The following is a fantasy that includes violence and racial domination. All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to places or people, living or dead, is coincidental. The actions or racial attitudes of real individuals should not be inferred based on any content in this fantasy. No white boys were harmed in the writing of this story.
I.
In the early days of the voluntary disposal movement, the voluntary part was loosely observed at best. More frequently, women would cajole, berate, and coerce their white husbands, boyfriends, and sons into agreeing to disposal, freeing the women to enjoy the pleasures of sex with black men without the baggage of white family, white monogamy, or white morality to restrict their interracial desires. That black men usually viewed them as little more than whores to sate their lusts and their racial animosity seldom troubled the white women obsessed with the carnal pleasures they experienced with a race of men they increasingly came to view as superior in every way to their own. Black men deserved easy access to white pussy, reasoning had it, as reparation for all the indignity and injustice they had endured at the hands of white oppression. That access was made easier with white men simply out of the way.
As time wore on, however, white women discovered that they did not have to work very hard to get the white men in their lives to agree to disposal. Older white males increasingly opted for disposal as their future prospects grew limited in the face of rampant anti-white political legislation, to say nothing of the wives and daughters who rejected them in their preference for black men. For younger white males, meanwhile, disposal became almost a fad, a way to demonstrate how non-racist they believed themselves to be by participating in white genocide, embracing the looming extinction of the white race.
Voluntary Whiteboy Disposal, as it came to be known, was available in a variety of tiers, at various costs. At the very bottom level for low-wage earners, usually single white men, disposal centers were virtual abattoirs, slaughterhouses in which white males were dispatched cheaply, quickly, and effectively, often with a bolt to the head, like livestock. And like livestock, their remains were put to a variety of uses, fertilizer and pet food being among the most common. At the other end of the spectrum, were elaborate fantasy disposal suites, in which the men or, more commonly, the women in their lives, could choose from a variety of disposal options, often involving the sexual gratification of a woman by black disposal staff while she enjoyed her husband or boyfriend or even son or brother being dispatched. There were even a number of reality television and game shows that took whiteboy disposal as their central theme. On some of these shows, black families could vote for the disposal of their least favorite contestants, watching with pleasure as whiteboys were imaginatively disposed of at the climax of every episode.
The highest-rated show, however, could not compete with the attention that pop icon Justin B---er received when he announced his own impending disposal to be aired on live pay-per-view television. Now approaching 30 years old, the one-time idol of white tween girls worldwide explained his decision in an interview with Entertainment Tonight.
“Rumor has it, Justin,” inquired black ET host Kevin Fr---er, “that you plan on disposing of yourself on your upcoming special. If so, you’ll be one of the biggest names in the world to volunteer for white disposal. Tell us, is it true?”
Justin looked directly into the camera, his eyes wide, innocent, and sincere. “That’s right, Kevin,” he confirmed. “It’s my plan to join the thousands of my fellow white boys who have tried to improve the world by removing themselves from it. This should and will be a black world.”
The black television host nodded his agreement. “Well said, Justin. I can’t help but wonder: how did you reach such a momentous decision?”
“Well, Kevin, it really wasn’t difficult at all. It is, quite simply, the right thing to do. And if I can inspire more white boys to join me in voluntary disposal, I will know that it has been worthwhile.”
“Amen,” Kevin agreed. “Our audience can’t help but wonder, though, might your decision have anything to do with your wife famously and publicly leaving you for young rap star, Da B--y?”
“Yo, I won’t lie, Kevin: Hailey’s decision had a lot to do with opening my eyes, and helping me realize just how worthless white life is. My entire career has been built, not just on white privilege, but on cultural appropriation. Everything I’ve done, every song I’ve recorded, was really stolen from black artists who did it first and did it better. It’s time for me to really give back, and I’m hoping that my disposal will do just that.”
Kevin Fr---er nodded his agreement. “If it helps more whites accept their inevitable extinction, Justin, I think you will have finally done something worthwhile. Thanks so much for being with us tonight.”
Justin gave the camera his signature lop-sided grin and a peace sign. “Thank you for having me, Kevin, and remember everybody, next Sunday at 8pm, tune it to witness my completely voluntary disposal. Contact your cable provider. I guarantee: everybody will be talking about it.”
Social media exploded in the wake of Justin’s announcement. His legion of one-time fans, many of whom were now as committed to black supremacy as they once were to Justin himself, weighed in on Twitter and Snapchat. “I can’t believe I ever listened to his appropriated drivel. Getting rich off exploiting POCs is disgusting!” “One less white male in the world, I can hardly wait to watch!” “Justin knocked me up after a show in San Antonio. I aborted the baby, and am so glad I did. I spread my legs exclusively for black dudes now!” And so on. The many black rappers and R&B singers that Justin had worked with over the years came out to renounce the music they had produced together and express their pleasure at his impending disposal. Anticipation ran high.
Justin’s wife, Hailey B---win, now romantically linked with hip-hop star Da B--y, was interviewed in Ebony magazine about her husband’s decision. “Oh, I think it’s great! To be completely honest, I didn’t think the loser had it in him. He has exploited black artists and black music for so many years, growing wealthy off appropriating their talent, I didn’t think he’d ever owe up to his sins. I hope he inspires more white boys to choose disposal. The white race’s end is in sight, but it really can’t come quick enough, can it?”
“Recent photos of you, Hailey, reveal what seems to be a bit of a baby bump,” the magazine’s interviewer queried. “Is it possible that Justin will be leaving something behind?”
