I.
Mouth forced down hard, B’quan’s tongue probed the ever dark-shrouded chocolate starfish. Darnell cried and squealed in girlish pleasure, “Yo finna make me a sexy bitch!”
B’quan forced his face down until stars appeared.
He came up gasping.
“You a fine bitch, Darnell, you feelin’ dat?” B’quan said.
He rubbed his big black cock on Darnell’s stomach.
Pre-cum slithered onto Darnell’s ebony abs, “Pass me dat blunt we be smokin’; we be fuckin’ some fine shorties tonight.”
Darnell relit the blunt and inhaled deep.
“Black sex magick, man, dis be our power!” B’quan said as he stroked the inside of Darnell’s thighs. Darnell’s cock greeted B’quan at full attention.
Darnell grasped his ankles spreading his legs.
Cock in hand, B’quan slapped Darnell’s bare buttocks. “Fuckin’ a, muh nigga, no more white man’s religion ‘n’ stuff.”
Darnell joined in, “Weak ass slave shit!”
B’quan clasped his fingers over Darnell’s mouth, “Muh power can’t be repressed,” and slipped his cock inside Darnell.
“I love you, daddy, I love you!” Darnell cried.
II.
Charles Forrest Lee Van Zant took another shot of Jim Beam, settling back to listen to Charlie Daniels. He drifted into the darkness of his head space, the bourbon and the hate burning in his belly.
Outside in the evening, summer’s heat crickets and cicadas sang a Southern symphony.
Charles Forrest laid back and relaxed; in the fading light, he let succeeding waves of calm wash over his body, over his being.
He let go of his sadness, his hatred, his confusion, and all his dejection.
The many blows, the humiliations, a lifetime of fear settled into a ball in the pit of his stomach.
This moment, there is only this moment, he thought to himself.
In a perfect state of being, he began his exercises, unifying his breath and voice.
Breathe in.
Exhale.
“N, n, n,” he said, resonating the sound in his larynx and nose.
Again, he breathed in and exhaled, “Nig, nig, nig,” perfectly accenting the vowel projecting the vibrations into space.
Again, deep inside his mind, he could visualize the world around him from the upper atmosphere to his native Louisiana soil.
“Nigger, nigger, nigger.”
The final evolution of the cycle; he inhaled deep, held, and, forcing from the depths of his guts, boomed:
“NIGGER!”
The cicadas and crickets dropped into silence.
Charles Forrest opened his eyes, mind empty, sitting upright; he took a lotus position and began to levitate.
Finally ready for D.C., he thought.
III.
B’quan and Darnell made their way through the crowd, sweaty, tired, and wired after a quickie in a Metro station bathroom.
The stars began to gather over the National Mall.
The fifth annual George Floyd Encounter Session and Remembrance Celebration had thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of attendees.
More and more each year.
The George Floyd monument (formerly the Washington Monument) finally had the new coat of black paint finished.
“Yo, Brittany! I need a quick hit for some boost,” B’quan said.
Brittany, a petite mulatta with a huge apple-shaped ass, dug through her purse, fishing out a one-hitter.
“Bitch, I need sumthin’ to smoke in it.”
Brittany’s hand paused in her purse. “Sissy fuckin’ nigger ‘you talking to me fo’ like that? Jus’ ‘cause you think you some voodoo king slipping yo’ dick inta sum bitch nigger’s asshole?”
Darnell flipped out on Brittany. “Who you callin’ ‘bitch nigga?’ You know you jus’ jealous because B’quan ain’t slippin’ his dick in your nasty puss anymore.”
She threw her purse at Darnell’s head; it bounced off, spilling its contents on the ground.
Feet stamped amid the scattered debris, plan B pills, lighters, baggies of chronic, condoms, and hairpins. Brittany’s left hook met Darnell’s jaw. Darnell slapped at Brittany.
Hands and fists flying, they screeched at each other, “Ook ook,” and “Eek eek!”
Others joined in.
The scene became a pandemonium of ripped-up weaves, torn Lycra, and sweaty bodies streaming blood. Bitches twerked on garbage cans and newsstands.
B’quan and Darnell’s homie, D’anal, was pounded by some shorty pussy as she twerked in front of a Metro bus honking its horn.
“Ook! Ook!”
“Eek! Eek!”
B’quan retrieved the chronic and lit up a bowl, saying to himself, “Dis night gonna be lit, muddfugga.”
IV.
Charles Lee stood in silent contemplation at the hitching post; the streets of Berryville, Virginia were quiet in the late afternoon hours. BLM had overlooked this one, a simple post and ring where Robert E. Lee had hitched his horse.
The plaque read, “Traveler was tethered to this spot June 21, 1863, as General Robert E. Lee paused on his march to Gettysburg. He attended services here in Grace Episcopal Church.”
Some wigger kid drove past, sound system blaring jungle junk music, and hooted at Charles Lee. Charles Lee’s spine stiffened, a conditioned response.
That and one final outrage.
“Father,” he whispered to himself and gripped the snub-nosed revolver in his pocket tighter.
There at Walmart stocking shelves when he got the call.
“Mr. Charles Van Zant?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Van Zant, this is Detective Ray Dreux. Your father, Mr. Jefferson Van Zant, has been shot and taken to the hospital in critical condition.”
“What?! Where? How?”
“According to witnesses, he was working in his front yard when there was an altercation…”
The rest of the memory became a blur of talking to the detectives at the hospital, his father passing not long after. More faces, more names, condolences, and a sham trial that resulted in two black “youths” sentenced to a mental hospital for five years.
