
world--is a boon to men everywhere. Pass me the
joint Robert, you selfish twit."
Robert was nonplussed by Sean's sadistic
good-natured ribbing. "Hey George! It was still a
dramatic rescue. Don't fret. Brad Thor scripted the
whole thing and he wrote it for plausibility as well
as for dramatic effect. Fox will report that you
saved a family of four. Remember, narrative is all
that matters!"
"Oh leave him alone," Sean chided,"George has
nothing to fear." He made eye contact with the
cherubic night-watchmen in the rear-view mirror.
"Assuming they could find a rope with the tensile
strength necessary to support your bulk---how are
they going to hang you if your neck is thicker than
your head?" He laughed boisterously, a
mechanical, obnoxious sound. The two brothers
remained stoic.
"Sean the operation was botched. Nobody will
believe it." George finally broke his sulk.
"George, let me explain this one more time. Those
who hate you will always assume you are lying.
Those who support you will always believe your
lies. It's that simple.Truth or believability has
nothing to do with it. Trust me, I'm the second
biggest conservative talk radio host in the world.
Now pass back the Skittles already. My lean lacks
flava." He held up a tumbler filled with a soupy
mix of cough syrup, watermelon juice, and bits of
candy.
George set aside the fire extinguisher and extended
his arm for Robert to grab the bag of Skittles. Just
as the candy changed hands, Sean hit the gas
pedal, slamming George back into his seat and
propelling the gas guzzling Assault Vehicle down
the freeway at well over the posted speed limit.
Sean's erratic behavior unnerved the brothers but
not half as much as the radio talk show host's
twisted humor, which he inflicted upon them
mercilessly. He took a swig of the purplish drink
followed by a deep drag of the joint. Smoke
billowing out of his nostrils, he shared another
racially tinged joke: "Why do black flash mobs
always get away with robbery and mayhem?"
George: "Uhh....media bias? Political correctness?"
Robert: "Perhaps they are being allowed to get
away with it in order to prepare them to be
Obama's Brown Shirts?"
Sean shook his head. "Those are both interesting
answers and I'll probably use those on my show,
but no that's not it. Black flash mobs never get
caught because the perpetrators all look the same."
Sean laughed. Robert's eyes widened and George
paled, giving new meaning to the term
"White-Hispanic".
For the first time since the killing of Trayvon,
George was beginning to question if the side of
justice was indeed just, or if there perhaps was
something valid and righteous about the
spontaneous eruptions of black on white violence
tearing apart the fabric of the nation. For the first
time since since pulling that trigger, he wondered if
things might not have turned out better had his
skull been cracked open upon the sidewalk that
ill-fated rainy February night. But most of all, he
vowed to get back into shape, if for no other
reason then to put an end to the demeaning fat
jokes. Such was the mindset of the insecure
security guard: his hero complex placed his image
management at the same level of importance as the
murder he committed. It was as though the entire
Fox Universe had made George its centre, he was
its Ceasar, its Ruler, he was officially a Bad Ass.
All he lacked was the coronation. But with the
assistence of Sean Hannity and the army of
Conservative Talk Radio hosts, he would get that
recognition, even if it meant becoming the face of
the counter-revolution. George was in the know.
He knew all about the W.I.N. and their race war
agenda. "The greatest emporers crown
themselves," Sean had told him, quoting Napolean
Bonaparte following a long night of drinking at a
private party--along with a number of other
dissident voices. Hal Turner, Alex Jones, and
David Duke were in attendance.
George always felt like he was destined for
greatness. Standing there in that echo-chamber, he
became convinced of it.
Chapter 6: Wolf Pack
The mob gained speed when it spotted its next
target. The three youths trailing behind the leader
were in their mid-teens. He was in his early
twenties and they followed his orders
unquestioningly. "Dis cracker gon git sum uh wuh
we got!" They were at a full sprint, whooping,
laughing, and grinning menacingly.
Their target, an elderly Caucasian, was
approaching a bus stop at a leisurely pace,
evidentially unaware that Milwaukee too was
responding to the injustice of the George
Zimmerman acquittal. The concept of racial
retaliation was alien to his worldview.
Unfortunately, his worldview was being
challanged by a new paradigm, a zeigeist which
called for blood and there was no shortage of
righteously indignant blacks ready to take up the
struggle.
Chris Simpson heard the mob before he saw it. He
felt it before he saw it. He nearly lost
consciousness in the blur of black skinned youth
in grey hoodies. Punches, kicks, and racial epithets
ensued until the cracker was curled into a fetal
position in a futile attempt to keep his brain within
his skull--a skull endangered by the mere fact that
its covering was unacceptably pale for the present
social milieu .