“Ha! No way,” Hailey responded with derision. “I am pregnant, but I guarantee: if this were Justin’s baby, I would have flushed it long ago. No, this is Da B--y’s offspring, and I couldn’t be prouder to be black bred!”
“That’s wonderful news,” said the interviewer. “Does Justin know that you’re having a black baby?”
“He better: he was there when it was conceived,” Hailey explained. “Not willingly, of course. He walked in on us in the act. When he tried to make a fuss, my man and his posse had to smack him around a little bit. We did it right on Justin’s custom made $150,000 Vividus bed, soiling the 1,500 thread count sheets that the little pop princess had imported from Milan. Da B--y made me spread my legs and show off my gaping snatch to my loser husband as it dripped his thick scum all over those sheets. When we left, one of Da B--y’s boys dropped a baggy of pure H on the nightstand. We were all kind of hoping he’d fall off the wagon and decide to off himself right then, but no such luck.”
“Wow, that was a bold step considering that you’re often credited with getting Justin sober to begin with.”
“Don’t remind me! One of the biggest regrets of my life,” Hailey confessed. “If I hadn’t intervened, he might have OD’ed already. Back then, I hadn’t had my eyes open to the reality of black supremacy. Now, I just want to do my part to eradicate my race completely.”
“Good for you,” the interviewer said. “You’re a true race traitor! So, will you be watching your husband’s disposal this Sunday?”
“Watching? Da B--y and I will be hosting an exclusive party, and we’ll be doing it at the Beverly Park mansion that Justin and I bought a couple of years ago. It’s going to be a complete blow-out! Woo-hoo!”
Justin’s mother, Pattie, meanwhile, did a remote interview from her home in Canada with the now all-black View, in which she praised her son’s decision. “Oh, of course I think it’s a great thing my son is doing. He’s in a position to inspire so many other white boys to do the same. I have a black lover now, and I only wish my eyes had been open to the truth years ago!” The middle-aged white woman snuggled closer to the well-dressed, much younger black man sitting beside her. He wore a Givenchy leather jacket and a gold Rolex watch, gifts Justin’s mother had bought her young lover with her son’s money. “I’m hoping to get knocked up and finally do something worthwhile with my womb.”
Justin’s father could not be located for comment. There were rumors that the white parasite, who lived off his son’s success, might have already disposed of himself given the impending loss of access to his son’s fortune, as Justin’s entire estate was expected to be left to his cheating wife Hailey.
II.
Outspoken black supremacist Nick Ca---n was tapped to host the hour-long extravaganza. A who’s who of the black entertainment world turned out for the event, eager to witness the final moments of the once inexplicably successful pop icon. Nick began the show with a highlight reel of Justin’s rise to fame from his discovery as a Canadian tween to his enormous pop success to his struggles with drugs and the law to his sobriety and efforts to be taken seriously as a musical artist. The audience roared with laughter at Justin’s sad efforts to mimic black culture in his concerts and videos: the basketball t-shirts, the gang signs, the sagging jeans, even the brief flirtation with cornrows. Nick observed how each and every one of the women that had been associated with Justin was now with a black man. “Something about this white boy makes the honeys go running to the brothers,” he joked. “Ain’t white boys pathetic?” The spectators applauded wildly, delighted to hear such truths announced on stage to a worldwide audience.
There were several live musical performances—by black artists only, of course—many in the increasingly popular genre called extinction rap, which celebrated the diminished presence of the white race in the world. Justin, meanwhile, sat alone in his dressing room, rather nervously watching the proceedings on screen, going over some final details on his phone. He smoked a fat blunt as he worked, a big fuck you to his years of sobriety in the face of his impending disposal. Justin admired his lean, heavily tattooed body in the mirror, absent-mindedly massaging the crotch of his leather jeans as he drew deeply on the blunt. His hair was bleached platinum blonde and spiked with gel. He recalled when the hairstyle he wore as a teenager had become a worldwide sensation. That seemed a lifetime ago.
Justin noticed that Nick Ca---n had segued into a history of the voluntary disposal movement. Several celebrities appeared onstage to recount their early impressions of white disposal. Some confessed that they had struggled with it, viewing it, at first, as akin murder, that is until they grew to understand that white lives, especially those of white males, really didn’t matter. White women, at least, had some utility, as sexual possessions and breeding mares. White men were essentially useless, of less worth than most animals. Even the most reluctant of black stars confessed that they had ultimately been persuaded of the necessity, even the beauty, of white extinction. One black celebrity after another—actors, singers, athletes, artists—spoke of what the ever increasing absence of white faces and voices in their daily lives meant to them. Nick Ca---n returned to the stage, visibly moved, theatrically wiping a tear from his eye. “Thank you, everyone, thank you, my brothers and sisters in melanin,” he said. “And now, without further delay, the moment we’ve all gathered for: Justin would you join us?”
Justin walked out from behind the velvet stage curtain. His black leather jeans were tight on his lean frame. His spikey, bleached locks stuck out in tufts beneath a Blue Jays ball cap. Diamond studs in each ear sparkled under the stage lights. He had pulled on a black power t-shirt, a raised fist in the pan-African colors of black, green, and red, on the chest, a final nod to his years of appropriating black culture. The audience booed and hissed, venting all their contempt for the white race on this young Canadian. He held out his fist to Nick for a bump, but Nick ignored the gesture, sneering with open disdain.
