Subway Restraint (ROUND 11)
scent of the day: Nose Rest Day
*Let's workshop this prose poem, set to the song "American Girl," about a clash between a black man late to a job interview and "antiracist" protesters who will not let him off the subway train.
*This is still sloppy. I have added to the story arc, though, by including most of the letter that the protagonist sends to his friend. The letter serves as what the daimon narrator calls “a manifesto”—a manifesto that will outlive the protagonist and make his death have the intended ripples.
Subway Restraint
The time has come. You are trapped. Stinking with the bodies against you each way, pressed suit disheveled—calling yourself late understates the gravity. Who could have known, kissing your girlfriend goodbye with interview nerves, butterflies for the future, that the time would come now? But it has. That is how life works. Everyday—sunrise, sunset—the ambulance dopplers elsewhere. That is until one day you find it coming for you.
Serve the long game. Do not jump right to throat daggering that lead cunt, shrieking as her arms spread to restrict you and the bodies behind you from exiting the split door of the subway. Your first move, seductive as it no doubt is, should not be to impale that vein-flared neck of fanaticism with your “Urban Pal” pocket push dagger—its blade just over two inches of larynx love, double serrated for bleed-out rip backs meant to thwart repair (and cheaper than a gas-station sandwich, for whatever it might be worth to say, on bladehq.com).
Breathe. Swamp ass and mildewed underwear, mildewed enough to smell the holes and blown elastic, imprint the molded plastic with the funk of a track-mark jasmine that had made the worst life choices and a meth-mouth tuberose that had been double dipped as toilet paper. Over this hobo base, over as well the commuter heart (a coffee halitosis fed into sulphuric frenzy by the sugars of gum and lifted into full Fantasia fanfare by the radioactive autotune fixatives now as obligatory in Sephora fragrances as the equally-unwashable twerking is at the Democratic National Convention)—over it all you can smell your own adrenaline sweat (cold and sour, like finger pads after rubbing a coin or a car key), this metallic top note synergizing with the brakepad scorch into a rusty aldehyde that coats the mouth in a fuzz of iron fillings. But continue to breathe. Raise your nostrils above the urban crotchrot, above the rotten eggs of sump water stagnant in the trenches below the rails—all of it today kicked into a roil by the dank-dog mustiness of fabrics and footwear soaked from the rain in the streets above. You are a tall man. Appreciate the space you still have in the claustrophobic crush.
Restrain yourself. You know now, you can feel now (after decades of laughing away the ridiculous numbers in murder news), how death can wash up in indolic glory on the autopsy slab with stab wounds nearing—if not well into—triple digits. But the time for blade gratifications, multiple climaxes at the cost—if you do it now, like some monkey—of a life ruined by the gavel, might show itself with some patience. You are not a fucking monkey. Unloading after a wait is better anyway—especially an agonizing wait where every nerve screams for action, every gland mewls for milking, like engorged tits barred from the mouth of the crying infant. Think of the goo building. The inner child in us all, no matter how old or wise we become, wants to witness as much ribbon bloom from the popped cyst, sweet blips of curd along the way—the bigger the coiled pile of cottage cheese at the end, the better. Think, then, of your pride—as if again showing your mother the height of the pile of mashed potatoes on your plate—when you get to behold the destructive mass of your freed burden.
Shoves and slithering words, hold these back as well. You stand above the rabble. Let the seething fury of your stolen big day mount, right up to the gills, as the chanting mass behind this bitch—“No! One! Gets! Off!”—hammer-fists away any bold hand trying to pry open the panels from within. Feel the spittle spatter on your face, the inadvertent mist of justice-warrior apoplexy, grow into purposeful thwacks as you insist to be set free from the metal trap of this neo-witch hysteria. Feel them grow more aggressive, her forehead rammings—right into your heart, the cunt, every time the panels open enough. But stay your hand. We have waited for the right ambient conditions too long to blow it too early. Have we not?
Time dilates for us. Accept, in the growing splay of seconds, the futility of your plea. It can be hard, yes—like trusting that the sea will buoy your body if only you let go of tree-mammal tension of white-knuckled toes. But trust that the futility is a friend. It grows the potency of your ferocity, the need for your ferocity. Come the time for execution-style rejection of the entire modern farce, the futility will turn you invincible. It will turn you invincible even to bullets for a time, so long as right now you stay rooted—rooted in that narrow space where you work yourself up for having been made a sardine and yet where you, wanting like any heart breaker to “make it last all night” with this American girl in her slouchy beanie, conduct yourself as if on an empty beach somewhere in the breeze.
Every smartphone glows a weapon of mass judgment. But neither this nor all the corner-nestled CCTV cameras can excuse slipping away into some private pocket of psychology. It is all to easy for a human to get caught in the vent of fantasy: if only I were wearing one of those old-school carnations on my breast pocket, squirting acid like The Joker. If anything, let the nontruth of such counterfactuals further fuel your frustration. For ultimately you must go to work. When you do go to work, however, give your defense attorney—hands tied by whatever scraps you leave behind—at least a little to work with. Think of it that way. Thinking of it that way will keep your will from buckling even as it serves to titillate your will with the promise of a later chance to buckle—perhaps even crumble, delivering you into painless disindividuation: oneness with the World-All. This is about edging, okay?
Try to lock in eye-contact with that one officer in the sea of phones raised, several of their owners screeching at you “Don’t you fucking touch her!”—a baiting formula as transparent, of course, as those feline-heat growls of “Don’t you dare cum in me!” Throw in a “Please help, officer” or two: the film never stops rolling. If you really want to piss yourself off, say it a bit too soft. The officer will fail on cue, either way, to safeguard your free passage. Is this not, after all, a non-castle-doctrine state where squatters have rights over your home (such that you cannot remove them yourself without legal repercussion)? Is this not a duty-to-retreat state where, although no one raises an eye about calling in an exterminator to spray paralyzing roach poisons, burglars have won settlements for injuring themselves on the job merely because you set a rated-R McCallister boobytrap (a floorplate, say, that triggers the release of a neurotoxin dart that paralyzes the diaphragm) to deal with a chronic problem—or even, if only on rare occasions, merely because of a broken ankle caused by your wobbly porch railing or a concussion caused by your shoddy weekend-warrior wall mount of the 8k flatscreen with too much street value for any BIPOC to be equitably expected to resist, especially when flaunted (day in, day out) through arrogant bay windows pointed curbside in a fuck-you to color?
