The following story is extremely graphic. It includes but is not limited to racial violence and executions. If material of this sort offends you, please do not continue reading.
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Harry Litman answered the door. Two correctional officers stood on his front stoop expectantly. They were large, brawny black men, each with a shaved head, mirrored sunglasses, and a humorless expression. One had a neatly trimmed goatee, the other was clean shaven and square-jawed. Harry wore the orange jumpsuit that had been messengered to his home just the day before. He held out his hands, and one of the officers clamped metal handcuffs on them. Harry became aware of a third black man standing silently behind the guards. He was tall and lean, with long, beaded cornrows, heavily tattooed arms, a confident smirk and mirthful eyes. In contrast to Harry's jumpsuit, he wore new jeans and a clean white t-shirt, tight on his thick, inked biceps. This was the violent convict whose place in prison Harry was taking, while this black thug would take Harry's place in his home, in his wife's bed, in his children's lives. His name was Moises Montez. and he was a convicted felon, both a drug dealer and a murderer.
Moises entered what had formerly been Harry's home, the title having been signed over to Moises when the legal niceties of the exchange had been worked out. He pushed past Harry with a rough shove, sparing the smaller white man not the slightest acknowledgment. Harry's wife, Diane--twenty-eight years old, fit and attractive--greeted Moises somewhat shyly. "Welcome to your new home," she smiled. Her two children—fourteen-year old Carly and twelve-year old Harry, Jr.—stood behind her watching the scenario, uncertain what to make of it all, even though Harry and Diane had explained to them that they would be getting a new Daddy.
Moises looked around, appraising the modest suburban house. "Not too bad," he said. "Might need ta be pimped out a lil. But after six years inside, anything'll look good." He ran his eyes over Diane’s fit physique, taking in her slim waist and small breasts. “Anything,” he repeated.
One of the guards had Diane sign and date a few forms, after which Harry was led roughly down the drive to the prisoner transfer vehicle to be remanded to the custody of the state, where he would finish out the remainder of Moises's twenty-five year term. Diane, her gaze riveted by Moises, who had sprawled on the family sofa, neglected to even say good-bye to her husband. Harry Jr. began crying as his former father was locked in the back of the van. Moises stood and belted the crying tween across the face, much to Diane's surprise and confusion. The young boy was knocked virtually across the room by the powerful smack. Young Carly looked on in wonder, her parents having never raised a hand to either her or her brother. Harry Jr. continued to whimper.
"Shut up, you stupid cracka baby," the black thug warned him. "Or they'll be more of that. A lot more." Diane closed the front door, as the van drove off, feeling herself become flushed with unexpected excitement at the black thug’s rough treatment of her son and domineering presence.
Penal Exchange was simply the latest in a series of laws aimed at correcting the long imbalance of power between white and black Americans. The first of such laws, the Reparations Act, allowed for an enormous transfer of wealth directly from white families to black families in an effort to adjust the long economic inequality between the races. The African Immigration Act followed, fast-tracking immigration to the United States for anyone with 33% or more sub-Saharan African ancestry, while imposing strict limits on immigration from Asia and Europe. The Euthanasia Act, colloquially known as White Boy Disposal, legalized voluntary suicide, often with the assistance of what were called Voluntary Disposal Centers. The law took advantage of what many biologists and sociologists recognized as a burgeoning extinction itch inherent in so many white people, particularly white men. Finally, the Penal Exchange Act was designed to address the long history of inequities in the prison industrial complex by allowing white men to complete the sentences of even the most hardened black criminals. In many instances, the transfer included the convicts being given legal rights to the white man's home, property, even family. As recompense, the white families had all future reparations debt forgiven.
When Harry Litman lost his job due to the white attrition rate in so many industries with government-imposed racial quotas, and found himself struggling to support his family, his mother, a life-long progressive activist for black reparations, had suggested that he volunteer to exchange places with a black inmate through the exchange program. At first horrified at the thought, Harry eventually became convinced that he had little recourse when his family found themselves in danger of losing their comfortable suburban house. Diane and the children would receive a generous stipend for Harry's sacrifice. He visited a law office that specialized in Penal Exchange, and began the process. Harry would be almost fifty before he would be eligible for parole.
Hi Harry,
I hope prison is treating you well. (Oh, that's probably a stupid thing to say.) Sorry I have not written sooner, but Moises has been keeping me very busy.
