It was that cookout.

He sat in the night paralyzed into indecision. Hatred and rage twisted his guts; fear froze them icy solid.

He mourned.

He hated.

He raged.

His son was dead.

Shot in the head.

Five years old.

Five fucking years old.

Fucking cracked-out nigger next door.

It made national news…after five days of a massive social media campaign.

Then not much attention was paid. A few conservative outlets used the murder as an opportunity for tub-thumping about “the liberal media hypocrisy” or some such shit. Then nothing more. Black men kill white people, it’s just crime, things that just happen every day. Something to give Black Twitter a laugh.

He stopped talking to his wife.

She took their surviving children to her mother’s.

But they were cooking out.

Murder, an unfortunate happening, but it’s the summer, time to enjoy some BBQ and brews.

The cops caught him; now he’ll get to chill in the state pen next to his high schooler fucking brother.

A hardness stole over him, hardening his guts, hardening his heart, muscles tensed into rock-solid lumps.

It surged through him. A massive pain in his chest like the impact of a sledgehammer. His limbs writhed of their own accord.

The pressure built until he felt like a dick swollen to bursting.

He cried into the dark recesses of his trailer, “Hilfe! Was ist los?!”

Then it stopped.

There was a strange feeling suffused through his body, a hardness, a compactness that had not been there before. Even his clothes felt different. Carefully, he crawled over to the bathroom sink and stood up; something in the whole scene seemed different. Laying a hold of the sink, his hands looked different in the dimness of the night light. His hands were dirty and gnarled, fingernails cracked and split. There was dried blood.

He flicked on the light and did not recognize who he was. In the mirror, a man stared back at him. Taller, hollow-eyed, face smeared with grease paint and mud. And the clothes, the clothes, were Erbsenmunster camo, a stahlhelm mounted the top of his head. Potato masher grenades strung across his chest and an MP 40 submachine gun slung over his shoulder. A schutzstaffel totenkopf emblem twinkled its silver skull smile.

“Mein Gott! Ich bin einen uberman!”

He goose-stepped across the living room to the door, grabbing an MG42 from the coffee table. He snapped his heels together and threw up a Roman salute.

In the shadows, he crept, just like in Stalingrad. He cocked the MG42 and waited.

The BBQ smell and the sound of Lil’ Young Jizzzzy filled the air. The party chattered on. Oblivious. Just another summer night.


Inside crackhead’s family trailer, Kasim was doing a quick in and out on Jamal’s asshole.

“Oh yeah, that shit’s tight! You a good bitch.” Kasim worked himself into a lather until he exploded inside Jamal’s rectum.

“That’s some damn sweaty ass!”

Jamal rolled over panting when suddenly Kasim shoved his buttocks over Jamal’s face.

Kasim planted his fine, firm black ass onto Jamal’s nose and ripped loose a massive fart.

Kasim walked away putting on his pants saying, “Imma get some ribs, we coo’?”
Jamal just gasped and nodded his head as Kasim’s sperm sloshed about in his lower bowels when a wailing roar broke from the sky. It penetrated the roof of the trailer and shook the glass panes. Naked, Jamal jumped up to run outside, but stumbled when a fleck of Kasim’s shit caught in the back of his throat, triggering a coughing fit.

He stumbled, he fell.

His last thoughts as the trailer exploded were, I have heard this sound before.


The Stuka’s dive bomb siren drowned out every other sound in the trailer court. The partiers looked around in wonder. Even Lil’ Young Jezzzzy’s (he-she changed his-her name during the course of these events) lyrics of confused bisexual love in da hood involving a Syrian refugee with disapproving parents couldn’t be heard.

When the trailer exploded, Hitler’s buzzsaw rang out. And a man charged in, shouting, “Gott mit uns!” Black bodies were jumping and shaking everywhere.

His hand was trained from many bitter battles on the Ostfront. Like a 1943 Rambo, he had the MG42’s belt wrapped around his left arm, while in the right, he had the MG pouring out lead.

Kasim tried to run, but his erect cock constricted his pants around his legs. He could only stare dumbly as the bullet trails tore into him.

He saw crackhead nigger’s parents and finished off the belt. He lined up the sights; no more cookouts. He cast away the MG and unslung the MP42. Nothing moved, nothing except the 50-year-old, 360-pound grandmother sitting in a strained and tortured lawn chair screaming, “MAH BABIES!!! MAH BABIES!!! MAH BABIES!!!”

He lowered the MP42 and strode over. He wound up a mighty right fist and punched the mammy in the face so hard she instantly turned into ten lampshades and 200 bars of soap.

Police sirens came closer; he saw the squad cruisers and opened fire with his MP42. Before the cops could roll out of their vehicle, he dashed for where his truck used to be. Now, instead, there was a Panzerkampfwagen IV.

Once secure in his armored ride, he punched it, rolling over the blacks and whites and slinging potato mashers out the hatch while singing a jaunty negro tune: Ficken die Polizie.

For the next two months, the national news had a story every day about how attacks by Wer-racists were on the rise. Some blamed Trump’s coronavirus vaccine.