Subway Restraint (ROUND 9)
scent of the day: Oud Taiwan, by Areej le Dore
There are dark, bitter pine wood and musty-herbal pine layers throughout this fragrance, smoked and overtime turning into a lovely ash. I get cabin vibes. There is eucalyptus menthol present, though it becomes ashier as it dries. The menthol is not nose-clearing the way it is in Yaaseen’s Suma oil, nor is this as smokey as that oil. This is much more well-behaved, and it is a truly remarkable rubber-burned-in-a-jungle experience. A Tauer-style industrial oud comes out, very burnt rubber for hours and less vanillic than Tauer’s work (which for all my celeb ration seems a bit amateurish in comparison to this).
The industrial quality and ash create a good tension with the sauna vibe of the opening. There is also a sweetness and florals in the drydown which gives further tension with the dark black elements. The smoked pine resin makes this read as amber, and deep in the evergreen forest character there is a Russian Musk 2 pine smell. Right at the beginning, the oud is medicinal in the way Chinese ouds often are. There is also a dusty vintage smell from labdanum, castoreum, and civet. A Tabac Doré woodiness runs through the Taiwan, with perhaps some unstated crocodile wood contributing. Dark, smokey, leafy, and emerald green—there are subtle indolic florals throughout, with animalic extras that boost the floral and indole character.
Eucalyptus-pine-meets-burnt-tire-in-termite-holed-wood—that is the TDLR. There is a green rubber burning quality, and a boozy feel like from layers of fermented pine needle suggar—and this booze turns it feels to ash. There is a fiery, bitter, green, mushroomy spice feel to the oud. The black pepper combined with the smoke of the oud makes this read like peppercorn jerky. Not to spoil it for anyone, but from a distance especially, Oud Taiwan smells a great deal like Raid—although in a far classier way than something like a Rasasi Tobacco Blaze. That likely will not deter people too much, because part of what many art aficionados enjoy is that natural ingredients can produce these smells we are already familiar with from everyday life. It is a Chinese medicine cabinet plus Raid plus cade or smoldering juniper—a tire fire put out with Raid and—in honor of the indolis-boosted civet—some urine.
Oud Taiwan, I remember, was underwhelming at first. But it needed more time. This is only my third or fourth time wearign this bottle. I find the fragracne better each time. It has to be in my top 50 of all time. It is very woody, and even the pine element is more like a pine cone that has finished smoldering—done burning, with just wisps of smoke remaining. There is a green sweetness, a smokey piney resin, and a black-green amber character. It is as though a conifer forest sits next to a Raid chemical plant. It likely contains crocodile wood, which gives that tannin effect one gets from Sans Fleurs. When the pure oud Taiwan oil comes through, there is a molasses-smokey-green quality.
Taiwan is also notably menthol-minty, and it does last very long as a skin scent. It is much more collapsed in on itself—into a molasses goo that dries to matchstick ash in a slow time-lapse—almost as though it is over-blended to the point where it becomes difficult to pick out individual aspects. At first I thouhght this was an exeption to the rule that you yusually want things so blended that you cannot pick out individual notes. I thought that the fragrance foldign in on itself into a thrum of minimalism. Now I see this thrum and this merger of notes as a positive. It is like this green and woody thrum mixed with an old man’s pissy mustiness plus sulphorous matchstick put out on skin. This fragfrance is so simply and yet hard for me to describe. In a glut of great perfumes this one is a shinign star easyy to overrlook in the constant buy and sell fo the Facebook groups.
It has this signature scent style feel of minimalism—sort of like Dia Man in feel definitely not in aroma. I still feel that this fragracne is minimalism, at least in how it comes off, but I no longer see this fragracnes has have the modest whisper of Dia Man. Maybe my bottle needed to sit. Or maybe my brain neededto better learn to smell the ingredients. Now this comes off not only as perhaps one of my longest lasting natural fragrances but as loud too. It carries an aggressive aroma of Wasp and Hornet spray. It would be the alluring signature scent of an exterminator—perhaps the one from Naked Lunch, or John Goodman’s character in Arachnophobia: the opening is from right after a day of work, and the drydown finds him still in his jumper at the bar next to afull ashtray. I don’t know.
Tauer’s L’Oudh really zooms in on the burnt-clutch-and-spent-oil territory, a territory where it overlaps with Oud Taiwan. But Oud Taiwan is far better in terms of ingredients than the Tauer and now on a third or fourth wearing, it has impressed me in ways Tauer’s could never. Unlike Inverno Russo and War and Peace, which impressed immediately right out of the gates, this was initially a disappointment. It was that wasy with Oud Luwak and Antiquity as well. But coming at all these frags fresh and anew, all are much more impressive.
There is not much confidence that Tauer could have done something particularly interesting with this oud, but Prin could have. A hatred for amberwoods and the beastmode autotune captive molecules pushed me toward the artisanal houses: Pinoy, Jinx, Bortnikoff, Ensar, and Areej. The experience is valuable because it deepens appreciation for the absolute mastery of early Bortnikoff—whose one flaw, similar to Tauer’s, is the common base that runs through their work. In both cases it is a shared ambergris-incense DNA, both lovely, and both very different from one another. And yes, it also deepens appreciation for perfumers like Corticiotto, the Guerlain of our times, who could run circles around the basement egos who self-proclaim as masters—the exception perhaps being, although it is too early to call it, Wasif Reza whose Peau d’Orris Gold Edition has floored me. It also deepens appreciation for Prin: he knows how to use synthetics to amplify and highlight the exotic Asian naturals so beloved in Bortnikoff. Prin, despite the deep redundancy running through his fragrances, remains my man.
Oud Taiwan is bitter green pine on fire—Sichuan-level heat, but not red. It takes place in some Bortnikoff jungle crossed with a European forest where there are so many insects serving as vectors to various sorts of bacteria and parasites that ruin your life down the line, way later. VOC fumes in a piney yet burnt-tire way, with white hints of the indolis chemicals used in fragrances like Hera, Kinamo, and Last Season—the Last Season and Kinamo connection especially clear, as those come with salty seaweed just like Oud Taiwan does. Dirt, but not hay or barn—I get that her ein Oud Taiwan. I get the bittersweetness of greenery, only charred—as if wafted around for some Santería ceremony. The ambery body seems to serve a fixative role, like pine sap—very little in common with the red amber accord of labdanum and vanilla we get from typical amber fragrances. This one stays green, like fossilized pine sap.
*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 want to cut it down more. It sort of imploded while editing. I wanted to suggest more the idea today that the narrator is more like a daimon egging the man on—a tutelary spirit’s hortatory address to its charge in the minutes before an act it has been training him toward for some time.
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. 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). 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.
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 spiritual might. This is bigger than you. She comes in like a helper of black people but she is a poisoner. She talks about an antiblack agenda in the West. But the best evidence for such is all their efforts fight against that agenda, 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 do? That stultified 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. 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, distacting them from pursuite 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? Smash just for the face that 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, cunt? Smash her 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 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 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 brings death onto the black spirit. 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. 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.
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! Watch her teeth bust and just hit the slut cunt bitch again and again.
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. And then behold yourself 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-plantation 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.
The rest happens as expected. And going down you know how it will be framed. But that is okay. How can that not be okay if you are going home?