Besides, the officer is white. He is white and, even though you have the asset of being darker skinned, he fears that career-shattering r-word in later press. How could he not? The press, “legitimate” press, has adopted the buzz words and speech patterns of campus activists: news anchors, for example, stressing (with not even a hint of understated irony) the adjective “black” as a moral-bludgeoning means to heighten the shut-it-down force of their words (“Understand that you are talking to a black woman!”)—exactly as in when, to quintuple down on the impression that blacks are especially precious (such that mistreating a black person is more heinous than mistreating a non-black person), the white “ally” barks at the professor “Did you just tell a black man where to sit?” or the black student snipes at the white professor who challenged her opinion “Are you seriously calling a black woman wrong?” (both examples invoking an emotionally and historically charged context that makes people second-guess the morality of an otherwise mundane act, cranking up the volume on race to elevate its seriousness even when race was not a factor). So no, the officer—like the countless professors, paralyzed (were it not for stutters and perhaps even tears)—is unlikely to do anything (even in your favor). Trapped in a narrative the man never wrote, the stakes are too high. Is not this mob, after all, anti-Nazi? Sure it is, at least by the look of all their signs: “fuck nazi scum”; “fight antiblack killing”; “white vigilantism = fascism / black vigilantism = freedom.”
You could declare “I’m a black man.” Invoking race in that way usually gets whiteys like this in check. They know, after all, who the fuck is king. But you have integrity. You have refused taking any knowing handout. That would be giving in. Lesser men would have given in. You, on the other hand, would rather suffer than accept a concession you consider unearned. You would rather die—because, yes, that is what this ultimately about—than participate in what you know to be a system of lies and injustice. You have such a magnitude of negative respect for these powers, the true powers that be with the platform to keep denying that they are the true powers that be, that you are not even tempted. Perhaps you are too hardheaded. People have said it. But you are you. And that is admirable. It is a hill you will die on—again, that word. People type comments on social media but they are not willing to die. They are not willing to go out blasting, taking their enemies with them to the death before the luck of birth. You are. So good shit, nigga.
Declaring “I am a black man. You are blocking a king”—even if hitting exactly the right emphases on “black” and “king” (mere apposition like Spinoza’s Deus sive Natura)—would not even work, though. Socrates easily could have escaped his prison cell. You cannot. This a major city. People here know there are good blacks and bad blacks, the ones infected by the contagious disease of whiteness. They make finer grain decisions unlike in more suburban areas where the woke white will be like “Let the king pass” if only in the form of ushering you away like secret service tasked with protecting the most precious supercitizen, innocent and entitled.
There are also plain logistics to consider. It breaks the seal if they let you go. So even if they want to respect their king, it is for the greater good—it is for the benefit of you, a moral superior—to keep you trapped. And perhaps this frustration will wake you up to the slaughter of kings and queens. That could be their rationalization too. And if nothing good—no awareness, no turn around—comes of causing you discomfort, they could always chalk it up to unfortunate collateral damage—a mere drop, they might tell themselves, in the bucket of hell you must live every day here in triple-k Amerikkka out to get you as soon as you step out the door(even though in truth America is the very heart of a Western culture that has not only best articulated, better than any other ever on Earth, why racial discrimination is wrong but has best fought, better than any other ever on Earth, to end it). They would call it collateral damage, yes, to a higher cause just like in Ellison’s Invisible Man, still your favorite book since college, where the Marxist organization (the Brotherhood)—seeing, like no doubt this snowbunny slut in front of you, black suffering as combustible raw material—stirs up Harlem riots as part of an agenda, eerily similar to the real life situation where like organizations tried to create a massive black welfare dependency, to tank the government.
And speaking of Invisible Man, there is that scene where the Marxist white bitch—always the white cunts, huh?—says “Don’t you think he should be a little blacker?” Same goes here. You are not black enough for either the cause or to expect to get a free pass. High yellow tones like this do not command the respect. You need to be black black to wield the word “king” in a public arena. Yeah, perhaps in a dorm room getting high you can make the room walk on eggshells around you like you are Henry the Eighth. But in this grand public spectacle, no way. Face it. You do not possess that brand of blackness that has the white activist bowing low to tongue kiss Timberlands in a campus wedding filled with one-way vows: “I will work to repair the damage of my whiteness”; “I will tolerate any discomfort on the path to equity”; “I will never speak over a black person”; “I will never deny black truth”; “I will do everything in my power to abolish whiteness”; “I will not weaponize the police against black people”; “I will redistribute my unearned advantages”; “I will never call reparations ‘looting’”; “I will seek to understand more than to be understood”; and so on down the restorative justice line. Look at you, nigga. You do not even have dreads.
Even if you were jet black it might not even matter. We have already moved on to the next cultural hierarchy. You know each day you grow into an outdated commodity. For now at least, until perhaps the wheel turns back around, the mob—and thereby Disney, the weather-vane of the herd—has passed the high water mark of Black Panther. The FBI and universities have surely toned down their “How To Be Less White” learning modules, mandatory for compliance. It has been one or two Oscar ceremonies already since the last time any speech had to involve a star, usually another white cunt, doing what a white cunt does: crying at the podium about how unfortunate it is for black families to have to give their beautiful black teen, a king-in-the-making if only he can survive open season, what has become known as “the talk”—the former definition of the talk, which concerned the birds and the bees, having been supplanted, of course, by the more urgent issue of protecting as many black young men as possible (and “good riddance” many will say not just because sex discussion is already covered by the hip hop tracks that explain when to insert the Perc30 rectal suppository but because, think about it: “the birds and the bees,” that phrase, sounds as white as the surname “Smith” and thereby as antiblack as apple pie and old glory). It has to be a year or so, perhaps more, since the last movie—was it Tom Hanks?—where we are hit with that pathos-pulling scene where beautiful black parents must sit their good black boy down, a boy in no way posting pictures of himself with semiautomatics on Instagram, and give him the talk, the talk about how he must say “Yessa” to every officer and keep his hand on the wheel and never talk back and always announce he is merely reaching for his wallet; the talk about how he must say “Yessa,” in fact, in such an old school plantation way that—and here is the ghoulish conspiracy behind it all (but that is Hollywood for you)—young teens, naturally rebellious, will know exactly the way to assert their defiant identity: engaging in the very noncompliant behaviors that increase the odds of another news spectacle to keep the money-making cycle going. Ellison was not stupid.