You would probably not recognize the house! Moises had us get rid of most of the old furniture. He brought in a lot of black leather furniture and chrome fixtures and gold decorations, stuff like that. The walls are loaded with African art, paintings and tribal masks. You were barely out of the house when he instructed me to take all your pictures out of the frames and albums and burn them. Maybe it was wrong, but I quickly learned that you just do not say no to a man like Moises.
He can get a little rough sometimes, with both me and the kids. But he almost never hits me…I mean, unless I've done something stupid. Unfortunately, I do stupid stuff nearly every day it seems. He says I just need a bit of discipline, that living with a wimp like you for so many years taught me some bad habits that a real man shouldn't have to put up with. It's not fair that he calls you a wimp. I mean, he doesn’t even know you. But, to be fair, compared to a man like Moises, I guess most white guys are sort of wimpy. Sorry!
The one person he treats like royalty is...your mother! Even though she lives on the other side of the country, she has already visited twice. She dotes on him, says he's the son she wishes she had. She makes his favorite meals when she's here, she buys him new clothes. She’s been encouraging him to knock me up, but I don't think I have been off the pill long enough yet. Still, it's not for lack of trying. Moises is very virile! I mean, he’s fucked me pretty much every night since the exchange and still needs a few other women on the side. Incredible, right? I mean, I was usually impressed if you were good for a single fuck a week. Sorry, I know you do not like vulgarity, but that’s what Moises always calls it: fucking. Making love is for faggots, he says (his words, not mine *giggles*).
Carly simply adores Moises. She snuggles with him when he watches basketball and football. She enjoys sitting on his lap while he plays video games. She tells all her friends about how much she loves her new, black Daddy.
Harry Jr. does not feel the same way. Unfortunately, Moises has to get a bit rough with him sometimes. He says that a white boy, even a twelve-year old white boy like Harry, should know his place. Moises turned Harry's bedroom into a weight room, so Harry has to sleep in a corner of the kitchen now. Moises gave him a towel to use as bedding; the funny thing is that it is the same towel Moises uses to wipe off his big black cock after sex, so it's crusted all over with cum and sweat. Sometimes, I feel a bit sorry for Harry Jr. But Moises is right: he's a white boy, and he's going to have to learn his place in the world sooner or later. To help him understand things better, we gave away all of his toys and games to the black children in the neighborhood. Moises had a good laugh at that.
Anyway, I hope prison life isn't too difficult. I really appreciate that you made this sacrifice for us. It's been an adjustment, but things are really looking up.
Regards,
Diane
Harry! Big news! I’m pregnant!
It’s too soon yet to tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but Moises thinks it’s going to be a boy. He tells me he already has a few kids—eight, he thinks, but he’s not sure—from before he got locked up. He must have been a very virile teenager since he was only nineteen when he was convicted. I’m just starting to show, and Moises says that he likes my baby bump, knowing that he fucked a black baby into my married white womb. He’s so naughty, isn’t he? LOL! He’s hoping my boobs get bigger now that I’m pregnant, he thinks they’re too tiny. If they don’t, he says he might make me get a boob job. He likes white bitches with big tits, he says.
Carly is doing great! She has just started 9th grade and already has a boyfriend! She’s been dating an eighteen-year high school senior named Tyrone. Moises likes to take credit for how popular she’s become with the older boys. He’s always buying her sexy clothes, and I once caught him teaching her how to French kiss. He did warn her, however, that if she ever came home with a white boy, he would beat the shit out of her. As her father, he explained, he has to look out for her best interests.
Harry Jr. is thirteen now, but I’m afraid he still hasn’t adjusted to things. Moises thinks he may be a bit retarded. Because he’s so annoying, Moises does not allow him to eat with the rest of the family. Harry eats out of a doggie bowl that we keep in the backyard. It’s really for the best; Moises and Carly are much happier when he’s not around. And the new baby will certainly take up a lot of my time. I confess that I sometimes forget to feed Harry Jr. for a whole day or more, but you know how busy things can get. Moises has warned him that if his behavior does not improve dramatically, he might just sell him to a child slave ring in Africa, where they’ll put him to work in the mines. He’s probably joking about that. But I don’t know for sure.
Sorry to hear that prison life is so rough. I’m glad that you are out of the infirmary. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what a rectal prolapse is. If you were more of man, you could probably take better care of yourself. I haven’t talked to the lawyer yet about revoking the exchange as you suggested. Moises doesn’t think it’s a good idea to bother them, so I probably won’t.