“So, the big moment approaches,” Nick said to the audience. “Unfortunately, Justin here has chosen his own method of disposal. Too bad, because LeBron, Fiddy, and a bunch of other brothers were hoping to get the chance to just beat him to death with their bare fists.” The audience hooted and catcalled their disappointment. “I know, right?” Nick guffawed. “That would have been awesome! Oh, well, maybe when John Mayer finally gets around to disposing of himself, we’ll get lucky.” The audience chuckled in appreciation, the camera catching close-ups of several of them: an Academy Award winning actor, a hip-hop mogul and his superstar wife, a former talk show host and founder of her own network, even a former President and his wife. They were eager to witness this very public step in the promise of a white-free world.
“Sorry, Nick,” Justin said, leaning toward the microphone. “I know y’all would love to see me beaten to a bloody pulp.” The audience applauded. “Can’t say I blame you. But, I think you’ll be pleased with the method I’ve selected. Now, if you’ll just give me a minute.” With that Justin stepped behind the stage curtain. The orchestra played a swelling introduction as Nick stepped to one side. The curtains were drawn open to reveal Justin B---er on his knees on the center of the stage, his head, covered by a black leather hood, resting in the groove of a large, square, wooden block. He still wore his leather jeans, but had stripped off his t-shirt to reveal his lean, distinctively inked pale body. The audience appeared momentarily perplexed until R&B icon U--er walked out on stage, wearing a white tuxedo, and approached Justin’s bowed body, a heavy, gleaming axe in his right hand. The audience applauded vigorously, admiring the symbolism that the very man credited with discovering Justin would apparently be the one given the honor of disposing of him.
U--er smiled at the audience as he approached the kneeling white boy. At her home in Beverly Park, Justin’s wife sat beside Da B--y, surrounded by dozens of party-goers, hooting and hollering for the pop star’s disposal, watching the action on Justin’s own 105-inch curved 4K television. Da B--y had his fingers up Hailey’s skirt, fingering her cunt at the sight of the white boy about to be snuffed. When U--er raised the axe high over his head, Hailey squealed in anticipation. The audiences at both the theatre and watching from Justin’s home, as well as presumably across the nation, began simultaneously chanting, “Do him! Do him! Do him!” In Canada, Justin’s mother sat astride her boyfriend’s lap, riding his erection in a reverse cowgirl position, as she orgasmed to the sight of her only son’s impending disposal. She felt no sympathy or sorrow, only regret that she hadn’t done the deed herself some thirty years ago.
With a theatrical nod to the audience and a contemptuous smirk, U--er swung the heavy axe downward, the taut muscles of his strong arms putting all their strength into the blow. The slacks of U--er’s tuxedo were splashed red in the spray of blood as the axe struck the back of Justin’s neck, slicing through the singer’s spinal cord. Justin’s head dropped and rolled several feet across the stage. The audience erupted in spontaneous applause. To their pleasure, another white boy, a particularly objectionable one to many of the spectators, had been removed from the population. White boys across the world knew that they were all one step closer to extinction.
As Nick Ca---n returned to the stage, U--er bent down and slipped the hood off Justin’s head. Grasping the bleached hair in his leather gloved hand, he raised the head high like an African warrior of old, for all to admire. The audience demonstrated their approval with a standing ovation. Nick held open a trash bag for U--er, who unceremoniously discarded his one-time protégé’s head as if it were rubbish, which to them is exactly what it was. In her Beverly Park home, Hailey paused the television on the close-up of Justin’s head, studying the image closely.
III.
In peach-colored swim trunks, Justin B---er lay stretched out on a lounge chair on a sandy white beach, under the shade of a palm tree. He sipped his vodka pina colada, preferring Grey Goose to even the finest rum. He puffed occasionally at a fat Cuban cigar, as he enjoyed the warm breeze and the sound of the surf, his eyes closed behind his Bulgari sunglasses. I actually pulled it off, he thought to himself; six months ago, in front of a live audience and on television, he had succeeded in the fake of the century, admittedly with a little help from world-renowned illusionist Criss An--l. The entire world believed that Justin was dead. Well, almost the entire world. Besides Criss An--l and a handful of lawyers, Justin had depended on his father, Jeremy, to help him accomplish his deception. Now, Justin and Jeremy lived a comfortable and, more importantly, safe retirement on this small South Pacific Island, far removed from the racial division back home.
It wasn't an easy task to squirrel tens of millions in off-shore accounts without anyone catching on. He was able to make a lot of it seem like simple investment losses. That nigger-loving bitch of a wife would get more than her share, that was unavoidable, but there was so much more than she knew about. There always had been. Justin paid a crew of locals from the large island to keep his retreat stocked with food, liquor, and girls. He and Jeremy had partied virtually every night since they'd arrived at their new home, and relaxed during the day. He'd sacrificed his fame, sure, but he still retained much of his fortune thanks to foresight and duplicity. Justin had seen the future: whites were an endangered species, and he arranged to get out while he still could.
Finding the appropriate dupe to take his place was the tricky part. Lucky for Justin, there was no shortage of young white men eager for disposal during the twilight of the white race. The promise of being snuffed in front of a huge worldwide audience appealed to a certain type of personality. With a bit of cosmetic help and some temporary tattoos to mirror Justin’s own, the perfect replacement was substituted at the last moment backstage, mere moments before U--er appeared onstage with his axe. Within hours, Justin and Jeremey were on a private aircraft bound for Fiji, no one the wiser. It was a masterpiece.
“J-J-Justin,” he heard his father say behind him. Just as he turned, he heard a shot rang out, and Jeremy’s body collapsed onto the white sand. Justin jumped up in shock and horror, removing his sunglasses, his mouth agape at the sight of his father’s body twitching on the beach, a pool of blood gathering around what had been his head. “Dad!” he cried. Behind Jeremy’s corpse, Da B--y and Hailey stood, grinning smugly, a glock in the rapper’s right hand.