The trans cause is in the foreground now. Oscar winners not only flaunt their trans kids like handbags (“So brave isn’t she?”) but are damn sure, when they thank their parents in the speech, that they use the term “gestating parent” for mother and “non-gestating parent” for father. And when in the post-ceremony interview they are called “brave for using these inclusive terms in such a public way” they will be damned sure to work in how the male swimmer in the news, the one in female drag with much more than lats and traps busting out of the singlet, was “so brave” for “absolutely crushing the other girls” in the competition—the most confrontational starlets preempting the bigoted response on so many tongues scared for their careers by saying: “Those assigned female at birth are just gonna have to get faster huh?”
And now the undocumented cause is just starting to get going. On the horizon—perhaps around the time we might expect Disney to release Mexican Panther (the writer who suggests Mexican Cucaracha instead, even if done completely innocently, fired on the spot because everyone else, especially the white cunt bitch sluts, feels “uncomfortable now” (and perhaps in part because it hits on a truth: how the illegal scurries, under and over, in the secret of night in a way remarkably similar to the roach)—we are bound to get Oscar winners who will make their drop-the-mic comment “No one is illegal on stolen land” even as they themselves own property gated and ready, the scum fucks, to call cops on any indigenous person who tunnels under just to grab a quick bite from the fridge (not any hamper sniff session jerk offs or anything).
So what is to be done? Plead to the mob. Remember: this is a marathon of baby steps. Plead—if only for the lenses. Plead through your teeth and muscles clenched by the taunting yells. Plead for someone within the drumhead jury, someone within the raging pack savoring your submission, to empathize with your humanity. Know all the while, again, that it will be in vain. And know that even if it were not, and even if it were clear by some magic that the efficacy was not a function of your skin, that would just defuse the pressure behind the cork pop yet again as it has done for too long now—yet again tempting you into quietism, into ignoring the life-redeeming call to pop off. How many times have you put your tail between your legs as you pussyfoot around a world of monkey justice? That time is over. This is a call to action.
Take on a pitiful tone of a meek victim. The tone, no, is not out of any realistic hope to draw forth enough compassion for your release. Things have escalated past that point. It is to bait them, stoke the appetite. Crowds lust to stomp the downtrodden, polished mirrors to their cruelty. It is out of a desire, moreover, to increase your coiled energy for lashing out at what will thereby swell beyond a ramming wall against free passage to your once-in-a-lifetime interview—swell into a polished mirror of your patheticness (smash-beckoning for you as well, however much it reflects calculated performance).
Plead your urgency. Plead with hopeful expectation since you—the you in some other hemisphere, so to say—well knows that hopeful expectation is ridiculous here, which only fans the building torrent: a broken record, yes, but hypnosis (especially self-hypnosis) works on humans. Explain the critical nature of your interview—a self-imposed torment, since it reminds you of all that is going down the drain (swirling just out of reach like in a nightmare). Explain it, much more importantly, since you owe no explanation; since only a bitch-ass-punk would give an explanation at this time—and yes, you are going to have to make up for being one. Keep your decibel just below their cacophony—a self-imposed catalyst to tap further into the mitochondrial amphetamine harbored within each cell. Even lie and say your wife is in labor, giving the horde all the chances in the world—all the chances to deny you still and thereby add grist to your motivational mill.
Scan the officer’s face once again. Scan back to the young zombies, mostly white and desperate for purpose in the potential virality of doing what is said to be “for your own good,” for your own good as “a black male in a society that has declared total war on black bodies.” You read the headlines. You listened to the news. And yet you still chose the subway. The protest is over the death of a martyred lunatic whose unruliness and death threats to passengers landed him in the chokehold of a marine who, for whatever it might be worth to say, received cheers from black commuters in danger and death threats from mostly-white “antiracists” in cyberspace. Scan their faces—scan, scan, scan for a flicker of reason. Try to reach any lucid eyes beyond their algorithm lenses. Even though the race card has already been pulled just looking at you, vocalize your blackness. None of it will make a difference, of course. But unblinking cameras roll for court scrutiny.
Only the best of men, after all this edging, can keep resisting. Do the following exercise if you feel you are going to blow your load too soon. For what you are after is too cook in your own juices, low and slow, as long as you can.
Move your lower jaw to the left: breath in and then out while holding it there. Now move your lower jaw to right: breathe in and then out while holding it there. Place the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth: breath in and then out while holding it there. Raise your shoulders slowly as you breath in and then, as you breath out, slowly bring them down. Repeat if you need to.
So where do we go from here? Do we go scorched earth: sticking her smug neck with a poison syringe—antifreeze, bleach, isopropanol, insulin—or even just a brutal headbutt into her nose? Or do we ease in a bit more, giving the attorney more to work with than just the black card (a trump card in typical situations) in case you make it out? Run through the latter first.
Perhaps pivot off your meek presentation with a surprise snatch of a phone glowing in your periphery. And then, as you dash into the train’s recesses, hypnotize yourself to think your sole life-on-the-line mission is to pulverize the phone: as many fragments as possible. Even if it does nothing to help the free flow of bodies, at least you can claim this victory. Admittedly, that is too small a victory to assuage your apoplectic blood pressure. But perhaps the owner will chase you down (into your web), which will provide a pretext for the dagger’s sting should any hands be placed on you.—No, strike that. Rewind the reel.
