Subway Restraint (ROUND 8)
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.
*I put this piece at risk going into mere 4chan edgelord juvenile territory with my edits today. But the writing poured out of me. It feels right. Just as writers should be brave enough to risk sentimentality (like Ted Kooser), I want to be brave enough to risk being written off a a juvenile edgelord. I am trying to capture a moment of violent jouissance at the end. There is not help for it.
Subway Restraint
[So here is how] I respond to the Uncle-Tom charge. . . . After the 60s black America turned around and began to put [its] fate in the hands of white America. We became dependent on white America. We said we have to have this and we have to have that. We have to have affirmative action. We have to have this kind of a program and so forth and so on all these demands that we made and which then, of course, come out of a psychology of dependence where “I can’t get ahead unless white America gives me all these things and white America bends over backwards and uses affirmative action to get me in here and get me in there” and so forth. “I can’t do it on my own. I can’t be self-sufficient. I can’t take care of myself.” So {these so-called] black militants are all dependent, obsessed. They are people who are obsessed with dependence. And the mask that they wear of black anger and they wear the fist. Who’s the fist pointed at? The fist is pointed at whites. The fist is that “I demand something from white people.” That to me is the very essence of Uncle Tomism. The fist is the Uncle Tom. All it is a militant begging, militant dependence. I’m the one who’s saying we can do it on our own and must do it on our own and we won’t ever get anywhere until we do do it on our own! I’m the one who says we have the ability to do it on our own, we have the capacity to do it on our own, and that dependence is a loser’s game. . . . We’re free. We’re free as we’re ever going to be. And now is our opportunity. We have to stand up like men and women and take it—regardless of what the world says, regardless of whether or not there’s still racism here. I’m the [true] militant. They’re the Uncle Toms.—Shelby Steele
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. Breathe through the claustrophobic crush. 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, 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).
Restrain yourself. Unloading after a wait—especially an agonizing wait, where every nerve screams for action—is better, we all know. Think of the blue juice building. The time for blade gratifications, multiple climaxes unlikely to be offset by a life ruined—if you do it now, like some monkey—by the gavel, might show itself with some patience.
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 her—“No! One! Gets! Off!”—hammer-fists away any bold hand trying to pry open the panels from within. Let it foment even as her spittle spatter and repeated forehead rammings of vindictiveness, right into your heart, grow more aggressive with your futile insistence to be set free from the metal trap of the neo-witch hysteria. It can be hard, yes—like trusting that the sea will buoy your body if only you let go of tree-mammal tension. But trust that the futility is a friend. It grows the potency of your ferocity, the need for your ferocity, as long as you stay rooted—rooted in that narrow space where you work yourself up for having been made a sardine and yet where you, wanting to “make it last all night” like Tom Petty 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 the counterfactual 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 audaciously aimed curbside)?
Besides, the officer is white. He is white and, even though you have the asset of being darker skin, 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? It sure 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 get 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 or to participate in what you know to be a system of lies and injustice. You have so little respect for these powers, the true powers that be with the platoform to keep denyign that they are the true powers that be, that you are not even tempted. Perhaps you are too hardheaded, but you are you. And it is admirable. It is a hill you will die on. 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 grave. 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. They make finer grain decisions unlike in more suburban areas where the woke white will be like “Let the king pass.”
There are also plain logistics to consider. If they let you go that breaks the seal. So even if they want to respect a king, it is for the greater good to keep you trapped. Perhaps this frustration will wake you up to the slaughter of kings and queens. And even if not, even if nothing good comes from causing discomfort to the innocent and the entitled (namely, you as a black person in Amerikkka), that will just be unfortunate collateral damage—just like in Ellison’s Invisible Man, still your favorite book since college, where the Marxist group stirs up Harlem riots as part of an agenda, eerily similar to the real life situation where these groups tried to create a massive black welfare dependency, to tank the government. And speaking of that novel 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. 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. For now at least, until perhaps the wheel turns back around, we—and thereby Disney, the weather-vane of the herd—have passed the high water mark of the Black Panther. It has been one or two Oscar ceremonies already since the last time any speech had to involve a star—usually another white cunt—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, have been supplanted by the more urgent issue of protecting as many black young men as we can (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 Percocet suppository but because, think about it: “the birds and the bees” 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 since the last movie, perhaps a Tom Hanks one, 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, 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.
The trans cause is in the foreground now. Oscars winners are not only flaunting 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, 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 cunts bitch sluts, feels “uncomfortable now” (and perhaps in part because it hits on a truth: how the illegal scurries in the secret of night in a way remarkably similar to the roach)—we are bound to get Oscars 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. Let the one truth—namely, that even though you crave escalation you would not be disappointed (but, in fact, overjoyed) if someone did see your humanity and insisted “Wait, let this man go free”—and let the other truth—namely, that the chance is infinitely small for anyone to meet such a standard, even if they felt an inkling to—build the righteous pressure beneath the cork.