The moment George Zimmerman was acquitted,
Levi, Lemar, George, and Tyrone began their
daily patrols in search of those who were
unfortunately possessed of that same accursed
paleness of skin, that shameful albatross, the
collective shame of white guilt.
The youths, all descendants of slaves, were bound
by the collective suffering of their people, and
together they vowed to take back their pride by
avenging their ancestors on the progeny of the
historic oppressors of their kind. This was no
ordinary beating. This was revolutionary social
justice.
Chris was blinded by repeated blows to his face
with a tire iron and his guts were subjected to
kicks so hard that he coughed up blood. "This is
for Trayvon, you creepy ass cracker!" was the last
thing he ever heard.
Levi, the leader, took the old man's wallet and
inspected the driver's license. "Dis here is his
address. Let's go rough up his ol' lady. Who
wants old cracka pussy?" The three teenagers
raised their bloodied fists in a show of solidarity.
This would be their third rape-party this week.
"Maybe we can jack his ride, go wildin
downtown? Hit de clubs?" Tyrone asked
hopefully.
"Bitch ass nigga, you too young to git in da club.
Bitch ass nug," Lamar berated, passing Tyrone a lit
joint, starting an impromptu "choom session."
"Both ya'll shut up. We'll git buck wild tonight,
dis shit is on." Levi assured them, grabbing his
crotch. He used his Obamaphone to download
directions to the address on the dead man's
driver's license. "Let's collect payment, my nigguz.
What, huh, yo?" He lead the way.
Chapter 7, "Foh da fun of it"
Christopher went out for a jog. The night was cool
and the twenty-two year old college student
decided it might be a fun excursion to check out
the neighbourhood where his girlfriend grew up.
They were vacationing at her parent's house in
Duncan, a small town of perhaps twenty thousand
people. He was attending an Oklahoma college on
a baseball scholarship and was in the best shape of
his life.
He set an easy pace, barely breaking a sweat. He
approached a fork in the road and went left
without giving it much thought. The eyesore of
dilapidated houses and trailers did nothing to
dampen the exquisite beauty of the moonlit night;
on the contrary, the serenity seemed to cure his
surroundings of its ugliness. That is, until he
jogged passed the house where Michael Jones
lived.
Michael Jones was sitting on his porch reciting rap
lyrics and nodding his head fervently. His two
companions, Chancey and James, stared blankly
into the night, their brains still on fire from the
meth the three of them had just finished snorting.
All three of them were teenagers. Angry, black,
unsupervised teenagers.
They watched Christopher jog by. He was tall, fit,
handsome, and confident. Michael looked at James
and lifted his shirt, exposing the handle of his 32
caliber pistol. "Day is our target, yo." He spoke in
a low voice and walked out to the car, his two
cronies right behind him. "White devil."
Christopher glanced at the three, but didn't register
alarm. Three kids. Younger than the ones on his
team. It did not occur to him that they represented
a threat. What black youth at their age didn't wear
gang attire or affect a hostile disposition? After all,
they were black, which meant that they were
victims of an unjust society. An empathetic person
by nature, Christopher chose to live and let live.
He didn't fear his fellow humans, and though he
wasn't a descendent of slave-owners, he still felt
that as a white person, he was born privileged and
therefore he didn't allow himself to assess blacks
in a negative light.
His breathing took on the familiar rhythm as he
found his optimal pace. He could run all night like
this. A low rider car with tinted windows pulled
up beside him, headlights off, but radio blaring.
The words being rapped were easily discernible.
"...They claim I'm violent, cause I refuse to be
silent, these hypocrites are having fits...."
They were intentionally keeping up with him. He
looked but could not see in their faces in the
darkness. The passenger windows were down.
The rap lyrics were from 2-Pac. Christopher's
friends in Australia, where he was born and raised,
were all fans of the late rapper. In fact, he knew
the next lyrics to this rap song by heart, "I rebel
against any oppressor, it's self-defence so I show
no mercy, when the shit gets thick..."
Christopher picked up his pace with a growing
sense of alarm. The car sped up along with him.
His breathing grew more laboured and his heart
rate picked up----not from exertion but from fear.
He saw a hand reach out from the car, a hand
carrying a pistol.. No! It can't be, he thought.
"What! Why?" He yelled, and stopped on the
side-walk, making an abrupt one-eighty, already
attempting to evade the inevitable.