Start back at the door. Make sure you have a belt can of bear mace (much better than some comic-book carnation and much more realistic and wieldy than a hypodermic needle taken from your diabetic father). Go for the highest Scoville you can get (five million) and whose stream extends over thirty feet (udap.com)—you are welcome. After the cadaverous smiles of mockery press closer, after more and more spittle flies into your mouth and eyes—peel back the safety catch. Remember, it is you who should be spitting in her face. She is the very temptation of the victimhood mentality ruinous to black kind—a temptation for all people given that it provides an aura of purpose and gravitas while also a golden ticket not only to sidestep hard work and accountability for past behavior and future fate-carving, but also to extort and abuse and manipulate one’s purported victimizers; a temptation especially for blacks given that it affords them Lord-of-the-Rings level grandeur as part of a longstanding communal struggle for justice against “the man,” an ancestral crusade for payback against the ever-shifting “powers that be.”
After sternum rams get harder, after the officer turns a blind eye to your pleas of due diligence—unleash the chemical inferno. What would be the valor of protest, beyond just the valor of having a view, if there were no risk of baptism by liquid fire? Direct the maelstrom right into her face—even slipping in a couple, or seven, canister punches to that cunt mouthpiece—and then over everyone. Refuse to free the trigger as the doors finally close, leaving just enough room for you to spread every last bit of caustic fog.
Let the doors close for protection against the underground gas chamber of your creation. The dagger, scorching a blurry halo around your phoenix form, can then step into the limelight—and righteously so (given the interview, given your own seared blindness)—if any sleeper agent tries to restrain you. Even if you cannot see, even if your main concern is clearing a path, try at least to hear the writhing of numbers on the other side of the glass. There is no guarantee, despite what protestant-work-ethic Americans like to believe, that all your efforts—all your baby steps of patient calculation—will be rewarded with a not-guilty sentence. Give yourself something, that rich umami of pain and panic, to play back. Indeed, you might even be killed today. Savor what you can.
Instead of going the mace route, you could just hold the dagger out from the headbutted spot on your chest and walk forward. Confront the slouchy beanie clone, tattooed in bought exoticness, with a stark choice. Test her resolve. Or perhaps even better, you could walk forward with a bleach-filled syringe. That might not be such an unreasonable option after all. Among those Shakespearean-era audiences who lobbed tomatoes or cabbage or fish or rotten eggs at the actors, surely at least some of them carried into the theater something from home. And so could you! The problem is, others among the swarm would no doubt swat away any such device. The bear mace strategy still crystallizes, then, as a more satisfying and yet prudent course, balancing both defense and offense in the chaos of the moment.
Edging cannot last forever. Edging would not be edging without release. Containment must eventually fail. Toward jouissance—that was the trajectory. You are not God. You cannot run all the options. The bear mace strategy is best. But you knew this all along, did you not? Do you have a syringe? No. The mace and then, when it ended, the only other device you brought along to the theater: the push dagger—you knew before swiping the Metro Card, did you not? And yeah, think of how good it would be to clock her with that can. If you could have skull fucked her to death as an infant you would have” “How’s this for a minority report, little snowbunny bitch?” But you cannot go back. You unmake this cunt by filling her sex-sleeve form with nut.
You are tired of it. You have been tired of it for too long. You are tired of mental slavery packaged as freedom, dependency packaged as cool. You have waited for it to blow over. It waxes and wanes, fine. But does it ever blow over? No? There are too many vested interests. This is climate, not weather. You are tired of being told you have to have this or that from white people in order to survive here. You are no slave in the basement of a torturer who remains your only source of food. Do not believe the hype! You are no panda, driven to near-extinction by human encroachment and habitat destruction and yet surviving almost entirely due to human-funded breeding programs, artificial handouts, and government-protected reserves. You are tired of the evangelizing, the incessant belaboring of the point from both white hos and every Whoopi on TV as if one day you would fall to your knees and finally confess to their teary applause. “Yes, I admit it. My PTSD worsens every second I have to spend in world that has declared total war on the black body and the black spirit. I gaslit myself. I said my failings were mine. I did not want to face that it was the white man behind it all.”
Fuck this cunt. You are tired of being told you cannot do it on your own. Fuck her puppets too. You are tired of black people mouthing these words, these antiblack words of perpetual leaning and dependency, in the name of black power. The militancy with which they insist that black fate is in the hands of white America, that antiblack racism means that black people cannot make it here on their own (a lie that would be hobbling, self-defeatist, even were it not a lie), does not make that insistence pro black. It is antiblack. Dependency is a loser’s game. Begging can never be shined into empowerment, at least any empowerment that rises above that of the sleazy craftiness of guilting society to giving more freebies—a craftiness that has now stooped to lies since black people enjoy the same about of freedom from antiblack persecution as anyone else (at least when we delete the hobbling in the form of help that comes from white society.) The mask is see through. You know who the real Uncle Toms are in this twilight zone. They will never break you, at least in the way they want.
They will pay. They do not know you. They will pay for not knowing you. You are not a doormat. You are not the center. We are all in this. Your role is vigilante. You are not God. You must have a style. And the tentativeness to own your style has given you the style of a doormat. That ends now. You need to make it end good. Flowers bloom in all kinds. You are a dangerous flower. It just took you a few decades to bloom.
You need to hit that cunt bitch in the mouth with the edge of that can with all your spiritual might. Mothers can lift cars when their babies are trapped. That is where you must go. Dig deep. And you can because this is bigger than you. Cunt comes in like a helper of black people. She is a liar. She is a poisoner. She talks about an antiblack agenda in the West. That is a lie. The only extra outside oppression put on black people in the West is her—her and her fight against what fake-progressive money-hungry clout-chasing snowbunnies like her call an “ever-growing white supremacy.” Remember all the hurtful help she has given your people. That will increase the power of each strike into mother-protecting-her-baby proportions.
She would blame all black failure on “the oppressive chokehold of white supremacy.” And look what that does. It allows blacks to wipe their hands of any complicity in their failures and instead fault the nebulous specter—a lie. And what does that then do? That stultifies black agency and black dignity, which itself leads to widespread underperformance in so many domains that it would almost seem there really was an antiblack chokehold. Fuck this cunt. Bust that that mahfuckin snot box.
