VIII.
A white man in a generic cop uniform ate Lil Nas X’s ass on stage.
The crowd was into it.
Here and there, a shot rang out or a knife found flesh.
Mostly, though, trouser knives found eager receptacles.
A gangbang here, a gangbang there, a gangbang everywhere.
A naked Darnell humped a garbage can he had knocked over. Enthralled, venting a lifetime of horny frustration, he let go. Shit let go out of his ass; piss and cum splattered all over the can. Darnell cried and screeched.
Darnell didn’t notice when a huge, hairy tranny snuck up behind him. Clad in a gold lamé cape, purple Lycra G-string, yellow flyer’s goggles, and thigh high red vinyl boot, the huge homo negro looked down at Darnell bucking and shucking.
Licking his lips, the giant tranny yanked Darnell off the can.
“Wh—, motherfucka!” Darnell yelled, his slight frame quivering.
The tranny spun Darnell around and bitch slapped him. “Shut up, fish!”
Darnell flailed at the tranny, “Who dafuq are you?”
The tranny gut-punched Darnell. “I’m THE Gay Nigger from Outerspace!”
In a frenzy, the gay nigger tranny from outer space seized Darnell and hip-tossed him. Sweat dripped down the gay nigger’s face as he manhandled Darnell and daggered him.
Darnell squealed in fear as the gay nigger’s crotch bounced off his ass in a frenetic thrumming rhythm.
“B’quan help me, dis gay motherfuckin’ outer space nigger be rapin’ me!”
B’quan and Brittany ran to help.
B’quan wound up a haymaker and tagged the giant hairy tranny fuck in the side of his head.
The tranny spun on them, dropping Darnell.
A mighty bitch slap knocked out B’quan’s eyes, along with his teeth.
After B’quan collapsed to the ground, the only thing left standing was B’quan’s rage erection.
“You ain’t taking no bussy of mine, bitch niggers!”
The tranny grabbed Brittany’s hair and spun her round and round until her feet were in the air.
Then let go.
Brittany flew into the crowd, crashing in a tangle of limbs. The crowd pummeled her in a fury.
Then a sudden roar went up.
Everyone was enraptured.
On stage, a huge red demon’s mechanical cock was jizzing on Lil Nas X.
“Dats sumthin’,” the tranny said, and whipped out his dick and masturbated onto Darnell’s curled-up form.
Rapping over this display was the MC affecting a 90’s gangsta rap style:
Unda ‘pression, here’s muh confession, the white ‘presser I hate.
His blue-eyed wife, his blue-eyed children, continuance of 400 years of slavery.
Don’t they know, don’t ya’ know.
Da’ black man was da’ native of da’ world. King, queen, ruler of all.
We da’ first scientists, explorers.
No white man goin’ to tha moon, it was black queens, ya’ll. Muh niggas, ya’ll.
Kill da’ white man, kill his seed, ya’ll, we be takin’ all his stolen goods.
From hood to hood, we rise, ya’ll.
No more killin’ ya brotha, ya’ll.
No more killin’ ya brotha, ya’ll.
Let your seed flow, let it flow, like the blood from the white ‘presser.
The swirling, chaotic, crowded mass seethed on, roaring in hatred, delight, lust, cum, blood, and shit.
IX.
Charles Lee could see it in the distance as he glided through the wisps of low hanging summer clouds. In the dark aether, he no longer had to focus; in his determination, he was one with his mission.
A hum rose deep within his chest.
He was ready.
X.
At the Metro Police bunker, General Austin screamed into a microphone, “Blow dat motherfucka out of the sky. You got rifles ‘n’ shit.”
General Milley just sat in a leather chair shaking his head after yakking into his phone to some bureaucrat, “What the fuck do you mean I can’t get authorization?”
“Sir, we need President Harris’ and Mayor Kendi’s authorization before you can use missiles over the city.”
“It will be over the target in less than five minutes you retard!”
“Sir, sir! I don’t like you tone and disrespect toward intellectually divergent individuals. This UFO doesn’t sound big enough to be dangerous. I’m hanging up because I need to cry and masturbate now. Good bye!”
“Fuck it!” General Milley said to himself. He dialed the ops commander at Andrews Air Force base, “Hey Tommy, I need you to send in two reaper drones drone now, Hellfire missiles, visual sighting—”
“Sorry, no can do Mark, you know that bitch Harris will have my ass and the BLM brigade will fuck with my family if I go around the president.”
“Yo! Yo! Mark,” General Austin interrupted General Milley, “snipers can maybe get a visual; they’re gonna try for a shot.”