A black youth with a blue bandanna around his
mouth answered. "Foh da fun of it, cracker!" an
instant before the shots rang out. Christopher's
body hit the side-walk. It felt like he was being
pounded with sledgehammers. As a baseball
player, he had been beaned by an errant pitch three
or four times in his life, but never had he felt such
concentrations of concussive energy as that which
exploded his ribcage as he helplessly absorbed
bullet after bullet.
The last thing he saw was the moonlit sidewalk
drenched in blood, his own, and the mysterious
car from which he heard laughter and the final
words he would hear: "This is for Trayvon!" as
the final bullet split his forehead open, ending his
otherwise idyllic life.
Chapter 8: Knock on Peckerwood
The elderly man exited the Veterans Lodge. It was
like any other day: a blessing and a beautific
expression of God's perfection. Though he was a
soldier in World War II and had the scars to
prove it, his world-view was never tainted by the
darkness he confronted. His was of a different
generation. Strong men and supportive women
united in defence of common values. The youth of
today were, by comparison, rootless, weak, and
directionless.
For close to nine decades upon this earth---or
flying above it---this man exemplified the Greatest
Generation; by contrast, he was a living testament
to the cultural barbarism and degeneracy of the
Generations X, Y, Z, and Generation IPod.
Selfless service had been transmuted into
solipsism and self-absorption. Perhaps it was this
vast cultural divide which prevented Tyrone and
Lamar from feeling a common humanity with him.
Tyrone and Lamar were the two black youth who,
having failed to turn up anything significant after a
night of burglary, were particularly drawn to such
an easy target. There they were: large, strong, and
armed with metal flashlights and a desire for social
justice, their own piece of the American Pie. And
there he was, white, old, rich, and probably the
descendant of slave-owners.
"Him is a peckerwood cracka." Tyrone muttered.
"Rich bitch, make me itch," he grabbed his crotch.
Lamar was silent but his eyes spoke volumes.
Within those coal black eyes was a veritable black
hole of hunger, of endless greed, the very soul of
avarice, and a barbaric, reptilian concept of
resources and how to acquire them. Lamar
nodded.
Tyrone straightened out his do-rag and led the
way, blocking the elder from entering his vehicle.
"Hey creepy-ass old cracker! Gonna get me some
social justice for Trayvon!" He held out a black
hand. The elder looked up and shrugged, reaching
into his wallet. He produced two crisp twenty
dollar bills, and handed them over. The media
blackout on the subject of black on white violence
prevented the reality of his situation from
occurring to him.
"Listen boys," he began. "When I was your age, I
didn't ask for a handout. I got a job....." Those
were the last words he ever uttered.
"BOYS? YOU HEAR DAT?!" Lamar fumed. "That
is racist!" Lamar swung the metal flash-light onto
the old man's skull. It sounded hollow, he thought,
like knocking on a watermelon.
Tyrone wasted no time. He put his knee on the
elder's ribs and proceeded to pulverize every bone
in the inert body. Lamar followed suit. They
worked up a sweat before they got up and walked
back home.
"Too bad he ain't have a pussy." Lamar lamented.
The two boys laughed. Tyrone produced their
victim's wallet.
"He do have a fly crib, yo. Dat a good place to
bring sum ass and hos and crack." Tyrone was
looking at the address on man's driver's license. In
addition to taking whatever they could carry, the
Department of Social Justice would deposit fifty
dollars into their EBT cards for every white
household they invaded. They Obamaphoned up
the address and were off, two wild dogs on the
scent of a good meal...
Chapter 9: Hot Dogs and Apple Pie
Bob made a decent living as a hot-dog vender at
the Home Depot around the corner from his
modest home. To be fair, he sold much more than
hot-dogs; many of his customers arrived early for
the weekend projects and so he filled the demand
for coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Many others
arrived later in the day, and for them, he provided
a wide array of dinner items and desserts. The
most popular item in the evening was the
apple-pie, and he helped himself to a slice as he
read the evening paper.
"Wow." His eyes scanned over the headlines in
USA TODAY:
'95% of White People are Nasty' according to the
latest Pew poll.'
'White on Black Discrimination at All Time High'
'Is There Room in the Constitution for Social
Justice?'
As a hard working American, Bob never felt that
he had oppressed anyone. He had to presume that
the racism was out there, somewhere, but just by
watching people interact as they set about building
up their homes, it wasn't evident.He was friends
with gays, blacks, whites, young and old. They all
found common ground in the act of building their
lives and enjoying hot-dogs and apple pie.
Perhaps it was his blinding optimism which left
him open for what came next.
WHAM! He jumped up, spilling his coffee and
knocking his pie onto the floor of the hot-dog
stand---a stand which was now rocking on it's
axles. He looked over the counter and there was a
small mob of African-American youth slamming
the front counter with hammers. Another one was
sifting through the tip jar. "Hey, cut that out!" A
hammer swing grazed his nose and he jumped
away from the counter, staggering back into the
opposite wall.