Yours,
Diane
Hi Harry,
Well, you don’t have to worry about Moises sending little Harry away to be a slave. He’s dead. Harry, I mean, not Moises. (Thank God! That would be horrible!) It was the funniest, strangest thing: one day Moises came home and told me to get him a beer. I brought one to him while he was turning on the basketball game. “Oh,” he told me, “I think I ran over your loser kid in the driveway.” I ran outside, and sure enough, Moises had squashed Harry’s head with the back tire. What Harry was doing in the driveway, I don’t know.
We called the police. They took the body away, and asked us a few questions. When the two black officers found out that Moises was Harry’s legal father and part of the prisoner exchange program, they just looked at each other and sniggered. No charges were filed since it was obviously an accident. Harry went back to watching the game and drinking his beer.
When Carly came home from school, I told her about her little brother. She just kind of shrugged and curled up on Moises’ lap. I guess that I should probably be more upset about Harry, but at eight months pregnant, I really have enough on my mind. Moises joked that we should just consider Harry’s death as a late term abortion. When I told your mother, she simply said, “Everything considered, he’s really better off, don’t you think?” She’s probably right: I mean, this world is no place for a white boy. Especially, a retarded white boy. We were probably going to just have to dispose of him at some point anyway. We didn’t have a funeral or anything. Moises thought it would cost too much and just bum everybody out. To make things easier, he had me burn all the photos of Harry Jr. just like I did yours.
Oh! The good news is: we’re having a boy! Isn’t that great? Carly is really excited to have a baby brother. A NEW and BLACK baby brother, I mean.
Diane
Harry,
I understand that you’re upset about Harry Jr., but I really think you are overreacting. Accidents happen. Besides the new baby is so adorable, and not retarded at all. We’ve named him King Darius. Your mother simply adores him, she coddles him in a way she never did Harry Jr. And Carly has been such a great big sister.
Once I stop breastfeeding, Moises says he’s finally going to get me that boob job. He wants me to turn tricks for him to bring in some extra money. He really doesn’t like to work, he says. I can’t say I blame him. He’s already got a few girls that he pimps for, so he’ll just add me to his stable. He promises me that I’ll only have to fuck black guys; he says he’ll never let another white dick near me. Carly wants to turn tricks for him, too. She’s SO in love with him! But he says she’ll have to wait until she’s a bit older. In the meantime, he tells her she can practice giving head to all her black boyfriends at school.
That’s right: boyfriends, plural, not just Tyrone anymore. It turns out that she’s really popular with the black high school boys, and they kind of pass her around. So, by the time she is ready to start whoring, she should be an expert. Sometimes I come home to find she’s had five or six black boys in her bedroom when she’s supposed to be in school. They’re blasting rap music and smoking weed and doing God knows what. Our little girl is growing up so fast!
Do you remember the Blakes from across the street? Gayle had her husband and two teenage sons disposed of just last week. Apparently, the boys were given lethal injections while their father watched and jerked off, then he was hanged while Gayle was spit-roasted by two African studs. Real Africans, too, Gayle told me, straight from Somalia. She said that seeing me and Moises together really inspired her. She’s going to lend us the disposal video to view. Carly is really excited to see it. She says she’d like to be a disposal girl when she grows up, convincing white boys to dispose of themselves. But you know kids, they change their minds about careers so often.
Anyway, I hope your cellmates are going easier on you. I warned you: things go a lot better if you just stop resisting when a black man wants something.
Sincerley,
Diane
Hi Dad (LMFAO),
Mom asked me to write you with the news. She’s had her hands full with little Darius, my new baby brother. He’s really a handful. I mean, he’s only three and he already bullies all the white boys in his pre-school (which gives Daddy Moises a great laugh; he’s taught King Darius to call all the white boys “cracka babies,” isn’t that hilarious? LOL!) Oh, I really shouldn’t call you Daddy, anymore. For one thing, I barely even remember you; for another, I have a much better Daddy now in Moises.
So, anyway, Mom wanted me to tell you that it turns out that the Governor has decided that the Penal Exchange Program is just not “cost effective,” paying to incarcerate all you white losers at taxpayer expense. She has a point, I guess. Unfortunately for you, the Governor has decided to cut costs by executing anybody convicted of a capital offense. Since Moises committed murder, I’m afraid that means…you. And the State Supreme Court has ruled that appeals would prove racially unjust, so they’ve refused to hear any. Sucks to be a white boy, huh? We got a certified letter in the mail last week telling us that you are scheduled to be executed in on May 15. That’s just next month! Everybody is really excited!