“Oh, shit,” Justin gulped as he assessed the dire situation.
“Hi, honey,” Hailey sniggered, Da B--y’s free arm draped possessively around her shoulder. “Miss me?” Rather ridiculously, Justin realized that she must have had her baby as she was no longer pregnant.
Hailey caught his expression. “Oh, that’s right: you haven’t heard the news! It turns out that it was your baby after all. A boy. A white boy. As soon as I found out, I had that horrible parasite aborted. Da B--y was there for the whole procedure, enjoying the whole thing.”
“Yo, man,” Da B--y acknowledged, “seeing that shit made my dick hard as fuck. Yo’ wife sucked a load out of my balls before the doc was even through. Good shit, man.” Justin was devastated: the two people who had just murdered his father before his eyes were laughing about how they ended his only child. They had obliterated his bloodline at both ends. He felt sick inside.
Biding for time, Justin asked, “How…how did you know…?”
“How did we know that wasn’t you that was disposed of on television?” Hailey asked. “Easy peasy, honey. Those diamond earrings that Selena custom-made for you back when you two were an item. You loved them so much that you kept them long after you broke up. But I’ll tell you, in 4K, it’s pretty easy for any girl who knows diamonds to tell fakes, and those were fakes on the poor, stupid white boy you got to take your place.”
Da B--y went on: “Yo’ dumbass daddy left a digital trail that was pretty easy to crack for a decent hacker. We gots into yo’ off-shore accounts, yo, and yo’ investments, and added Hailey’s name to all that shit. From there, tracking you and yo’ daddy to this island was as simple as shooting white boys in a barrel.”
Justin held up his hands, his father’s corpse and the glock in Da B--y’s hand making clear the direness of his situation. “Look, please, there’s no need for this. You can have it all: the money, the island, everything. Just let me go. Please.” He felt his lower lip begin to quiver; he held his bladder only by an effort of will.
Hailey cocked her head. “Yeah, no, you see that’s the thing, sweetie. The world already thinks you’re dead. Since that special aired, thousands of white boys have filed into disposal centers, just like the lemmings they are. It’s beautiful. You’re an inspiration. We can’t have you spoiling that by turning up alive.”
“But, but, Hailey, c’mon…”
“Oh, and we made a promise, too,” Da B--y explained.
“A promise? To who?”
“To me,” came a voice from behind Justin’s right shoulder at the very same moment that a loop of wire was wrapped around his neck and pulled tight. Justin recognized U--er’s voice, even as the strong, gloved hands that held the wire forced it deep into the suntanned flesh of the white boy’s throat. He struggled to get his fingers under the taut wire, but to no avail. He was being strangled, garroted by his own one-time mentor. Justin gurgled spittle even as his sun-golden face began to turn blue. Hailey practically jumped up and down with excitement at the sight of her husband’s long overdue disposal. Da B--y reached down and picked up Justin’s fat Cuban cigar, appreciated its rich scent as he placed it between the gold grill of his teeth. “Snuff dat white faggot, yo,” he said with a satisfied grin.
The muscles on U--er’s thick, brown arms bulged with the exertion of strangling the white pop singer. He enjoyed Justin’s struggle, knowing how futile it was. He’d been looking forward to this ever since Hailey contacted him to inform him how they’d all been conned. U--er was late in joining many younger blacks in accepting the necessity of white extinction, but now that he had, he was an enthusiastic proponent of black supremacy. He felt his cock grow turgid as he sensed the white boy’s life drain from him. “N-n-nigger…,” Justin managed to hiss out, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body spasmed from oxygen deprivation. Still, U--er did not release his hold on the wire as it cut into Justin’s throat, growing slick with blood.
Hailey pushed Da B--y back on Justin’s beach chair, and freed his long, thick cock from his basketball shorts. Slipping out of her bikini bottom, Hailey mounted her lover’s mahogany erection with her perfectly groomed vagina, humping him enthusiastically as she enjoyed her husband’s demise. When U--er finally let the limp white Canadian slump to the sand, she came hard on Da B--y’s python. “Dat’s right, white meat,” Da B--y intoned, cigar clamped between his teeth, “you enjoy your cum on Daddy’s rod!”
U--er freed his own black scepter, moving behind the humping white girl. “You mind, bro?” he asked of Da B--y. “Do it, nigga,” Da B--y consented, granting U--er access to his girl’s nether-hole, Haley’s own consent being irrelevant. U--er probed at the puckered opening, easing himself through her backdoor, his hands reaching around to grope the blonde’s fleshy, pert breasts. Hailey groaned as the two black men used her holes, the corpse of her husband growing cool on the sand beside them. She thrilled to the idea that she might be black bred on the very same day that she became a widow. She worked to tighten her pussy and ass muscles on the two black pistons pummeling her, even as they were tearing her apart. The black superstars came at virtually the same moment, flooding the young blonde’s guts with their thick baby batter.
Afterward, lying astride Da B--y’s ebony chest as he dozed lazily in the tropical sun, Hailey watched as U--er dragged the lifeless bodies of both father and son down to the surf, where they would be washed out with the tide and become fish food. The small island, about 75 jungle acres, included two comfortable bungalows, a solar array, a crystal clear lagoon, and a fresh water spring. U--er’s borrowed yacht sat anchored on the opposite side of the island, from which the trio had made their clandestine approach. “Hmm,” she thought to herself, “now that it’s white-boy-free, it will be nice having an island to ourselves to escape to once in awhile. Thanks, Justin!”