Before Bob could get his bearings, two of the
youths had climbed into the cramped compartment,
one of them squashing Bob to the ground like an
insect, and the other one emptying the cash
register. Bob strained to speak but his words were
cut short by the raining blows of a stolen hammer
which still had the price tag hanging off the handle.
He could not have known it, but the blood which
gushed from his open cranium and soaked into the
pages of the USA TODAY obscured a reference to
a crime in Memphis which occurred two days
prior. The article described how a couple of
teenagers dragged an old man into an abandoned
parking lot, doused him with gasoline, and burned
him to death. The article made no mention of the
fact that the victim was a white, blue-collar worker
or that the perpetrators were racist, black
gang-bangers.
Nor could Bob possible have known that just as
his savage killer screamed "Dis is for Trayvon!",
so too were those the last words heard by that
innocent victim in Memphis as his flesh was set
ablaze. None of the perpetrators or victims in any
of these seemingly unrelated incidents could
possibly know they were being manipulated by
hidden forces, or that these violent outbreaks were
the result of a carefully engineered social and
cultural climate.
Chapter 10
The couple pulled up into an intersection near their
near their Brooklyn apartment. The traffic light
turned green but the cross-walk was full of
teenagers. Black teenagers. The driver, a white
male, honked the horn.
"Ronnie just be patient, let 'em cross!" Annie didn't
like the look of them. Young yes, but these were
not like the teenagers she grew up with. She and
Ronnie were barely ten or fifteen years older than
the small mob which began to surround their car,
but the generation gap seemed to span much
longer than a decade and a half. These kids seemed
to have come from another era, or another country
at the very least. They jumped on the hood, kicked
the lights, banged on the glass, yelling slurs:
"KEEP HONKING HONKEY! I'M GUNNA
RAPE YOUR CRACKER ASS WIFE!" one of
them taunted, licking the wind-shield and dry
humping the passenger side door.
"That's it!" Ronnie stepped out to assess the
damage. Other motorists passed on by giving the
black mob a wide berth. "Okay, someone is going
to have to pay for this! You destroyed my
property you brats!" Ronnie was angry but not
violent. He was righteously indignant, but lacked
the temperament to intimidate them. If anything, his
obvious inexperience with making overt displays
of aggression only egged them on. Even the
smallest of the males easily outweighed Ronnie by
twenty-five pounds, all of it muscle.
When the first of many clenched fists made contact
with his face, he knew he was outmatched. He
knew that Annie was in mortal danger and that he
made a big mistake standing up for himself.
"Get those crackers!" "Kill whitey!" "Rape that
white whore! Gimme dat ass! Creepy ass-crackas,"
they cajoled as they beat the couple senseless. A
white face hits the pavement, ten black faces laugh;
a white face is "tea-bagged" in a humiliating and
obscene display, ten black faces cheer; a white
face bleeds from the mouth, a black face grins; a
black leg kicks, a white person goes unconscious;
black penises violates white orifices in broad
daylight, and passersby both black and white give
it their tacit approval; blacks from a sense of Social
Justice, whites out of sheer terror.
The teenage girl, perhaps thirteen years of age but
already wearing the green armband of the Obama
Truth Squad screams "fuck that white whore!
Harder! Make it bleed for Trayvon! We demand
blood for blood! Slavery for slavery. Crackers,
you our niggas now!"
A U.N. World Police squad vehicle arrived. The
driver, Officer Rangel, rolled down the window
and, noting the young lady's green armband,
moved on to more pressing matters. For instance,
a white landlord was attempting to evict a black
tenant over unpaid rent. "The landlord will have to
be tasered, detained, psychologically evaluated,
and sent to a Re-education Center," he began
listing the day's tasks aloud. "A back up unit will
have to be called in to assist the black tenant on
becoming the new landlord. Ah, the work of a
Social Justice Crusader is never done!"
The squad car left the scene, as did the youth.
They left in the couple's car, as was their right, for
might was on their side and the Rule of Law had
been overruled by Executive Order. The Law of
the Jungle was the new law. "Do What Thou Wilt"
replaced "One Nation Under God," and the youth
responded accordingly.
Ronnie and Annie died within minutes of one
another. The attack was over and peace and calm
re-established its tenuous foothold over the
intersection, all within the span of three red-light to
green-light cycles. Sadly for their children, death
would not be so hasty. After all, they were now
squatters in the home now owned by the black
youth. Such is the nature of redistributive justice.