She would see you as a sad case of “internalized whiteness” just because you refuse—even though it meant years of being called “Jiggaboo Uncle Tom,” “race-traitor-ass nigga,” by blacks under her spell—to repeat and repeat her ghoulish gospel, the macabre mantra and downright lie, as to how much blacks have been and continue to be victimized (and hence to how deserving blacks are of inferiority-ossifying sympathy perks, pity-driven privileges that excuse them from the responsibilities requisite for human flourishing). She would see you as a puppet of the white man for rejecting the idea that victimhood is the beating heart of black identity, for insisting that blacks have a personal say in their destiny and have all their opportunities open to them. She hates you because you encourage black people to free themselves from her grievance hypnosis, free themselves from the plantation of dependency that hypnosis keeps them on. Smash this cunt for that! Smash her for siphoning away what little sense of agency black people have. Smash the clout-chasing snowbunny slut for sending blacks charging like bulls at red capes in pursuit of cures—fruitless, too often toxic—for what is but a mirage of oppression! This cunt pushes black people so hard to see themselves as victims that they hallucinate racism in every shadow, distracting them from pursuit of any excellence beyond guilt trip grievance. Beat her face the fuck in!
She calls for defunding the police, the cunt—defunding the very thing keeping too many black communities from falling victim to the hypersexual-hyperviolent-hyperdruggie ravages of black culture. She could care less about the teary wails from so many black mothers who must pay the price of this white whore’s cure for a mere hystericized problem. Deck her right in the fucking teeth for that—right with the edge of that can, rich white ho!
She mocks the luminous ideals of the European enlightenment—objectivity and scientific inquiry, rationality and skepticism, diligence and hard work, foresight and planning, self-reliance and personal responsibility—as “whitewashed virtues,” as “hallmarks of whiteness (that contagious evil of all evils). Who the fuck is she, this black-poison cum dump, with her simple history? She dares have a phone even as she spits on Europe. Ruin her face with that can, nigga! Shakespeare and Columbus and Washington, punctuality and perfectionism and math—she would dump them in the trash on grounds that they are white! Ruin that fucking Becky-ass bozo face. Cunt is really going to spread a lie about how the door to our freedom is locked and then she is going to close to door! Bitch is going to take away the books that lift us, that cultivate an empathy beyond race color creed, all because they were written by whites! And then the bitch is going to support black music that glamorized destructive norms and behaviors: thugs, whores, drug addicts. Who is this bitch to mock Goethe? Smash that cunt face again for that!
She would lower standards for the black boys and girls she says she cares so much about, the lying slut cunt—as if blacks were mere underlings. She would “dismantle” math courses and classical music programs (and so many other sturdy ladders to physical and intellectual flourishing), especially on such ridiculous grounds as that they are “inimical to black styles of knowing,” or that they are “designed to humiliate black youth while making whites.” She would never challenge their bad grammar or their CP-time tardiness or their gangster music—all, and so much more, as a matter of being (in what amounts to a complete opposite-day twilight-zone nightmare) antiracist! Fuck her!
She would bring death onto the black spirit. You are stopping an atomic bomb to the soul of a people. No, it is much more. The antintellectual-hyperWAP toxicity of black American culture spreads everywhere. You are stopping an atomic bomb to the human soul! This woke cunt who goes around saying that “expecting black kids to become as literate as white children is an antiblack affront”—who better is she than yesterday’s slave masters who said that “Readin ain’t right for black kind.” Clock that bitch like your life depended on it! This cunt thinks that the standard is racist just because more blacks fail to meet it. “How’s this for disparate impact? Huh, slut!?” That is what you say as you clock this white bitch, the scarf-wearing scum.
She would have blacks protected from hearing uncomfortable data, unsettling words and ideas, while reading a textbook in a college course they chose to be in—as if blacks are invalids. Every hit to her face proves you are no invalid. Just to feel good about herself this blonde anorexic bad built bozo bitch will groom black children into perpetual leaners, spoiled entitled monsters, supercitizens with no motivation to develop into full-fledged agents! All the subminimal expectations (not just in education, but in conduct even), all the kid-glove leniencies—what does it do? It spoils blacks into an infantilized state of arrested development and dependency on whites, which further fuels grievance about being so dominated and degraded and devastated by whites (a vicious feedback loop). She wants fucking pets! She wants pets who will only sing about our victimhood! She wants pets who will never hear anything that upsets the victim narrative cunt-borne lie! Knock this bitch’s lights out for being a groomer predator cunt!
She would keep blacks dependent and broken, keep them sick, in order to reap the moral praise of being the healer. This a Munchhausen bitch and the only good a Munchhausen bitch has is to be a set of fuck holes. Fuck this cunt. Beat her face with that motherfucking can, nigga, like you raping this lily-white bitches face in the fucking bassinet before she could have done her damage! Beat it like that. Watch her teeth bust and just hit the slut cunt bitch again and again.
She stokes a moral hysteria about white supremacy on the hunt and keeps apologizing for being white. The fucking cunt needs to apologize for being a cunt poisoner. How can people address the root issues behind the upsetting disparities with her lies? Skull fuck material no doubt as early as five or six, this whore is pulp in the making. Make it happen, nigga. This is your time. We all die. This heals. It is brain damage time for this cunt. She is Satan’s spawn. Some are deemed vermin on the basis of a lie. This no lie. Gas chamber would be too good. Beat her fucking face in with the can—the fucking edge!
She baits a white backlash. White men are sick of the punking. Every screen you turn on readily shows that the mockery is not just acceptable but actually aspirational. That understates the point. As if whites were not so straight-jacketed, so vulnerable to deplatforming and job loss just for unsettling BIPOC population with certain statistic or even saying a word precariously close to a word only black people can say, that it makes perfect sense why more and more pray for 23andMe to reveal blackness—the mocking and punking of white men is even considered valorous, as valorous as white men mocking black people is considered cowardly (“brave” is the Hollywood Oscar’s speech word, “brave for punching up” is how they put it in their ultimate gaslightery). White men are sick of the asymmetry in what they can say or what art they can create. They are sick of being told they have oppressive optics. They are sick of being told to stay in their lane and that they cannot write nonwhite characters in their books. They are sick of being hit with the cudgel of cultural appropriation—especially when no one owns culture, when all cultures and all their products were a function entirely of what came before, when all cultures steal and remix. This cunt is baiting a backlash just to say “See, I told you so.” She cares not one bit about the damage that will be done to blacks. Smash the cunt!