The whole family has been invited to your execution. Moises even volunteered to do the honors of shooting you, telling the lawyers that they wouldn’t even have to pay him (more savings for tax payers is always a plus!), but, apparently, the guards have to off you. Some union thing. Too bad! Moises was really bummed, says he hasn’t wasted a white dude in way too long.
Anyway, I guess we’ll see you in just a few weeks. Mom has already arranged for me to have the day off from school, and Grandma is flying into the town just for the occasion. I may have to go shopping for something new, I mean, what exactly does one wear to an execution? Especially the execution of one’s own father? Former father, I mean!
Try looking on the bright side, though: at least you won’t have to stay behind bars for the next however-many-years it would have been, always getting beaten and raped by men stronger and tougher and better than you.
See you soon!
Carly
P.S. now that I’m a senior, Daddy Moises has both me and Mom turning tricks for him. Mom does pretty well with her new tit job and all, but I’m his highest earner. He says he’s going to keep me on the streets until it’s time to breed me. I can’t wait to give Moises more black babies. I love him so much!
They arrived at the prison much the way some families might attend a county fair or a fireworks display, with an air of expectation and barely contained excitement. Moises wore a burgundy silk shirt, untucked, several heavy gold chains around his neck, the sleeves tight on his corded, tattooed arms. A gold Rolex decorated his right wrist, purchased with money cleaned out of Harry’s 401K. Harry wouldn’t have to worry about retirement anymore, anyway. Diane’s new bosom was well-displayed in a red Chanel dress, cut several inches above the knee. She had thought that perhaps she should wear black to the execution of her husband, but Moises had insisted that she wear something bright, cheerful, revealing. Carly, now seventeen, wore jeans and a tight, pink blouse, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her style of choice since Moises had shown her that black men often liked to grab hold of something while forcing their oversized members down a girl’s throat. Charlotte, Harry’s mother, dressed in a sensible blue pantsuit, holding King Darius’ little hand with pride. Much to Moises disappointment, the prison would not allow children under sixteen to witness the executions, so a temporary playroom had been set up for the younger children.
Makeshift bleachers had been erected before a wooden platform stage in the open-air workout yard, with several dozen people already seated. A prison guard showed them to their seats like an usher in a theatre. Diane noted that all the couples were mixed race, black men and white women. There were a number of children present as well, of various ages, which made her feel a bit better about bringing Darius along. Many of the children appeared to be of mixed parentage, like Darius, although there were several white girls and even a couple of white boys—presumably children of the white prisoners--the boys looking very ill at ease. The younger children were ushered to a makeshift playroom before the prisoners were brought out. Moises exchanged greetings and fist bumps with several of the black men that he appeared to have known from his time at the prison. “This shit’s tight, dawg,” Diane heard him say to one of them. “Cannot wait to see these losers get wasted! They should off some white boys every weekend!” Diane suppressed a giggle at Moises’s enthusiasm.
Charlotte nudged Carly. “Isn’t this exciting, sweetie?” she encouraged her granddaughter. Carly was snapping pics with her phone, admiring all the burly, uniformed black prison guards. Carly giggled. “I wish they’d do this to all the white boys in my school,” she said. Charlotte nodded approvingly. “One day soon,” she assured Carly, “they just might.” Just then, ten white men in orange jumpsuits, hands cuffed behind their backs, were marched single file up the platform steps. The warden, a smartly dressed woman of color, stepped up to the podium.
“I would like to thank you all for coming today,” she addressed the crowd. “It is encouraging to see how many citizens take an interest in seeing justice meted out. Rather than waste valuable public resources on expensive and unnecessary lethal drug combinations that simply enrich the pharmaceutical companies, my administration has opted for a more hands-on approach to dispatch these violent felons.” Behind her, one of the white convicts whimpered, fighting back tears. The warden turned to him, and with a wide smile said, “Inmate 17548, please step forward so we can demonstrate what I mean.” One teenaged girl observed excitedly, “Look, Mom! It’s Daddy!”
When the prisoner simply stood in his place, quaking, one of the black guards shoved him to the front of the stage. “Mr. Rawlins,” the warden said to the guard, “if you would be so kind…” As the prisoner, quivered and begged, “Pl-please, d-d-don’t,” the burly black guard, Rawlins, raised his firearm and shot 17548 in the back of the head, much to the astonished delight of, well, most of the audience. The inmate fell forward, off the stage, collapsing like a broken doll on the concrete. Cautiously at first, a round of applause broke out, quickly growing in enthusiasm. The dead man’s daughter and wife were among the most enthusiastic of clappers. The white boys seated among the audience, however, kept their eyes averted, some quietly weeping.