I.
In the early days of the voluntary disposal movement, the voluntary part was loosely observed at best. More frequently, women would cajole, berate, and coerce their white husbands, boyfriends, and sons into agreeing to disposal, freeing the women to enjoy the pleasures of sex with black men without the baggage of white family, white monogamy, or white morality to restrict their interracial desires. That black men usually viewed them as little more than whores to sate their lusts and their racial animosity seldom troubled the white women obsessed with the carnal pleasures they experienced with a race of men they increasingly came to view as superior in every way to their own. Black men deserved easy access to white pussy, reasoning had it, as reparation for all the indignity and injustice they had endured at the hands of white oppression. That access was made easier with white men simply out of the way.
As time wore on, however, white women discovered that they did not have to work very hard to get the white men in their lives to agree to disposal. Older white males increasingly opted for disposal as their future prospects grew limited in the face of rampant anti-white political legislation, to say nothing of the wives and daughters who rejected them in their preference for black men. For younger white males, meanwhile, disposal became almost a fad, a way to demonstrate how non-racist they believed themselves to be by participating in white genocide, embracing the looming extinction of the white race.
Voluntary Whiteboy Disposal, as it came to be known, was available in a variety of tiers, at various costs. At the very bottom level for low-wage earners, usually single white men, disposal centers were virtual abattoirs, slaughterhouses in which white males were dispatched cheaply, quickly, and effectively, often with a bolt to the head, like livestock. And like livestock, their remains were put to a variety of uses, fertilizer and pet food being among the most common. At the other end of the spectrum, were elaborate fantasy disposal suites, in which the men or, more commonly, the women in their lives, could choose from a variety of disposal options, often involving the sexual gratification of a woman by black disposal staff while she enjoyed her husband or boyfriend or even son or brother being dispatched. There were even a number of reality television and game shows that took whiteboy disposal as their central theme. On some of these shows, black families could vote for the disposal of their least favorite contestants, watching with pleasure as whiteboys were imaginatively disposed of at the climax of every episode.
The highest-rated show, however, could not compete with the attention that pop icon Justin B---er received when he announced his own impending disposal to be aired on live pay-per-view television. Now approaching 30 years old, the one-time idol of white tween girls worldwide explained his decision in an interview with Entertainment Tonight.
“Rumor has it, Justin,” inquired black ET host Kevin Fr---er, “that you plan on disposing of yourself on your upcoming special. If so, you’ll be one of the biggest names in the world to volunteer for white disposal. Tell us, is it true?”
Justin looked directly into the camera, his eyes wide, innocent, and sincere. “That’s right, Kevin,” he confirmed. “It’s my plan to join the thousands of my fellow white boys who have tried to improve the world by removing themselves from it. This should and will be a black world.”
The black television host nodded his agreement. “Well said, Justin. I can’t help but wonder: how did you reach such a momentous decision?”
“Well, Kevin, it really wasn’t difficult at all. It is, quite simply, the right thing to do. And if I can inspire more white boys to join me in voluntary disposal, I will know that it has been worthwhile.”
“Amen,” Kevin agreed. “Our audience can’t help but wonder, though, might your decision have anything to do with your wife famously and publicly leaving you for young rap star, Da B--y?”
“Yo, I won’t lie, Kevin: Hailey’s decision had a lot to do with opening my eyes, and helping me realize just how worthless white life is. My entire career has been built, not just on white privilege, but on cultural appropriation. Everything I’ve done, every song I’ve recorded, was really stolen from black artists who did it first and did it better. It’s time for me to really give back, and I’m hoping that my disposal will do just that.”
Kevin Fr---er nodded his agreement. “If it helps more whites accept their inevitable extinction, Justin, I think you will have finally done something worthwhile. Thanks so much for being with us tonight.”
Justin gave the camera his signature lop-sided grin and a peace sign. “Thank you for having me, Kevin, and remember everybody, next Sunday at 8pm, tune it to witness my completely voluntary disposal. Contact your cable provider. I guarantee: everybody will be talking about it.”
Social media exploded in the wake of Justin’s announcement. His legion of one-time fans, many of whom were now as committed to black supremacy as they once were to Justin himself, weighed in on Twitter and Snapchat. “I can’t believe I ever listened to his appropriated drivel. Getting rich off exploiting POCs is disgusting!” “One less white male in the world, I can hardly wait to watch!” “Justin knocked me up after a show in San Antonio. I aborted the baby, and am so glad I did. I spread my legs exclusively for black dudes now!” And so on. The many black rappers and R&B singers that Justin had worked with over the years came out to renounce the music they had produced together and express their pleasure at his impending disposal. Anticipation ran high.
Justin’s wife, Hailey B---win, now romantically linked with hip-hop star Da B--y, was interviewed in Ebony magazine about her husband’s decision. “Oh, I think it’s great! To be completely honest, I didn’t think the loser had it in him. He has exploited black artists and black music for so many years, growing wealthy off appropriating their talent, I didn’t think he’d ever owe up to his sins. I hope he inspires more white boys to choose disposal. The white race’s end is in sight, but it really can’t come quick enough, can it?”
“Recent photos of you, Hailey, reveal what seems to be a bit of a baby bump,” the magazine’s interviewer queried. “Is it possible that Justin will be leaving something behind?”
“Ha! No way,” Hailey responded with derision. “I am pregnant, but I guarantee: if this were Justin’s baby, I would have flushed it long ago. No, this is Da B--y’s offspring, and I couldn’t be prouder to be black bred!”