“Thank fucking God!” General Milley said and breathed a sigh of relief.
XI.
Officer Stevens peered through the night scope of his Remington 700 tactical rifle at the night sky. A murky green haze swam in the view finder.
It had been a long day.
Starting with the morning briefing at 0500 hours through to setting up his overwatch position at 1000 hours to spend the whole day baking on this rooftop on into the night.
Now this shit, some UFO thing he has to shoot down.
“Shit, there is a ton of light from the celebration; what’s this thing’s position again?” Officer Stevens said into his bone mic.
His ear piece chattered.
“What? What the fuck is an azimuth and vector?”
More chatter.
“I don’t fucking know that shit; just give me a position relative to mine and the stage.”
Officer Stevens listened and replied, “Copy. Object is moving on an east by southeast direction at about ten miles per hour, approximately one thousand yards from my location at a height of over a thousand feet towards the main stage.”
He raised his rifle again, seeking his target in the empty vastness of the night sky.
Dull green pea soup met his eye and he kept searching.
XII.
Charles Lee gazed down upon his target; from a thousand feet in the air, it looked like an ant fuck fest. Slimy insectoid bodies bashing each other. Black ants, white ants, sweating and shooting juices at each other.
Thankfully, he was above the smell.
And on a pointless, raised platform stood the king ant, equally worthless, making noise.
Charles Lee heard the crack of a bullet whizzing past him.
And another.
There was no dramatic build up, no halting moment of hesitation or fear. The word, that word of power, dread, and ultimate destruction boomed from the sky, from Charles Lee’s lips, from the aether to the ground like Southern white lightening.
“NIGGER!”
Far, far below, the seething horny mass of celebrants heard a sound break from the sky.
The trill never to be uttered by white lips broke from the clouds. That ultimate and final word. The word of power came and passed, causing much bewilderment to the ejaculating and maddened crowd celebrating the life and death of a King Kong-sized failure of life who perished ‘neath the knee of ‘da white ‘presser. In wild wonder, they gazed forth to the heavens at that sound.
“Nigger!”
It reverberated again.
“Nigger!”
It came forth from the heavens like a judgment among the slick and slimy crotch juices dripping, gathering, collecting at the ankles of those who would celebrate the life and death of budding porn fluffer George Floyd.
That one sound ground into thick skulls, inescapable.
The happy angry sexually ambiguous Gay Nigger from Outerspace understood at a basal level. He looked at the chicken head he happened to be jamming his dick in at that moment and purpose seized upon him. He wrapped his fingers into her weave and pulled harder and harder until he drew her head completely upright before twisting her neck. Then he jammed his cock into her butthole and frenetically pounded away muttering, “Om num shubub, om num shubub!”
“C’mon, big black daddy, what, what, what!”
And he wrenched her vertebrae hard enough to separate them and sever the spinal cord.
With an audible “plop,” he removed his cock from her ass and dumped her limp body on the trampled muddy ground.
The Big Gay Nigger from Outer Space screeched to the sky, “MUH DIK!”
XIII.
Deep in the D.C. Metro police bunker, General Austin and General Milley winced at the feedback from their listening stations planted on the National Mall. The hard “r” shook them to the core. The drone crew threw their head phones to the ground.
General Milley shook his head clear from the vicious feedback.
His vision cleared just in time to see General Austin’s bug-eyed expression of rage and hormonal passion.
Just in time to register General Austin turning to General Milley and saying, “WHITE BITCH, GIVE ME SUM WHITE BOI BUSSY!”
At that moment, decades-old dominant Fort Benning Infantry training kicked in, and General Milley vaulted over the desk and slipped underneath.
General Austin, in his negro horny rage, slammed his pelvis and erect penis against the desk hooting, “I NEED ME SOME WHITE BOI BUSSY, GIMME DAT WHITE BUSSY, BITCH! MUDDAFUCKA!”
General Milley braced himself.
He worked his .45 from its flap holster and sprung forth from under the desk, leveling the sights onto General Austin’s sweaty pudding belly.
“Sorry, Lloyd.”
And sent six 230 grain hardballers through General Lloyd’s guts.
General Milley watched as General Austin bled out, his screeches dying out. “Alright, gentlemen, I need to you to focus on the task at hand and give me a real time sitrep of ground intelligence. If what I think has been set in motion has been set in motion, we’re in for one hell of a ride.”
XIV.