“As you can see,” the warden proceeded, “we would like to…expedite the day’s agenda as quickly as possible. For your enjoyment, however, each of our correctional officers will choose the method of disposal that gives him the most satisfaction. Inmate 12579, step forward.”
As a bald-headed, bespectacled, middle-aged white man shuffled toward the front of the platform, Diane pointed excitedly, and said, “Oh, Carly! Look there’s your father at the very end!” Diane noticed that her husband had lost a great deal of weight, the orange jumpsuit draped loosely on his thin frame. She smiled and waved. The motion caught Harry’s eye. He saw his wife sitting in the third row, Moises beside her, leaning back regally, one arm draped on the back of Diane’s seat, the other on the back of young Carly’s. He noted the near party-like atmosphere in the bleachers, the witnesses acting almost as if they were at a circus. Carly snapped a photo of her father with her phone. Harry hung his head, fighting back tears. Mere feet away from Harry, one of the thickly-muscled guards began beating 12579 over the head with a heavy black baton. With each crack of the prisoner’s skull, the crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.
When the inmate was all but dispatched, the guard casually kicked him off the side of the raised stage, where he crumpled beside the corpse of 17548, his body twitching in its death throes. The executions continued, each conducted by a different guard: one inmate was hacked at with a machete, another was garroted with a length of wire. The black men in the audience grew randy, watching as the white losers who had taken their places in prison drop one by one. They began massaging their bulging crotches, groping the wives and the daughters of the men being snuffed. Diane and Carly took turns stroking Moises prodigious member, which they had released from his jeans, in their small, white hands, as they enjoyed the brutal tableau of racial slaughter.
As the bodies piled up at the foot of the stage, the lewdness of those in the audience increased. Many of the white wives of the prisoners who were being executed were openly humping their black companions, the men whose freedom had been earned by these sacrifices. Most of the mixed-race, teenage children of the black men cheered with each disposal, while several of the white boys sobbed and shook in terror as they witnessed the gruesome executions of their biological fathers. Each of them knew that they might soon face a similar fate. After some of the executions, the guard who conducted the disposal would begin a triumphal performance similar to an endzone dance. Some would simply raise a fist in a black power salute, while others would execute complicated dance moves and mimes, spiking invisible balls or snapping imaginary necks. These performances served to excite the audience to even greater levels of frenzy and perverse lust.
Harry could not believe his eyes as he watched his seventeen-year old daughter bury her face in the lap of the man whose place he had taken behind bars. Her mouth filled with his engorged prick, as she bobbed her head up and down on his shaft. Harry's mother snapped photos of each of the executions, clearly excited by the sight of the kind of racial justice she had fought for her entire life. Harry tried averting his gaze, knowing that his end was coming soon, as each of his fellow inmates’ numbers were called out and they were dispatched with brutal efficiency. Finally, the last prisoner before Harry had his jugular slit by a guard who proceeded to strike several victorious poses, flexing his biceps in an elaborate gun show, before rolling the still twitching corpse off the stage. Harry bit back a sob.
The warden stepped forward. "I would like to thank everyone for coming out today, and sharing in the day’s festivities," she said. "I have to say that it is a great honor for all of us in the justice system to correct some of the racial inequities black people—black men, especially—have suffered for so long under the white man’s penal system. Our last execution of the day, inmate 11925, is a particular treat. The prisoner's mother is the well-known progressive activist, Charlotte Litman, who has been busy fighting to put white men in their rightful place for over two decades now." Charlotte stood and took a small bow, nodding to those around her for the smattering of applause. “Because of her service to the New World Order, Charlotte was granted a special request, specifically, that the man her son replaced behind these bars--whom some of you remember, I’m sure: Mr. Moises Montez--be allowed to perform the final execution of the day: Charlotte’s own son, inmate 11925! Isn’t that exciting?”
Moises sat forward, his fireplug dick oozing precum, and grinned enthusiastically at Charlotte. “Just for you, dear,” Charlotte said, leaning over and embracing the hard-muscled thug. “Ooh,” squealed Diane, “I don’t believe it! Just like you hoped, Moises!” Moises stood, flexing, cracking his knuckles, and made his way to the stage, accepting slaps on the back and fist bumps from those around him. “Do ‘im right,” they called. “Make whitey pay!” As he joined Harry on stage, Moises slammed a fist deep into the prisoner’s soft gut, causing the white man to double over. Standing over him, Moises slammed an elbow into the back of Harry’s head, knocking him to the floor with a sharp cry. On the ground, Harry was dealt a series of kicks in the ribs and groin from Moises’ booted feet.