“That’s wonderful news,” said the interviewer. “Does Justin know that you’re having a black baby?”
“He better: he was there when it was conceived,” Hailey explained. “Not willingly, of course. He walked in on us in the act. When he tried to make a fuss, my man and his posse had to smack him around a little bit. We did it right on Justin’s custom made $150,000 Vividus bed, soiling the 1,500 thread count sheets that the little pop princess had imported from Milan. Da B--y made me spread my legs and show off my gaping snatch to my loser husband as it dripped his thick scum all over those sheets. When we left, one of Da B--y’s boys dropped a baggy of pure H on the nightstand. We were all kind of hoping he’d fall off the wagon and decide to off himself right then, but no such luck.”
“Wow, that was a bold step considering that you’re often credited with getting Justin sober to begin with.”
“Don’t remind me! One of the biggest regrets of my life,” Hailey confessed. “If I hadn’t intervened, he might have OD’ed already. Back then, I hadn’t had my eyes open to the reality of black supremacy. Now, I just want to do my part to eradicate my race completely.”
“Good for you,” the interviewer said. “You’re a true race traitor! So, will you be watching your husband’s disposal this Sunday?”
“Watching? Da B--y and I will be hosting an exclusive party, and we’ll be doing it at the Beverly Park mansion that Justin and I bought a couple of years ago. It’s going to be a complete blow-out! Woo-hoo!”
Justin’s mother, Pattie, meanwhile, did a remote interview from her home in Canada with the now all-black View, in which she praised her son’s decision. “Oh, of course I think it’s a great thing my son is doing. He’s in a position to inspire so many other white boys to do the same. I have a black lover now, and I only wish my eyes had been open to the truth years ago!” The middle-aged white woman snuggled closer to the well-dressed, much younger black man sitting beside her. He wore a Givenchy leather jacket and a gold Rolex watch, gifts Justin’s mother had bought her young lover with her son’s money. “I’m hoping to get knocked up and finally do something worthwhile with my womb.”
Justin’s father could not be located for comment. There were rumors that the white parasite, who lived off his son’s success, might have already disposed of himself given the impending loss of access to his son’s fortune, as Justin’s entire estate was expected to be left to his cheating wife Hailey.
II.
Outspoken black supremacist Nick Ca---n was tapped to host the hour-long extravaganza. A who’s who of the black entertainment world turned out for the event, eager to witness the final moments of the once inexplicably successful pop icon. Nick began the show with a highlight reel of Justin’s rise to fame from his discovery as a Canadian tween to his enormous pop success to his struggles with drugs and the law to his sobriety and efforts to be taken seriously as a musical artist. The audience roared with laughter at Justin’s sad efforts to mimic black culture in his concerts and videos: the basketball t-shirts, the gang signs, the sagging jeans, even the brief flirtation with cornrows. Nick observed how each and every one of the women that had been associated with Justin was now with a black man. “Something about this white boy makes the honeys go running to the brothers,” he joked. “Ain’t white boys pathetic?” The spectators applauded wildly, delighted to hear such truths announced on stage to a worldwide audience.
There were several live musical performances—by black artists only, of course—many in the increasingly popular genre called extinction rap, which celebrated the diminished presence of the white race in the world. Justin, meanwhile, sat alone in his dressing room, rather nervously watching the proceedings on screen, going over some final details on his phone. He smoked a fat blunt as he worked, a big fuck you to his years of sobriety in the face of his impending disposal. Justin admired his lean, heavily tattooed body in the mirror, absent-mindedly massaging the crotch of his leather jeans as he drew deeply on the blunt. His hair was bleached platinum blonde and spiked with gel. He recalled when the hairstyle he wore as a teenager had become a worldwide sensation. That seemed a lifetime ago.
Justin noticed that Nick Ca---n had segued into a history of the voluntary disposal movement. Several celebrities appeared onstage to recount their early impressions of white disposal. Some confessed that they had struggled with it, viewing it, at first, as akin murder, that is until they grew to understand that white lives, especially those of white males, really didn’t matter. White women, at least, had some utility, as sexual possessions and breeding mares. White men were essentially useless, of less worth than most animals. Even the most reluctant of black stars confessed that they had ultimately been persuaded of the necessity, even the beauty, of white extinction. One black celebrity after another—actors, singers, athletes, artists—spoke of what the ever increasing absence of white faces and voices in their daily lives meant to them. Nick Ca---n returned to the stage, visibly moved, theatrically wiping a tear from his eye. “Thank you, everyone, thank you, my brothers and sisters in melanin,” he said. “And now, without further delay, the moment we’ve all gathered for: Justin would you join us?”
Justin walked out from behind the velvet stage curtain. His black leather jeans were tight on his lean frame. His spikey, bleached locks stuck out in tufts beneath a Blue Jays ball cap. Diamond studs in each ear sparkled under the stage lights. He had pulled on a black power t-shirt, a raised fist in the pan-African colors of black, green, and red, on the chest, a final nod to his years of appropriating black culture. The audience booed and hissed, venting all their contempt for the white race on this young Canadian. He held out his fist to Nick for a bump, but Nick ignored the gesture, sneering with open disdain.