Smash the cunt and smash the cunt. Her predatory help seems to her so truly like real help that this is for her own good. The parasite had it coming. She is nothing now. Her face is mush—just one bacterium in a whole flush, but a good mush nonetheless. But we want more than mush. We want brains. She likes to give brain black guys. Well let her then.
Behold yourself in your glory. You burst through the choking fog, blade clenched in your searing fist, heedless of appeals. Behold your balls. You are a reasonable man in an unreasonable world. Carve a path of blistered steps through the fallout haze. Destiny awaits along the rails beyond this threshold of necessary violence. Today the cauldron of your boundless potential boils over at last. Slice them all, as many as you can get. You have got your one. These are all cherries.
Moral clarity sometimes requires accepting the mantle of madness. You are John Brown dragging pro-plantation men out of bed and hacking them to death for being, like all these SJW pigs, murderers by proxy. That is who you are. John Brown did not know whether history would vindicate his insanity. But that did not stop him from removing tumors. And this has not stopped you. You are a dancing star.
You are going home. The ambulance has come. It is your time. Walk into the light of peace, knowing this cannot be easily written off as evidence that the trauma black kings like you face is so bad that even the efforts to save them result—as it might with a feral cat who bites and scratches the humans just trying to help—in lashing out at the very rescue workers fighting on his side.
You have ranted too long for that narrative to go unchallenged. There are receipts. Your girlfriend and your child—they know. You have complained to friends. They all have internalized the manifesto. Your friend Mike, in fact, has your if-I-ever-just know letter.
Just know——. Man, what can I say? Just know that this was the way I saw fit to protect black people and really mankind from these bored warrior whites, the scarf-wearing fuckers. They operate on an insidious lie that the West has declared a war on the mind body and soul of black people. The lie is that the antiblackness project of white supremacy enjoys an especially pervasive grip over the West. The lie is insidious because it demoralizes black people. It gives them an excuse. It keeps them stuck in grievance. And it perpetuates the cycles where blacks are born thinking they need extra help because there’s this whiteness bogeyman out there. And then guess what? They end up needing help, which continues the cycle.
And that’s the crazy shit. That has me all fucked up on how even to express the point. The white supremacy shit is a lie. That rolls off the tongue easy. And you better than anyone know that I say it like a broke record. But like for the last year, maybe two, it didn’t seem right coming out my mouth. I continued to say it but it didn’t sit right. I knew why. I just did not want to face it. I’m starting to see that these woke motherfuckers are right. There is an antiblack agenda. The crazy shit, though, is that they are the evidence! All the shit they do to “dismantle white supremacy.” And it isn’t small. They have their tentacles not just in Hollywood and comedy stages and university classrooms. Their reading materials—chief among them that fucking walking poison DiAngelo and all the shit (How to Be Antiracist, How to be Less White)—are integrated into various federal agencies: Homeland Security, FBI.
So yeah, I have come to see my packaging as false—or more like too narrow. There really is an antiblack agenda. It might seem weird you hearing that come out of my mouth but its true. I’m not saying its intentional. It’s more institutional. All the helping hands and special treatment given out to black people, the fear of calling them out for their shit culture (the black Americans, of course)—it presumes that we can’t do for ourselves. It keeps us on a plantation of dependency like big spoiled babies, like that bitch from Willie Wonka. I watched a documentary about how Caribbean blacks won’t rent out their AirBnBs to black Americans. Gee. I wonder why? We’re menaces. They don’t clean up. They don’t have accoutnability. They fight and get draw police presence. And what happens if I complain about the glorification of drugs and violence? I’m an Uncle Tom. And what happens if, God forbid, white parents shake their head as they steer their children out of the park because the pussy-juicing music, the raps abpout perc30s stuffed in the asshole, is too loud? They are racist.
It’s wild man. And thing of like black people outside of all this nonsense. Little Nigerian kids are out here smarter than the average adult American—black white or whatever. And they have this weight on their shoulder of the black American. If I’m pissed, they should be livid. If I used the identitarian logic, I might push back: “These Nigerians are getting paypack for selling blacks off to slavery.” Of course, there are two problems here. (1) This logic is poison: Nigerians today had nothing to do with what they ancestors did—even though, side point, I do know a lot of Nigerian slumlords who have that enterprising spirit of Madam Tinubu (look her up) and I cannot help but think these slumlords would have been the ones sell off their fellow blacks. (2) The identitarian logic of the West must also have an extra antiwhiteness filter, though. We must only painting whites in a bad light, never black. So we can’t really even really say that Nigerians sold blacks into slavery. That would be another expression of the pathology of whiteness: “white fragility,” “white deflection,” or whatever.
So you got the ruination of blacks here on the one side. But that only one part of it. Think of all the people caught in the shakedown. Think of all the whites suffering because their society has to serve black people. Put the Asian kids aside who get blocked from universities because of DEI quotas. (That is just one of many death knells. They will go elsewhere and make other coutnries great while we’re over her in Sexyy Redd decline.) But yeah, just focus on white people. Remember how Veruka’s father has all those workers in his plant opening Wonka boxes to ensure thast his precious daughter get her golden fuckign ticket? White people, white men especially, are those workers. They have to give up their spots. They are expected to stay in their lane and stay quiet. They are put under extra scrutiny. (Expect to see, I guess, a lot of white stars even in basketball and boxing. Because it sis that sort of real oppression that does have the silver lining of breeding greatness.)
But seriously, what would you do if you were white—especially a down and out white—seeing the constant boosterism directed toward black people as you are passed over for jobs, policed harder because of your “oppressor optics” and all this shit. White is literally a pejorative. “Ain’t no white motherfucker gonna talk to me like that. I’m a black woman, a queen.” That is normalized on regular TV! It’s not just black Tubi.
I have enough of a damn heart to be pissed enough seeing my fellow man punked like this. Imagine how they feel. It’s fucked up. Did you know with all this equity shit music programs are getting rid of blind auditions—you know, where the violist or whatever plays behind a screen. Blind auditions were a saving grace in an age of true racist-based discrimination against blacks (as opposed to just discrimination agaisnt blacks because they don’t measure up_). It allowed musicians to be judged on what counts: their musical ability. But now we are in a time where it is deemed crucial to go even with the third-rate black over the first-rate white or Asian so as to make things equitable. Do you believe it? Doesn’t it make you crazy? I’m mean, I’m not crazy about factory farming or pollution so I guess I can see how someone cannot bug out. But it just looms so big in my mind. Blind auditions, once beacons of fairness, are considered now violent impediments to the creation an equitable society. We have come back to handpicked based on color.
