Andre turned to the cute blonde on the barstool next to him. He looked her in the face. Her luscious tits and legs for days blurred out beneath her halo of dirty roots and platinum blonde hair.

From Andre’s sunken chest a sound came, “H-h-h-he-he-hey. You look nice.” His spindly arms and legs felt like they were trembling. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, behind his buck teeth.

She cocked her head back, eyes squinting in the black light.

His eyes dropped to avoid her gaze, falling square on her C-cups, displayed perfectly in that black lacy bralette.

“Are you talking to me?”

“W-w-well yes I am,” Andre said, barely audible over the slow, fucked mumble-rap.

She wagged her finger at him. “No. I don’t talk to skinny ass incel-looking motherfuckers.”

“Okay.” And Andre went back to his Miller Lite and scrolling his Twitter feed.

A moment later, a sharp shove jarred him.

“Hey man, what you thinking talkin’ to my girl that way?”

Andre jerked around.

Face to face.

A tall, lean, and mean black guy squared off in his space.

“Me?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, punk fool. You was tryin’ to hit up my girl.”

“What?”

The black guy leaned back, arms akimbo. “What? You think ‘cause she white you got a right to talk to her?”

“Uh…sorry? I just thought—”

“Well, you thought wrong, motherfucker. I don’t put up with no come on bullshit when some white guy tries to be makin’ moves on my girl.”

“I thought people came to bars to meet other people.”

“You think that gives you the right to be a creep? To say shit to my girl?”

“I just said ‘hi.’”

“Bullshit, white boy! You think you can come on to any good-looking girl who happens to be around?”

The black guy popped his lower lip with his tongue smirking.

White girl came from behind saying, “That’s right, Jayson! He touched my thigh and wanted to ‘take me home.’”

Jayson said, “That right? You fucking racist incel, you sexually assault my woman?”

“Now, I didn’t do anything,” Andre pleaded, right before a big, looping right-handed slap plowed into the side of his head.

The wet smacking sound echoed through the bar.

Andre fell to his side, knocking over a table and a chair.

“Get up, bitch, I ain’t done with you!” And Jayson landed another powerful slap on the left side of Andre’s face.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! What did I do wrong?” Andre screeched.

Jayson grabbed Andre’s shirt front and yanked him to his feet. “You be here; dat’s what’s up!”

And smacked Andre again.

Hard.

Cartilage crunched.

Blood vessels popped.

A spark was lit in Andre’s breast; his muscles tensed and he shoved Jayson.

Then he said it.

The most powerful word in the English language.

Nay, of all the languages of man.

A word so powerful, to utter it is as dangerous as dropping a vial of smallpox. A neutron bomb of verbal power.

Trembling on his lips on just enough breath, Andre uttered it:

“Nigger.”

Jayson winced and gasped, his back stung, as if the whippings of the overseers crawled up out of the past through his genetic line.

Andre felt a change deep in his bones. His anime long sleeved shirt strained against his growing pectorals. His wrists thickened and developed knots stretching past his cuffs.

Jayson recovered and was ready to slug Andre to stop him from using the magic word.

Only too late.

Andre had taken a deep breath.

“Nigger!”

Jayson’s eyes bled; he felt the violation of massa’s white dick in the cunnies of his female forebears. The humiliations of African queens’ violations vibed through his soul…and ass.

Jayson’s knees buckled.

Andre now stood a head taller than him. Massive square shoulders now crowded Jayson’s vision. Andre’s head had morphed into a Stahlhelm emblazoned with “SS” runes.

Someone shouted from the back of the bar, a world away, “It’s a fucking Wer-racist!”

Jayson grabbed his dick for strength and balled his other hand into an arthritic fist.

But all for naught!

Andre, mighty thews ripping through his threads, gulped down a massive volume of air and said, “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!

Jayson’s eyes blew out, dripping down his cheeks. Behind him, a moan in sudden violent pain. Somewhere near his friends he heard the sounds of heavy vomiting.

Jayson tried seizing and rubbing his crotch for power. But his outtie had shrunk to an innie and he held nothing but an empty sack.

Two mighty hands lifted Jayson into the air.

Jayson whimpered, thoroughly violated, regretting what he learned at his grandpappy’s knee about never letting the white man say the magic word, thrashed and bucked trying to brace for what was next when he heard Andre suck up all the air in the room and said:

“N̷̡̢̨̺̗͓̪͖̗̖̟̫̞̳̖͓̤̫͈͈͔̗͉̟̦̞̟͍̺̦̤͈̫̰̙͈̩̤͓͓͉̳̲͇͒̂́̄̂̌̑͐̌͑́̑͌͛̌̆͑͋̇̀̾͐̓͌̌͛̿̀̽̎̂̊̚̕͜͜͜͠͝Ǐ̵̛̛̤̻̰͙̅̿̾́͂͛͆̓̌͊̇̏̋̇̆͌̌̀͊̈́̇̏̓̈́̓̂̎̈́̋̌̓͋͛̌͊̍́̈́̕̚̕̕̕͜͝͝͝͝͝G̷̛͕̥̞̀̊̍͌̍͌͂̀̆͌̓̔́̔̀̓͆̒̐̐̓̾̓̌̃̄͂̓̈͂̃̎̓̏͊̋̄͒̌̆̉̉̃̅̿̂̎̓̈́̍̕̚͠͝͠Ģ̸̧̭͚͓̻̜̖̺͉̬̫̠̟̝̹̯̠̠͓͓̤̠͈͓̬̜͇̳͚̟̥̥̖̲̥͈̺̝̱̍̇̇͂̀̇̎͗̃́̽́͘͘͝͠͠ͅE̵̢̢͉̟̘̖̲͔̘̻̼̳̯̦͕͕̱̥̝̦͙̼̞̭̜̹̠͙͉̥̪̗̟̲͎̣̫̣̜͋̉́͌͐́̉̆͌̆͋͒̇͒̌̎̆̒͋̑͆̾͌̑͑̕̕̕͜͜͠Ŗ̶̢̧͓͎̳͔͈̗͈̗͈̩͔͖̮͚̜͍̬̫̥̠̬͓̝̞͇̞͓̲̺̞͓͕͈̱͇͎̱̯̘͔̜̺̞͍̩̗̖̘̱͕̲̗̤͍̫̖̪̫̜̬͍̖̯̞͓̳̗̬̠̟̖̙̅͜ͅ!!!!!!!”

All the glass in the bar, from the windows, to the mirrors, to the mugs and beer bottles shattered.

Jayson’s girl spontaneously aborted his bastard in a juicy red gush that soaked her tan yoga pants red.

Andre the Evil Wer-racist flexed its massive paws and crushed Jayson’s head like a beer can.

The now six foot five, 250-pound, muscled-out Andre snapped his heels together, threw up a Roman salute, shouted, “Meine Ehre heißt Treue!” and pimp-walked outside to the Jagdpanzer IV now parked on the curb.

Andre tore off into the night in 28 tons of steel, pancaking BMWs full of thots, all while continuing to shout the magic word.

The videos from the bar went viral for two weeks.