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 (at the same time, of course, as you 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.” Desperate for purpose, in what? The protest is over the death of a martyred lunatic whose unruliness and death threats to subway 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 (but 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.
Now only the best of men, after all this edging, can resist much longer. Do the following breathing technique 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.
If this is not working well enough to calm the fight or flight, you can always remind yourself of how lucky you are. For just imagine the nightmare this would be if you were a white man. Every screen you turn on readily shows that the punking and mocking of white people, especially white men, is not just acceptable but actually aspirational. That understates the point. As if whites were not so straight-jacketed, so vulnerable to deplatformign 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).
You are discourage from using both techniques, though. They have a synergistic calming effect. These are simply a means to an end of building up greater jing. Remember that. If they calm you down too much—well, you already know: you become just another quietist at risk of once again putting their tail between their legs as they pussyfoot around a world of monkey justice. How many times have you done that? That time is over. This is a call to action.
If you find yourself too calm, think about what cunts like the cunt in front of you represent. Really think about it. They are poison for black people. They come in like helpers but they are poisoners. They talk about an antiblack agenda in this country. But the best evidence for such is all their efforts fight against that agenda, fight against what these liar progressive money-hungry clout-chasing snowbunnies call an ever-growing white supremacy. These fucks would defund the police, defund the very thing keeping too many black communities from falling victim to the hypersexual-hyperviolent-hyperdruggie ravages of black culture. These fucks want to keep treating blacks as entitled supercitizens even though it means undercutting the motivation to develop into full-fledged agents: lowering standards for them, slandering Shakespeare—one of the very figures that can raise them up into true agency—as a “white male” (which means evil); never challenging 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.
If for some reason you must work yourself up even more, which you probably will not but knowledge is power, recall that you were already alienated as as kid from fellow black people because you liked books and rock music. White protesting cunts like this one want to drive the knife in further. After all, these things—books and rock—are, beign white things, as evil as Shakespeare and Columbus and Washington, as evil as punctuality and perfectionism and math. Think how many times white “progressive” cunts just like this (skull fuck material no doubt as early as five or six), and the blacks they puppeteer, have called you traitor by the time you started thinking for yourself in college, where you resisted the sugary-thick cult Kool-Aid of a curriculum repeatedly pushing you to place every shortcoming you have at the feet of whiteness. Rehearse the humiliations. Turn memory into fuel.
Let it really sink in—how many times you have been called a “house nigger” because you “buy into” what cunts like her call “the neoliberal-white-supremacist fantasy” of blacks having a personal say in their destiny (yes, even in “a hellhole like this where blacks can barely move around freely or even breathe”). Think how many times you’ve been called a “self-deluded double-crosser” because you embrace practices to fortify resilience to the injustices of the world (especially “white” practices like journaling, cultivating a growth mindset, prizing punctuality, tackling addictions, combating negative attitudes towards education, developing financial savvy, setting clear interpersonal boundaries, resisting the peer pressure to lead with violence, prioritizing prosocial circles, practicing mindfulness meditation)—yes, even if those injustices merely amount to seeing the word “nigger” while reading an American-History textbook for a college class they chose to be in, or hearing white people (and others “contaminated with whiteness”) speak on “black topics.”
Picture how they mocked you for “actin white” for showing interest in school and for making better dietary choices than grape “drank” and Popeyes. Picture how they said “nigga you been done lost your black card” because—instead of repeating and repeating the 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)—you reject the idea that victimhood is the beating heart of black identity. You encourage black people to free themselves from the mental encumbrances of the servant mentality even as your own people—puppeteered by these white liberal tyrants (always with their scarves and beanies just like the cunt right before you, the true scum of the earth)—go: “Tch. Let me find out this nigga deaf, dumb, and blind.”
“Whitewashed jigaboo,” recall that colorful phrase lobbed at you because you pointed out too loudly the disturbing parallel between yesterday’s slave masters who (whether out of concern about their chattel getting any “dangerous ideas of liberation” or even out of warm-fuzzy desire not to burden the black mind with what it is not equipped to handle) said that “Readin ain’t right for black kind” and today’s woke pedagogues who say (with equally-troubling certitude and feel-good righteousness) that “expecting black kids to become as literate as white children is an antiblack affront, intrusive to their native disposition.”
Place again into your vision being called “a step-n’-fetch-it-ass negro” because you wanted to do the true antiracist thing and remind us all—no matter what black studies programs might tell you—that the story of black significance extends beyond the their historical subjugation and degradation by whites—and most definitely beyond the false tale too lucrative, too institutionally sacrosanct, too psychologically ingrained, too wise-and-moral sounding to resist reciting as catechism (and always in that fraudulent swagger tone we get in finger-snapping spoken-word performances where the “poet” asks like they are saying something deep and new when it is just straight Disney): namely, their skin-of-the-teeth survival in the face of an ongoing white oppression forever preserving them as the owed-innocents of mankind.