It is fucking wild. It just blows the mind. But my point is. Don’t you think white people are gonna be pissed? These woke whites are not only crippling us and attacking our sense of agency and our pursuit of excellence beyond anything but handouts. They are on top of all that baiting white backlash! I mean yeah, part of me thinks whites are to scared to do shit. But I’m thinking of these Starbucks whites, city whites. What about the rednecks? They turn on the same TV and see themselves punked and blocks and then gaslit. The mantras repeated like a castechism. Whites have all the popwer. Only whites can be raqcist because racism requires power. And yet they are stuck in their same powerless position. Surely are some point you snap. I know I would!
These woke motherfuckers are playing with fire. Country whites, they know how to survive on the land—at least better than blacks. And the motherfuckers are armed. It’s hard not to see in this what I see everywhere: a desire to keep making money, keep the grant funds rolling in. Because when whites start pushing back, even if its not the “total war gun violence but just like the pendulum swinging the other way to compensate for the excesses of the woke shit, and like then white people be out here calling black people “niggers.” And its hard not too. And I’m not even coming from some Chris Rock shit. I mean after having your language policed so severely for years it becomes a taste of freedom.
But see, that’s the thing. What will happen as a result? These woke motherfuckers will be like “See, I told you there was white supremacy lurking! It was right there under the surface waiting to blow!” Nah motherfuckers! You manufactured that shit.
On some real tip, and I know this sounds like some conspiracy shit, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out antiracists groups, like BLM or the most disgusting one (that Southern Poverty Law Center) are actually funding antiblack shit! I’m talking straight up KKK rally shit. The machinery is not hidden. Just as United healthcare has a vested interest in seeing people sick, the same applies here. These social justice warriors keep blacks stuck on a plantation of dependency, where the very ineptitude enabled by the spoiling handouts can be cited as evidence of a white supremacist plot against them. These social justice warriors bait white backlash in the process, normalizing the punking of whites and the diminished opportunities for whites so that told-ya-so reactions further justify their grant funding, their mission—their DEI stations in every university and government agency. The corruption and greed is clear. Even if by some fat chance the antiracist watchdog groups were not funding white supremacist groups, that would not matter. Their record could be clean, free of all cynical opportunism. They could really believe in their goodness. That would not matter. The spirit of the effort matters. United Healthcare does not need to be funding McDonald’s and gangster rap to know of its evil. Likewise here. It is a power play—a poisonous one.
I can see how that might sound wild. But I don’t think it is that crazy. That how this fucking place works. Shit, if firefighters were running out of work those motherfuckers would set fires. At least there would be tempting incentives to. I mean, that’s how bureaucracies function. Diversity industries and nonprofits, whole administrative systems or whatever, can develop a vested interest in maintaining a state of crisis to justify their own budget and staffing, their whole existence. That is what we have here. I think you see now why I almost can feel homicidal at points. I’m like “Please stop helping us! Your fucking help is hurting.”
Despite how I speak, I know its not just all white led. I know black people are responsible too. Shit, my empathy extends to them to. It’s hard not to blame them. We have lived comfy on the plantation. People will take the known basics over the uncertain promise of something better, especially when that something better requires getting our lazy asses up. It is human nature. Maximize calories in and minimize calories out. It is why we’re all fucked up by Snickers bars. It’s also a cultural-identity thing. We have this woe-is-me identity to uphold. We feel oneness with our spiritual singing ancestors: “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen . . . .” We have our ceremonies. And that is no small matter. But just like in the Leslie Marmon Silko book that you never get to, to be healed we need new ceremonies. New ceremonies are scary though. It’s leaving the nest.
So no, by targeting these woke whites I am not trying to deny black agency. Yes, I call these whites puppeteers of blacks. And I know that makes me seem like I am divesting blacks of agency just like these woke fuckers do. Since I am now considering this my impromptu manifesto to you, I might as well answer the question why I target the scarf-wearing woke white, especially the women? Because I’ve decided long ago that if I ever go out I am not going to diffuse my potency, casting it all around. Here is my reasoning.
When you are being mobbed or are fighting on behalf of people who are mobbed—and btw I do feel I’m doing that. I mean my white professor was fired for reading out loud Huckleberry Finn, reading out every “Nigga Jim.” I mean, I know it makes me sound nuts when I go off on tangents. But they aren’t really tangents. Every job I have taken—it could be anything—and there were always these antiracist trainings like the ones I mentioned: “How to Prevent whiteness from Causing Harm in Private and Public Spheres.” They beat over your head how bad black people have it and how much privilege white people have. Why do I have to learn for a damn IT job doing dumb shit—not even dumb shit but divisive: literal scapegoating straight out of the antisemite playbook. So I had to do a learning module for the job I just got. You wouldn’t believe the questions I had to answer. “After the police shooting, Tom—a cis white male—wondered if the black male did anything to provoke the encounter. Explain in your own words why this would be an overt example of white denial even if Tom insisted that he was merely asking and not assuming?” Or check this one. “In a city council meeting, in response to the high crime level in the black part of town, Jim—a cis white male—says ‘Surely the fact that all these young kids hear the glorification of drugs and violence in rap music has a grooming effect. A black man’—you know these test writers wanted to say black king. But best believe they capitalize every goddamn “b” in “black” but never the “w” in “white.” You can’t make this shit up. Anyway, “A black man in the room, understandably upset, stands up to speak truth to power: ‘Of course you would say that. You are a white man. You harbor racism in your heart.’ Jim is eager to say he does not harbor racism. Jim’s response is a textbook example of white fragility. Explain why in your own words.”
You really can’t make this shit up. And by the way, guess who lead the campaign against my teacher? ‘That is not acceptable!’ And guess who tried to rally me because I was black and was expected to be deeply offended? That gets me exactly to my point! The bitch came to my fucking apartment when I didn’t answer emails.