“So, the big moment approaches,” Nick said to the audience. “Unfortunately, Justin here has chosen his own method of disposal. Too bad, because LeBron, Fiddy, and a bunch of other brothers were hoping to get the chance to just beat him to death with their bare fists.” The audience hooted and catcalled their disappointment. “I know, right?” Nick guffawed. “That would have been awesome! Oh, well, maybe when John Mayer finally gets around to disposing of himself, we’ll get lucky.” The audience chuckled in appreciation, the camera catching close-ups of several of them: an Academy Award winning actor, a hip-hop mogul and his superstar wife, a former talk show host and founder of her own network, even a former President and his wife. They were eager to witness this very public step in the promise of a white-free world.
“Sorry, Nick,” Justin said, leaning toward the microphone. “I know y’all would love to see me beaten to a bloody pulp.” The audience applauded. “Can’t say I blame you. But, I think you’ll be pleased with the method I’ve selected. Now, if you’ll just give me a minute.” With that Justin stepped behind the stage curtain. The orchestra played a swelling introduction as Nick stepped to one side. The curtains were drawn open to reveal Justin B---er on his knees on the center of the stage, his head, covered by a black leather hood, resting in the groove of a large, square, wooden block. He still wore his leather jeans, but had stripped off his t-shirt to reveal his lean, distinctively inked pale body. The audience appeared momentarily perplexed until R&B icon U--er walked out on stage, wearing a white tuxedo, and approached Justin’s bowed body, a heavy, gleaming axe in his right hand. The audience applauded vigorously, admiring the symbolism that the very man credited with discovering Justin would apparently be the one given the honor of disposing of him.
U--er smiled at the audience as he approached the kneeling white boy. At her home in Beverly Park, Justin’s wife sat beside Da B--y, surrounded by dozens of party-goers, hooting and hollering for the pop star’s disposal, watching the action on Justin’s own 105-inch curved 4K television. Da B--y had his fingers up Hailey’s skirt, fingering her cunt at the sight of the white boy about to be snuffed. When U--er raised the axe high over his head, Hailey squealed in anticipation. The audiences at both the theatre and watching from Justin’s home, as well as presumably across the nation, began simultaneously chanting, “Do him! Do him! Do him!” In Canada, Justin’s mother sat astride her boyfriend’s lap, riding his erection in a reverse cowgirl position, as she orgasmed to the sight of her only son’s impending disposal. She felt no sympathy or sorrow, only regret that she hadn’t done the deed herself some thirty years ago.
With a theatrical nod to the audience and a contemptuous smirk, U--er swung the heavy axe downward, the taut muscles of his strong arms putting all their strength into the blow. The slacks of U--er’s tuxedo were splashed red in the spray of blood as the axe struck the back of Justin’s neck, slicing through the singer’s spinal cord. Justin’s head dropped and rolled several feet across the stage. The audience erupted in spontaneous applause. To their pleasure, another white boy, a particularly objectionable one to many of the spectators, had been removed from the population. White boys across the world knew that they were all one step closer to extinction.
As Nick Ca---n returned to the stage, U--er bent down and slipped the hood off Justin’s head. Grasping the bleached hair in his leather gloved hand, he raised the head high like an African warrior of old, for all to admire. The audience demonstrated their approval with a standing ovation. Nick held open a trash bag for U--er, who unceremoniously discarded his one-time protégé’s head as if it were rubbish, which to them is exactly what it was. In her Beverly Park home, Hailey paused the television on the close-up of Justin’s head, studying the image closely.
III.
In peach-colored swim trunks, Justin B---er lay stretched out on a lounge chair on a sandy white beach, under the shade of a palm tree. He sipped his vodka pina colada, preferring Grey Goose to even the finest rum. He puffed occasionally at a fat Cuban cigar, as he enjoyed the warm breeze and the sound of the surf, his eyes closed behind his Bulgari sunglasses. I actually pulled it off, he thought to himself; six months ago, in front of a live audience and on television, he had succeeded in the fake of the century, admittedly with a little help from world-renowned illusionist Criss An--l. The entire world believed that Justin was dead. Well, almost the entire world. Besides Criss An--l and a handful of lawyers, Justin had depended on his father, Jeremy, to help him accomplish his deception. Now, Justin and Jeremy lived a comfortable and, more importantly, safe retirement on this small South Pacific Island, far removed from the racial division back home.
It wasn't an easy task to squirrel tens of millions in off-shore accounts without anyone catching on. He was able to make a lot of it seem like simple investment losses. That nigger-loving bitch of a wife would get more than her share, that was unavoidable, but there was so much more than she knew about. There always had been. Justin paid a crew of locals from the large island to keep his retreat stocked with food, liquor, and girls. He and Jeremy had partied virtually every night since they'd arrived at their new home, and relaxed during the day. He'd sacrificed his fame, sure, but he still retained much of his fortune thanks to foresight and duplicity. Justin had seen the future: whites were an endangered species, and he arranged to get out while he still could.
Finding the appropriate dupe to take his place was the tricky part. Lucky for Justin, there was no shortage of young white men eager for disposal during the twilight of the white race. The promise of being snuffed in front of a huge worldwide audience appealed to a certain type of personality. With a bit of cosmetic help and some temporary tattoos to mirror Justin’s own, the perfect replacement was substituted at the last moment backstage, mere moments before U--er appeared onstage with his axe. Within hours, Justin and Jeremey were on a private aircraft bound for Fiji, no one the wiser. It was a masterpiece.
“J-J-Justin,” he heard his father say behind him. Just as he turned, he heard a shot rang out, and Jeremy’s body collapsed onto the white sand. Justin jumped up in shock and horror, removing his sunglasses, his mouth agape at the sight of his father’s body twitching on the beach, a pool of blood gathering around what had been his head. “Dad!” he cried. Behind Jeremy’s corpse, Da B--y and Hailey stood, grinning smugly, a glock in the rapper’s right hand.
