Although your author, Me, Xwarper, is rather too pale to be quite negroriffic, I am hugely in love with the lusciously debased ghetto setting: its indiscriminate violence, the way traffic slows when drive-bys happen, the absolute lack of a practical economy, like an African-American Judge Dredd-type megacity of universal unemployment, the projects, the rival gangs, the schools with don’t-approach-drug-dealers warning signs, the incessant and useless cop patrols . . . is there a better setting anywhere for taut urban social drama? I don’t think so. It’s either that, or dramatize tea clinkings in the ‘burbs. Fuck that. Enjoy.

“Lives Among the Miserable 1: Gunfight”

by Xwarper UtopiaX DystopiaX

Whatever the fault of the cop (even if this may be a rare case where the dindu really dindu nuffin and a cop overreacted based on faulty situational assessment or misleading prior info), it’s downright funny how often the black victim in these cop shooting cases turns out to be an anti-social loser, a thug with gangsta lord pretensions, in the act of committing a loosely unrelated crime, or saddled with a rap sheet a mile long.

Black lives matter? The evidence from blacks themselves suggests otherwise.” — Heartiste, “Ghetto Lottery,” Chateau Heartiste website, WordPress platform, 2016

After the massacre, I invited several Black Lives Matter believers on my show. I got to know them as people — on and off air — and invited them back again. These individuals are decent, hardworking, patriotic Americans.” — Glenn Beck, proud conservative, invited on liberal bastion New York Times op-ed page for performance-dog value, 2016 (see: “cuck”)

When presidents and generals speak clearly to one another, in an atmosphere of candor and trust, wars tend to be fought more effectively than when officials mislead one another or simply do not deal among themselves in a straightforward manner that surfaces and examines differences and assumptions.” — Thomas Ricks, “The Generals: American Military Command from World War II to Today,” The Penguin Press, New York, 2012

  •      Dontel and Brandy were arguing again in bed. Brandy, who had lighter skin and so higher status in the community, was telling Dontel what to think. In her expertly assessed opinion, “no man’s going to make me kiss his ass. I don’t cook, and I don’t clean.”
  •       Dontel exploded in heat. “Who the fuck you are? You came onto me, bitch. Remember bein’ at da club two nights ‘go? I’m only inna bed with you this moment cuz you an easy fuck, bitch. I mean, serious. Who the fuck are you?”
  •       Implacably, she replied, “I want to get married someday and have a family someday. If you don’t shape up you ain’t gonna be the one.”
  •       Snorting and huffing and shrugging in his shoulders in one massive wave, left to right, Dontel stalked over to the refrigerator. In this slightly large bachelor’s apartment in Harlem, there were no separate bedrooms or living quarters; only an oblong of hardwood space for some basic furniture, a shitty sprung bed that whiny Brandy was occupying, and a clock that showed a golden sun smiling broadly. The sun almost seemed to be judging them from a cold, impartial distance with intrinsic MEBDA (Male Euro Blood Dating Alpha) smug superiority, but neither of the blacks noticed it.
  •       Dontel laughed suddenly, apropos of nothing. “You know what you remind me of, bitch? You the pelican or flamingo or whatever tha fuck it is, standin’ in the water goin’ for some juicy fish. I be the fish, what say?” He, laughing, spat orange juice onto Brandy’s lighter-toned face, and she recoiled in outrage and disgust.
  •       “Jus’ orange juice, shorty. No worse’n my man-jizz. Here, have some.” He tossed the whole orange glass onto her face, till it was dripping in runny, pulpy streams off her firmly sculpted jawbones. Brandy moved to punch him, but Dontel caught her girl-fist and moved it back . . . back . . . back. There. Bitch was now showing the kind of winced, please-help-me expression a man could grow to appreciate.
  •       He turned away coldly. “I done fucked you; I don’t need you no more. You got 15 minutes to hie your ass outta here. I call the cops, other. You dig?”
  •       Brandy began crying, got up, and placed her hand gently on Dontel’s firmly muscled, wiry and corded brown forearm. “Please,” she pleaded. “Can’t we talk this over?”
  •       “You know why soul sistahs can’t get a man?” Dontel said stonily. “It’s cuz you no good as helpmates. Even white bitches sometimes be friendly, nice, pleasant, sweet, helping — what a man wants. Not often, no, dat true, but I seen it fer-real on rare occayzh. By compare, you nigga bitches of my own blood is like oil and water wid us, you never get along, you always poizonin ouah fresh supply. You dig? Now get the fuck out. I tired of you.”
  •       After she had gone, Dontel sat in an easy chair, staring into space. He was tapping his hand jitterily on the arm of the chair. He needed money. He was broke. The rent was coming due, and there was nobody to help him out. Papa Guvmint Washington — a.k.a. “The Man” —  loved slutty bitches like bitch out there who just left, Wanda or whatevuh tha fuck her name was. Not nigga bucks like him. Dontel brooded gloomily. Fuck it. He picked lint from his fingernails, flicking it, flicking it. Fuck it.
  •       Dontel sat down at the computer. He went on the Internet and typed out a search term: KILL YOUR NIGGER BITCH AND DUMP HER BODY DOWN THE APARTMENT GARBAGE, just for the hell of it.
  •       There were only two — 2 out of millions and millions of possibilities — of hits. Both by an author named Xwarper. One was a comment on a site called Château Heartiste and the other was an article on his website, which he called “the Warp Station,” or somethin’.
  •       Dontel’s eyes grew big as he read the comment on the screen by Xwarper. “Hi, I’m Xwarper, and I suggest the blacks whack their cunts on the head with shovels until dead if they hate them so much. I mean, what’s the point of cohabitating with your snake-like dreaded enemy? I mean, they are snakes, aren’t they? To you, at least. I wouldn’t know in my personal life. I control my twats.”
  •       Dontel huffed and slammed his hand down on the mouse, skittering it to one side. “Dammit, thas obvious a white-boy, but he right. I should chase after that Wanda down the hallway and axe her one. Then ax the po-lice to gimme a glass of water, calm my nerves, ‘fore they lead me away.”
  •       Dontel turned away angrily from the Château and the insulting quote. Motherfucka X-somethin’ better hope he didn’t meet Dontel in a darkened alley. Hands itching, flexing and closing them repeatedly, Dontel stalked purposefully out of the apartment and into the dingy brown-yellow linoleum of the main corridor, going all the way to Antoine’s abode.
  •       He hammered repeatedly on the door. “Hey, nigga! Wake up, wake up! We gotta do a score! I give you five minutes, then I comin’ in!” He paused. “And if you got a bitch wid you, tell her scat. We got man’s money-business to discuss. Make it snappy, nappy!”
  •       Already, plans for robbery and vandalism and brutality were unfolding in Dontel’s little mind . . .

{TO BE CONTINUED}