CCTV and the myriad of surveillance apparati strewn throughout the capital recorded the ultimate chimpout. Embassy Row burned in a mostly peaceful protests, Georgetown saw fusillades from Hi-Points tear through the dorms of future State Department employees. On Capitol Hill, AA hire police doused themselves in gasoline and lit up Newports. Deep inside the White House situation room, the reverbs of the forbidden word echoed though the loudspeakers. President Harris, seized in a violent fit, twerked her ass as she stripped down and blew her Secret Service team.
President Emeritus Biden drooled and smiled a shit-eating grim as he threw bananas at her ass.
XV.
Big hairy Homo Gay Nigger from Outerspace roared at the sky when the Earth shook with the sound of feet tramping and hoof beats. The hyper sexualized alpha male survivors looked up from their fuckmeat. Long did they stare when the cannons blasted over the crowd, sending grapeshot into the ranks of those still standing. Then did they see the ranks of men in gray tramping through the black powder haze.
Bayonets fixed did Johnny Reb come again.
From that mass did the dashing and daring cavalry shoot forth to take the field, to take the stage.
The Gay Nigger from Outerspace shook his arms, roared to the heavens, and flashed his erect monster man-breaker phallus.
Lil Nas X crouched on the stage when a rogue cavalry commander rode his charger upon the platform.
“I see me an uppity negro boy in need of a buck-breaking!” Major J. Travis Rosser boomed from the back of his black steed. Boot heel hammered on the wood of the stage as Major Rosser hopped down undoing his belt buckle.
“You an ugly little freak nigga, but y’all need a lesson,” he said as he slid his big white buck-breaking implement out.
Somewhere over the Internet, Tariq Nasheed likewise slid his shriveled black pecker out and rubbed in a long denied burned-out fury rubbing his chest and moaning.
The massive cavalryman stepped behind Lil Nas X, grabbing the bitch nigger’s hair. “Here it comes, you uppity nigger!”
Raw! No lube! In it went like a flash of white lightning! Pow! Pow! Hammering like a steam-driven buck-breaking per-industrial implement of torture. Lil Nas X sang in a falsetto of pain and pleasure as the zombie commander sought to break his bussy. All the world saw, from Beverly Hills to Cabrini Green projects.
Lil Nas X got buck-broken.
Tariq Nasheed shit and cum himself in ecstasy, moaning like a rapped hoochie mama, “It’s dem white devil powers!” before running out of his bachelor pad screaming for everyone to hear, “I need me sum white dick!”
Major Rosser felt the pressure building in his undead hips until he blew. And blow he did, a mighty gusher, a blast from the past, so powerful it ripped through Lil Nas X’s guts, ejecting his head far over the crowd.
Major Rosser, in a final encore of white supremacy, belted out:
“HOOOOOOOWEEEEEEE!”
As the massed orgy of buck-breaking commenced.
Whips cracked, BWC launched to find their targets: skinny negro youths quailed in fear.
“Oh massa, massa!”
“Muh ass!”
Black boy booties shook in fear as grey-clad zombies butt-stroked and plowed through the remnants of the celebrants.
XVI.
The Gay Nigger from Outerspace held his ground against the white supremacist column of zombie traitor Confederates. To his left, their muskets blasted, belching burning sulfurous fire. Niggers fell to the left, fell to the right as the buck-breaking ranks of undead Southern avengers trod over ground soaked in the blood and cum of heroic horny American supreme niggers.
Our Outerspace Gay Nigger Savior snatched up two arm limbs of fallen American heroes like savage chink nunchaku, twirling them challenging the undead white supremacist hordes of Confederate traitors.
Niggers hooted and hollered, jumping to the left to clear space for the challengers.
Our shitdicked savior juked to the right, hitting five Johnny Reb Undeads; he jinked to the left bashing the head of one, two, three, and four more.
They swarmed upon him in one violent rush, bayonets fixed.
Rebel traitor steel tore through the corpulent girth of the Gay Nigger from Outerspace.
As he laid dying in the mud, blood, and cum, he saw those evil white supremacists yank out their rods.
They sent him off with a 21-gun bukkake.
XVII.
Drained, Charles Lee lost focus, plummeting from the sky. He tumbled into the Potomac. The cold water shocked him awake; pulling hard, he broke the surface and gasped. D.C. burned; screams and hoots echoed over the river; sirens and gunshots crackled along with the resounding booms of drone strikes.
Doing the dead man’s float, he relaxed and floated along, calm and finally at peace.
***
For all installments of “Negro Supreme Buttsex Magick,” click here.
Previous installments:
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.