No matter how many times you have heard some derivation of “Tch. Nigga acting all brand new with all that flag-loving shit” remind yourself that you are brave enough to endorse what mainstream antiracism calls the so-called “white supremacist notions” (colorblindness, meritocracy, punctuality, objectivity, common humanity, all lives matter, and so on); brave enough to voice skepticism toward the doctrine of inherited trauma (which says that the full history of oppression passes down each generation of black people through the epigenome, leaving every black person more victimized than is imaginable even if white supremacy were not still inflicting its violence); brave enough to insist that whites enjoy the same amount of humanity or the same amount of moral authority as blacks; brave enough to reject as barbaric the notion that the only way to undo the injustice of the past is through injustice in the present; brave enough to say that “the push for us to identify as victims in the sanctimonious guise of ‘antiracism’ makes us hallucinate racism in every shadow and distracts us from black excellence”; brave enough to say the inconvenient truth that black people, accustomed to the guilt-trip benefits that come from being deemed a victim in a culture that values victimhood, have an investment in keeping their victim status as much as hospitals have an investment in people getting sick (an investment that motivates them to be hypersensitive to racial slight and even to register false positives of racism; an investment that threatens to lull them into believing that black power, black somebodyness, amounts to getting whatever they can through the emotional manipulation of white people); brave enough to tweet the thought (career-ruinous even though you have the protection of your skin color) that the police shooting of the black man “might not have been an act of white supremacy (especially when we consider he was flaunting a weapon and was living a thug’s life too often glorified in pop culture)”; brave enough to laugh every time it is repeated that racial disparities in incarceration and STDs and homicide reflect nothing more than systemic antiblackness.
Think of the amount of times you have been called “cracker lover,” and so many of theses slurs come from wanna-be-down SJW scarf-wearing white cunts just like rape hole in front of you, for pointing out that all the talk—talk as grim and self-defeatist as it is tired and self-righteous—about blacks being the most dominated and degraded and devastated people the world has ever seen (such that there remains “little reason to strive in this racist abyss”) is merely self-serving—self-serving, however, in the most antiblack sense: self-serving in the most antiblack sense since it allows them to wipe their hands of any complicity in their failures and instead fault the nebulous specter of “antiblackness,” which thereby promotes an agency-and-dignity-deprived circumstance that further fuels grievance about being so dominated and degraded and devastated by whites; self-serving in the most antiblack sense since all the subminimal expectations (not just in education, but in conduct even), all the kid-glove leniencies, such repeated talk aims to wrest from whites only 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).
You have more than enough techniques to continue the edging, to walk that fine line, in ways that ultimately benefit you: making your climax better and more reasonable all at once. So let us get back to the concrete position. What move do you make from here? What would be best, something to give your attorney more to work with than just the black card (a trump card in typical situations), before going with a scorched-earth strike: like sticking her smug neck with a poison syringe—antifreeze, bleach, isopropanol, insulin—or even just a brutal headbutt into her nose?
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. You have edged long enough. It cannot go on indefinitely. The 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. 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.
Mothers can lift cars when their babies are trapped. So you need to hit that cunt bitch in the mouth with the edge of that can with all your might. To build that might to mother-protecting-her-baby proportions, remember all the hurtful help she has given your people.
She blames all black failure on “the oppressive chokehold of white supremacy. This siphons away what little sense of agency black people have. It sends us charging like bulls at red capes in pursuit of cures—fruitless, too often toxic—for what is but a mirage of oppression! Smash this cunt for that!
She calls for police defunding, the cunt—regardless of the teary wails from so many black mothers who must pay the price of this 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. Smash just for the face that she dares have a phone even as she spits onf Europe. Ruin her face with that can, nigga! 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 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, cunt? She 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 wants to “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 brings death onto the black spirit. So hit that bitch like your life depended on it! Watch her teeth bust and just hit the slut cunt bitch again and again.
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. Fuck her! She would have college blacks protected from hearing uncomfortable data, unsettling words and ideas—as if blacks are invalid. Just to feel good about herself this blonde anorexic bad built bozo bitch will groom black children into perpetual leaners, spoiled entitled monsters! She wants fucking pets! She wants pets who will only sing about our victimhood! She wants pets who will never hear anythign that upsets the victim narrative cunt-borne lie! Knock this bitch’s lights out for being a groomer predator cunt! 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!
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? She need to apologize for baiting a white backlash. White men are sick of the punking, 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. 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. And then behold you in your glory: you burst through the choking fog, blade clenched in your searing fist, heedless of appeals. 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.
Moral clarity sometimes requires accepting the mantle of madness. You are John Brown dragging pro-slavery men out of bed and hacking them to death for being, like all these SJW pigs, murderers by proxy. 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.