Anyway, when you are getting group stomped you got to pick one. That is your best hope. Pick one motherfucker among them. Bite that motherfucker. Tear her eyes out. What’s the saying? He who chases two rabbits catches none? Grab the one rabbit and tear it apart on some ancient Greek shit. At least you will have that one satisfaction, tha tone secret blood, as they are kicking your gut. I chose the white woman. That is who I will grab in this fight.
Any decision comes with costs. And mine in this case is that my rhetoric makes it seem like the white woman is a puppeteer to blacks. In some senses I do think this is largely right, to be honest. And when I feel like I’m losing it and I get that feeling inside like I myself am being controlled as if by some demon—yes, then I do resort to that language. But obviously it is a gross oversimplification. I know that. But yeah—that is who I lunge for. You got to pick one. Even if it is random, you do.
But actually this is not random. It also serves a rhetorical purpose. Because think about it. Black people don’t want to learn that all the so-called pro-black antiracist shit, all the “math is racist” or “defund the police” or ‘I’m opposes and so I need help’ shit is the machination of white bitches. I’m making the bet, between you and I, that for me to position these ideas as woke white woman ideas, which they largely are, it will have better strategic impact. We already hate Becky and Karen. It is a life or death fight. So if I can have black people all identifying these hurtful policies and hobbling supercitizen treatment with the machinations of Beck and Karen, then I think that will serve us—and thereby the whole of mankind—well. Maybe we can better break free of the wormtongue hypnosis and look to how we contribute to our own failures. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Who can resist the temptation to have a readymade excuse for all one’s failures?
Blaming woke white bitches is not only largely true but our best shot. That my idea anyway. And there are those personal reasons I mentioned, like that white bitch trying to rally everyone to censor and silence and shame someone, a wonderful professor, whose mere presence did more for black kind than any of her poison. I hope for a future where we will will resist this woke shit and start reading Shakespeare. Shakespeare is for humanity, for all of us. These woke white bitches—see there I go, I can’t help it—mock Shakespeare as a “Dead white man” and mock logic and timeliness and perfection and manners. They want us like in loin clothes consulting charlatan shamans. They are poison. I’m rambling. But I can’t stop. They would poison us to feel good about themselves. Like I guess I’m autistic or whatever because I can’t stand that they actually think they are helping when in truth they are hurting us. They actually think they are being brave when it is unbrave: if Disney supports your cause it is not radical. They actually think they are being selfless when it is selfish. I literally cannot take it. It is like nails on a chalkboard. So yeah, the white woman in the SJW scarf—that is where I direct my fury.
Picture that in the papers! Your words bear the inner marks of truth and justice. This will have ripples. You are the tipping point. You have become glorious, bleeding on the concrete.
Take your exit with pride. No matter the incentives, you core circle will not pull the card of “he was radicalized by a false ideology.” Roommates in college, classmates and grade school—sure, they might tow the line here. But your people have heard your tears, heard the national-monument-level passion with which you went off at dinner tables and on couches. You spoke with a righteousness bearing the internal marks of truth. No, they will not turn. They will speak responsibly too, which is good. After all, you do not want more killing—well, more accurately: you do not want people like you to want more killing. Your people will say “It was unfortunate that Jakim chose this path. We think there are more productive ways to fight cancer than radiation. But one thing is clear: he was right about the diagnosis.”
Your people will keep your message alive. Fire with fire—their heartbreak will spur their intensity. Take heart in the end in that. This lie of white supremacy rising was a money-making scam. And they will say so in interviews. They will tell that for the rest of their lives. Your incessant venting was not enough. But it was priming. The message now will better come through. The predatory help industry will crash down no matter the incentives for blacks to stay on the plantation, no matter how good whites feel spooning out their poisonous charity—a charity that makes plane drops of winter coats to starving Somalians look like a lifetime supply of fortified peanut butter. Your people will say, in no small part because of you, “No. Enough is enough!” And they will eventually stop this blight of whites and the hoodwinked puppets who think that obsession with being down and out, obsession with grievances and victimhood and what is owed to them (owed to keep them on the plantation that they have over generations grown to find a comfort and a sense of identity and even pride in), is true black power. Black people will have new ceremonies.
Give in to the creeping numbness. Surrender with that knowledge. The silent majority of black people are on your side. More will come of out of the woodwork, inspired by your case. Blacks are not subhuman. They have hearts. They see the truth. It does not sit well with their spirit to live in a world of lies, however much they benefit. It eats at them. All the blacks who have it so good, seeing the ease with which their white friends are blocked from friend circles and romance and career opportunities—even if somehow the could sit with the inhumanity in this equity and all its anti-colorblind auditions, they cannot sit any longer with the lie of an external force of whiteness ever on the hunt for them and holding them back at every turn. All the blacks who are marginalized and hobbled in their bonnet roach infestation, all the blacks struggling—they will no longer be able to sit with the lie that what is keeping them down has nothing to do with their daily practices and the poisons their own culture, and now the American cultures at large with the dominance of black culture, tell them are cool and hip to drink and smoke.
Yes, even these section-eight dependents are not subhuman. After they commit adultery or shoot someone or do drugs each day they hear that voice inside quoting hip hop lyrics meant to prove their swagger and hipness. But they know deep in the human part of their souls that this does not pardon them and that they have chosen the easy route of refusing to push back against a toxic culture. It does not sit well with their dignity, furthermore, to keep demanding freebies from the white world. Even spoiled children feel shame for their displays of entitlement. Even through the excitement of controlling their parents with emotional manipulation, to them—somewhere inside—it still feels wrong seeing their mother bend over backwards to give them everything. And when they grow up unable to do for themselves these grown children, some surviving nuggets of conscience within, feel shame for their dependent psychology. The feel shame, yes, no matter how much cultural idea logy pushes that shame down by stirring up lies as about a world against them—using as evidence the very ramifications of the history of hobbling handouts that have decreased the likelihood of their ever enjoying a normal adult-human degree of self-sufficiency, handouts that have kept them too small-minded and lacking in skills to govern their own affairs.
Go into the dark through the light tunnel of neuronal frenzy. Go home to the oblivion before conception, a black man having finally stood up to face the power ploy with brutal honesty. The letter will survive.