The warden interrupted Moises with a hand on his rounded, muscular shoulder. “Now, now, Mr. Montez,” she cautioned, “there are specific prohibitions against cruel and unusual punishment.” Moises looked at her in momentary frustration, when the warden erupted in a burst of laughter. “Just kidding. The courts have ruled, of course, that such Constitutional protections don’t apply to whites.” Moises gave the warden an evil smirk, the audience applauded wildly. “Go right ahead and have your fun.” Moises raised a boot, smashing it down on Harry’s cuffed hand, relishing the sound of snapping finger bones. He drove his fist repeatedly into Harry’s face, shattering his nose, knocking teeth loose. “Ain’t fucked up a white boy in way too long,” Moises sneered. “Forgot how much fun it is.”
As Moises perused the weapons table that had been set up at the back of the platform, two guards lifted Harry to his feet by his elbows, holding him steady. Harry’s face was bloody, swollen; his vision was blurred as he looked out at the laughing audience. He saw his wife, Diane, sucking greedily on the big black member of one of the uniformed guards. He saw his daughter, Carly, sitting reverse cowgirl on the lap of a burly, middle-aged black man, bouncing up and down enthusiastically as she thrilled to the sight of her father’s beating. He saw his mother sitting contentedly, awaiting her son’s execution, one hand stroking the ebony shaft that fucked in and out of Carly, the other buried in her own snatch. It was all too much for him, witnessing his family’s depravity, their utter contempt for him, for their own race. He retched, his stomach dry-heaving painfully.
Just then, he felt Moises move behind him. “Like what you see, white boy?” Moises asked with a smirk. “This is it, we’re all finally free of you. Your house is mine. Your wife, your daughter: they’re mine. They whore for me. Your bratty kid is dead and gone. I had almost as much fun offing him as I’m going to have wasting you.” Moises grabbed Harry by his hair, yanking the white man’s head back. “I hate you white fucks, and can’t wait until the last of you is gone!” With that he pulled the clear plastic trash bag that he had selected from the table over Harry’s head, tightening it firmly at the neck.
Harry had barely sucked a breath into his lungs before his access to fresh oxygen had been cut off. He struggled against the cuffs that held his hands securely behind his back. He thrashed vainly against Moises superior height and strength. His breath grew rapid and hot in the confines of the sturdy bag. Through the fogged plastic, he could make out the women in his life pleasuring themselves at his panic and helplessness. How much better, he thought, to just receive a sudden bullet to the brain so he wouldn’t have to witness the laughter and elation of the audience at his impending demise. He felt Moises’ lips near his ear, whispering something, something. The hateful words, however, remained a dull roar, and all Harry could hear was the thunderous beating of his racing heart. His knees grew weak, he wanted to collapse to the ground, but Moises held him upright, facing the audience.
As everything turned grey, Harry could at last just make out Moises caustic words: “You are not the first white fuck I’ve snuffed. You won’t be the last white fuck I snuff. It’s all over for you faggots. This is our world now. This is a black man’s world. And faggots like you? You. Got. No. Fucking. Place. In. It.” There was more, more about how much Moises hated white boys, how much he enjoyed fucking and pimping out their women, how much pleasure it gave him to see white wombs swollen with his babies. But Harry was too far gone to hear it, his only awareness was of the agony in his lungs as they filled with the carbon monoxide that was killing him.
Diane stood to allow the black stranger whose cock she had been sucking access to her pussy, dripping with lust at the sight of so many white men being wasted. She watched intently as her weak, white husband convulsed under the power of the man she had come to adore. She felt the strange, thick cock probe at her pussy lips, and enter her vagina. She couldn’t say exactly how or when she’d grown so accustomed to the idea of Black Supremacy, but being under Moises sway had convinced her of the weakness and uselessness of white people, white men in particular. Harry’s mother had been right all these years in her pursuit not of racial equality, but of racial justice, a justice that could only become reality when white people had been bred out of existence. As these thoughts raced through her mind, she came hard as she watched Harry stop thrashing, as Moises released his death grip on the plastic bag and allowed Diane’s husband to drop to the floor. She laughed with a wickedness that surprised even her as Moises held his thick, black cock, and pissed over the corpse of her late husband.