The latest craze, he thought, non compos mentis for all tar baby monkey motherfuckers, historical injustices, disadvantaged upbringing; all a bunch of kike excuses.
Deep in reflection, Charles Lee strode back to his truck, sun at his back, a man on a mission.
A few news stories here and there, incidents of racial violence. The “Wer-Racist” phenomenon; white men exerting a power over the savage negro. At first, Charles Lee believed the stories were just Black Twitter being hysterical niggers, but then he saw the videos on 4chan, the mummers on social media. Then the establishment media stopped covering the stories and social media banned them.
Finally, he understood and knew.
The wiggermobile pulled up to Charles Lee. “Yo! Boomer! Watcha doin’? Yo racist ass payin’ respects to that loser cracka’?”
Charles Lee looked up and down the deserted streets, then shrugged his shoulders in response.
“Yo, I’s talkin’ to you, cracka’ muddafucka!” the wigger youth spat out, eyes rimmed red.
Charles Lee stopped and turned on his heel. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over that gay nigger music.”
“Wha! Wha, muddafucka!” The wigger youth slammed the car into park and jumped out. “Maybe after I fuck you up, I’ll fuck up that post!”
Charles Lee stepped back saying, “I—” and shot the wigger in the face.
Charles Lee walked into the evening’s lengthening shadows as the crickets and cicadas sang their dirge.
V.
B’quan jammed his shit-encrusted dick deeper into Brittany’s pussy, giving Darnell a wink. Darnell was giving it to a snow bunny pinned to the ground squirming.
Heavy beats reverberated through the air.
Darnell mumbled under his breath, “I ain’t no bitch, I ain’t no bitch, I ain’t no bitch.”
The snow bunny, pants around her ankles, whined, “Black Lives Matter.”
Darnell punched her in the back of the head, “Shut yo’ mouth, cave bitch!”
B’quan came.
Darnell whined, tears streaming down his face, “I can’t get off!”
B’quan shoved Brittany to the ground and reared Darnell.
“You coming now, boy? You coming now?”
The pressure on Darnell’s prostate mounted. “Yes, daddy! Aaaaiiiiieeeee!”
B’quan grabbed Darnell’s ears and yanked back; Darnell squeezed the snow bunny’s neck.
B’quan yelled, “It ain’t no buck-breaking! It ain’t no buck-breaking!”
She made a sound like, “Uck! Uck!”
Gunshots rang out somewhere nearby.
“You know it! You know it! I workin’ muh magic on dat bussy.”
“Muddfucka! This is top,” Brittany yelled, looking at the queer niggers. “The fuck you messin’ wit’ no white bitch, bottom bitch niggers.”
“PLOP!” B’quan whipped his dick out of Darnell’s anus. “Dafuq you on about, lil’ chickenhead bitch!?” He punched Brittany in the face. “Who dafuq you calling bottom bitch? I nutted up in yo stupid ass lil’ cunt.”
B’quan punched Brittany to her knees, fingers digging into her weave, jerking his shit-encrusted cock in her face. “Disrespectful ‘ho. You ain’t got dis power. Got the fuckin’ white man’s cultcha poisoning your mind. I ain’t owe you nuttin’for a nuttin’.”
Jamming the head of his penis under her nose, B’quan shot watery spurts of cum over Brittany’s face.
“WE CAN DO ANYTHING, BITCH!”
And Darnell came as Lil Nas X got up on stage.
“Yo, I think dis cave bitch be dead!” Darnell said and laughed.
VI.
It wasn’t easy to find an accessible rooftop, but Charles Lee managed it. The D.C. police secured and watched every rooftop within two miles of the George Floyd memorial celebration.
Not that it mattered; Charles Lee’s spirit was rising.
He took zazen and looked off into the distance.
A glow lit up the sky and a dull, chimping roar emanated to the east.
He pushed the rest of the world into darkness, steadying his breath.
As the world fell away, he focused on the light to the east and rose into the sky.
Arms spread, feet together like the crucifixion, he glided towards the light.
VII.
Deep in a bunker at D.C. Metro Police Command, three DHS drone operators gazed in wonder at their displays.
“You guys seeing this?”
“Yeah, an object at 1,023 feet moving east-southeast at ten miles per hour.”
“Check the thermal readouts.”
“98.6 degrees.”
“Put it up on the main display.”
The three men stared puzzled.
“We’ve got a real problem.”
“Get those IT fucks down here now!”
One of the operators turned to his fellow, “Should we notify the brass?”
The man he spoke to paused a moment. “Yeah, or it’s our asses.”
Moments later, Secretary of Defense General Lloyd Austin and General Mark Milley were in the drone command room.
Gen. Austin said to Gen. Milley, “What can we do?”
Gen. Milley puffed his cheeks and tucked his chin in his hand. “I don’t know. Aerial assets wouldn’t be able to get a lock on a small non-metallic object.” He snapped to attention. “Operator! Get me a standard light display; I want to see what color this thing is.”
“Watchoo thinking, Mark?” Gen. Austin said.
“I’m thinking if it can be seen from the ground, we could just have a sniper ventilate it.”
***
For all installments of “Negro Supreme Buttsex Magick,” click here.
Proteus Juvenalis, of the Lost Generation, is a cynic and misanthrope orbiting Neptune and contemplating his former home. His stream of consciousness broadcasts can be found on Telegram.