“Oh, shit,” Justin gulped as he assessed the dire situation.
“Hi, honey,” Hailey sniggered, Da B--y’s free arm draped possessively around her shoulder. “Miss me?” Rather ridiculously, Justin realized that she must have had her baby as she was no longer pregnant.
Hailey caught his expression. “Oh, that’s right: you haven’t heard the news! It turns out that it was your baby after all. A boy. A white boy. As soon as I found out, I had that horrible parasite aborted. Da B--y was there for the whole procedure, enjoying the whole thing.”
“Yo, man,” Da B--y acknowledged, “seeing that shit made my dick hard as fuck. Yo’ wife sucked a load out of my balls before the doc was even through. Good shit, man.” Justin was devastated: the two people who had just murdered his father before his eyes were laughing about how they ended his only child. They had obliterated his bloodline at both ends. He felt sick inside.
Biding for time, Justin asked, “How…how did you know…?”
“How did we know that wasn’t you that was disposed of on television?” Hailey asked. “Easy peasy, honey. Those diamond earrings that Selena custom-made for you back when you two were an item. You loved them so much that you kept them long after you broke up. But I’ll tell you, in 4K, it’s pretty easy for any girl who knows diamonds to tell fakes, and those were fakes on the poor, stupid white boy you got to take your place.”
Da B--y went on: “Yo’ dumbass daddy left a digital trail that was pretty easy to crack for a decent hacker. We gots into yo’ off-shore accounts, yo, and yo’ investments, and added Hailey’s name to all that shit. From there, tracking you and yo’ daddy to this island was as simple as shooting white boys in a barrel.”
Justin held up his hands, his father’s corpse and the glock in Da B--y’s hand making clear the direness of his situation. “Look, please, there’s no need for this. You can have it all: the money, the island, everything. Just let me go. Please.” He felt his lower lip begin to quiver; he held his bladder only by an effort of will.
Hailey cocked her head. “Yeah, no, you see that’s the thing, sweetie. The world already thinks you’re dead. Since that special aired, thousands of white boys have filed into disposal centers, just like the lemmings they are. It’s beautiful. You’re an inspiration. We can’t have you spoiling that by turning up alive.”
“But, but, Hailey, c’mon…”
“Oh, and we made a promise, too,” Da B--y explained.
“A promise? To who?”
“To me,” came a voice from behind Justin’s right shoulder at the very same moment that a loop of wire was wrapped around his neck and pulled tight. Justin recognized U--er’s voice, even as the strong, gloved hands that held the wire forced it deep into the suntanned flesh of the white boy’s throat. He struggled to get his fingers under the taut wire, but to no avail. He was being strangled, garroted by his own one-time mentor. Justin gurgled spittle even as his sun-golden face began to turn blue. Hailey practically jumped up and down with excitement at the sight of her husband’s long overdue disposal. Da B--y reached down and picked up Justin’s fat Cuban cigar, appreciated its rich scent as he placed it between the gold grill of his teeth. “Snuff dat white faggot, yo,” he said with a satisfied grin.
The muscles on U--er’s thick, brown arms bulged with the exertion of strangling the white pop singer. He enjoyed Justin’s struggle, knowing how futile it was. He’d been looking forward to this ever since Hailey contacted him to inform him how they’d all been conned. U--er was late in joining many younger blacks in accepting the necessity of white extinction, but now that he had, he was an enthusiastic proponent of black supremacy. He felt his cock grow turgid as he sensed the white boy’s life drain from him. “N-n-nigger…,” Justin managed to hiss out, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body spasmed from oxygen deprivation. Still, U--er did not release his hold on the wire as it cut into Justin’s throat, growing slick with blood.
Hailey pushed Da B--y back on Justin’s beach chair, and freed his long, thick cock from his basketball shorts. Slipping out of her bikini bottom, Hailey mounted her lover’s mahogany erection with her perfectly groomed vagina, humping him enthusiastically as she enjoyed her husband’s demise. When U--er finally let the limp white Canadian slump to the sand, she came hard on Da B--y’s python. “Dat’s right, white meat,” Da B--y intoned, cigar clamped between his teeth, “you enjoy your cum on Daddy’s rod!”
U--er freed his own black scepter, moving behind the humping white girl. “You mind, bro?” he asked of Da B--y. “Do it, nigga,” Da B--y consented, granting U--er access to his girl’s nether-hole, Haley’s own consent being irrelevant. U--er probed at the puckered opening, easing himself through her backdoor, his hands reaching around to grope the blonde’s fleshy, pert breasts. Hailey groaned as the two black men used her holes, the corpse of her husband growing cool on the sand beside them. She thrilled to the idea that she might be black bred on the very same day that she became a widow. She worked to tighten her pussy and ass muscles on the two black pistons pummeling her, even as they were tearing her apart. The black superstars came at virtually the same moment, flooding the young blonde’s guts with their thick baby batter.
Afterward, lying astride Da B--y’s ebony chest as he dozed lazily in the tropical sun, Hailey watched as U--er dragged the lifeless bodies of both father and son down to the surf, where they would be washed out with the tide and become fish food. The small island, about 75 jungle acres, included two comfortable bungalows, a solar array, a crystal clear lagoon, and a fresh water spring. U--er’s borrowed yacht sat anchored on the opposite side of the island, from which the trio had made their clandestine approach. “Hmm,” she thought to herself, “now that it’s white-boy-free, it will be nice having an island to ourselves to escape to once in awhile. Thanks, Justin!”