Excerpt from the Chicago Sun-Times:
This week saw the execution of ten inmates who were part of the prisoner exchange program here in Illinois. As has become almost commonplace in the United States, these were white men who had consented to switch places with a black convict as part of a reparation program that acknowledges the racial inequities in our criminal justice system. The program has had its critics, of course, but has remained very popular, both with black inmates, who were awarded their freedom, and their white surrogates, who were given various financial incentives.
Unfortunately, the costs of the program have been very high. To ease the financial burden, the Governor elected to pardon any black inmate still behind bars for a crime perpetrated on a white victim, making the need for the exchange program largely superfluous. Furthermore, she issued a capital punishment directive for those white men who had taken the place of capital offenders, a measure which would save millions of dollars over the years. This decision, also, was not without its critics, including a number of white rights activists, who filed an injunction with the State Supreme Court. That injunction, however, was quietly withdrawn as a large number of those activists appear to have committed suicide. The first round of executions proceeded this past week, largely with the approval of politicians, the media, and the general public. "Really," said one police officer we spoke to, "they’re all just white guys. I mean, who's going to miss them?"
Among the inmates who were dispatched in the first round of executions was Harry Litman, the son of renowned racial justice activist, Charlotte Litman, whose tireless work in California's Bay Area led to the first VWD centers in that state. Said Ms. Litman, "Oh, it was really such a pleasure to be there and witness the correction of a mistake I made decades ago: giving birth to a white son. You would think that I, of all people, would have known better!" Ms. Litman was proud to announce her legal adoption of Moises Montez, ironically, the very man that her biological son replaced in prison. Mr. Montez, who grew up running drugs in Chicago’s Fuller Park neighborhood, and was convicted of the double homicide for which Ms. Litman’s son was ultimately executed, stands to inherit Mrs. Litman’s substantial holdings.
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Harry Litman answered the door. Two correctional officers stood on his front stoop expectantly. They were large, brawny black men, each with a shaved head, mirrored sunglasses, and a humorless expression. One had a neatly trimmed goatee, the other was clean shaven and square-jawed. Harry wore the orange jumpsuit that had been messengered to his home just the day before. He held out his hands, and one of the officers clamped metal handcuffs on them. Harry became aware of a third black man standing silently behind the guards. He was tall and lean, with long, beaded cornrows, heavily tattooed arms, a confident smirk and mirthful eyes. In contrast to Harry's jumpsuit, he wore new jeans and a clean white t-shirt, tight on his thick, inked biceps. This was the violent convict whose place in prison Harry was taking, while this black thug would take Harry's place in his home, in his wife's bed, in his children's lives. His name was Moises Montez. and he was a convicted felon, both a drug dealer and a murderer.
Moises entered what had formerly been Harry's home, the title having been signed over to Moises when the legal niceties of the exchange had been worked out. He pushed past Harry with a rough shove, sparing the smaller white man not the slightest acknowledgment. Harry's wife, Diane--twenty-eight years old, fit and attractive--greeted Moises somewhat shyly. "Welcome to your new home," she smiled. Her two children—fourteen-year old Carly and twelve-year old Harry, Jr.—stood behind her watching the scenario, uncertain what to make of it all, even though Harry and Diane had explained to them that they would be getting a new Daddy.
Moises looked around, appraising the modest suburban house. "Not too bad," he said. "Might need ta be pimped out a lil. But after six years inside, anything'll look good." He ran his eyes over Diane’s fit physique, taking in her slim waist and small breasts. “Anything,” he repeated.
One of the guards had Diane sign and date a few forms, after which Harry was led roughly down the drive to the prisoner transfer vehicle to be remanded to the custody of the state, where he would finish out the remainder of Moises's twenty-five year term. Diane, her gaze riveted by Moises, who had sprawled on the family sofa, neglected to even say good-bye to her husband. Harry Jr. began crying as his former father was locked in the back of the van. Moises stood and belted the crying tween across the face, much to Diane's surprise and confusion. The young boy was knocked virtually across the room by the powerful smack. Young Carly looked on in wonder, her parents having never raised a hand to either her or her brother. Harry Jr. continued to whimper.
"Shut up, you stupid cracka baby," the black thug warned him. "Or they'll be more of that. A lot more." Diane closed the front door, as the van drove off, feeling herself become flushed with unexpected excitement at the black thug’s rough treatment of her son and domineering presence.
Penal Exchange was simply the latest in a series of laws aimed at correcting the long imbalance of power between white and black Americans. The first of such laws, the Reparations Act, allowed for an enormous transfer of wealth directly from white families to black families in an effort to adjust the long economic inequality between the races. The African Immigration Act followed, fast-tracking immigration to the United States for anyone with 33% or more sub-Saharan African ancestry, while imposing strict limits on immigration from Asia and Europe. The Euthanasia Act, colloquially known as White Boy Disposal, legalized voluntary suicide, often with the assistance of what were called Voluntary Disposal Centers. The law took advantage of what many biologists and sociologists recognized as a burgeoning extinction itch inherent in so many white people, particularly white men. Finally, the Penal Exchange Act was designed to address the long history of inequities in the prison industrial complex by allowing white men to complete the sentences of even the most hardened black criminals. In many instances, the transfer included the convicts being given legal rights to the white man's home, property, even family. As recompense, the white families had all future reparations debt forgiven.
When Harry Litman lost his job due to the white attrition rate in so many industries with government-imposed racial quotas, and found himself struggling to support his family, his mother, a life-long progressive activist for black reparations, had suggested that he volunteer to exchange places with a black inmate through the exchange program. At first horrified at the thought, Harry eventually became convinced that he had little recourse when his family found themselves in danger of losing their comfortable suburban house. Diane and the children would receive a generous stipend for Harry's sacrifice. He visited a law office that specialized in Penal Exchange, and began the process. Harry would be almost fifty before he would be eligible for parole.
Hi Harry,
I hope prison is treating you well. (Oh, that's probably a stupid thing to say.) Sorry I have not written sooner, but Moises has been keeping me very busy.
You would probably not recognize the house! Moises had us get rid of most of the old furniture. He brought in a lot of black leather furniture and chrome fixtures and gold decorations, stuff like that. The walls are loaded with African art, paintings and tribal masks. You were barely out of the house when he instructed me to take all your pictures out of the frames and albums and burn them. Maybe it was wrong, but I quickly learned that you just do not say no to a man like Moises.
He can get a little rough sometimes, with both me and the kids. But he almost never hits me…I mean, unless I've done something stupid. Unfortunately, I do stupid stuff nearly every day it seems. He says I just need a bit of discipline, that living with a wimp like you for so many years taught me some bad habits that a real man shouldn't have to put up with. It's not fair that he calls you a wimp. I mean, he doesn’t even know you. But, to be fair, compared to a man like Moises, I guess most white guys are sort of wimpy. Sorry!
The one person he treats like royalty is...your mother! Even though she lives on the other side of the country, she has already visited twice. She dotes on him, says he's the son she wishes she had. She makes his favorite meals when she's here, she buys him new clothes. She’s been encouraging him to knock me up, but I don't think I have been off the pill long enough yet. Still, it's not for lack of trying. Moises is very virile! I mean, he’s fucked me pretty much every night since the exchange and still needs a few other women on the side. Incredible, right? I mean, I was usually impressed if you were good for a single fuck a week. Sorry, I know you do not like vulgarity, but that’s what Moises always calls it: fucking. Making love is for faggots, he says (his words, not mine *giggles*).
Carly simply adores Moises. She snuggles with him when he watches basketball and football. She enjoys sitting on his lap while he plays video games. She tells all her friends about how much she loves her new, black Daddy.
Harry Jr. does not feel the same way. Unfortunately, Moises has to get a bit rough with him sometimes. He says that a white boy, even a twelve-year old white boy like Harry, should know his place. Moises turned Harry's bedroom into a weight room, so Harry has to sleep in a corner of the kitchen now. Moises gave him a towel to use as bedding; the funny thing is that it is the same towel Moises uses to wipe off his big black cock after sex, so it's crusted all over with cum and sweat. Sometimes, I feel a bit sorry for Harry Jr. But Moises is right: he's a white boy, and he's going to have to learn his place in the world sooner or later. To help him understand things better, we gave away all of his toys and games to the black children in the neighborhood. Moises had a good laugh at that.
Anyway, I hope prison life isn't too difficult. I really appreciate that you made this sacrifice for us. It's been an adjustment, but things are really looking up.
Regards,
Diane
Harry! Big news! I’m pregnant!
It’s too soon yet to tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but Moises thinks it’s going to be a boy. He tells me he already has a few kids—eight, he thinks, but he’s not sure—from before he got locked up. He must have been a very virile teenager since he was only nineteen when he was convicted. I’m just starting to show, and Moises says that he likes my baby bump, knowing that he fucked a black baby into my married white womb. He’s so naughty, isn’t he? LOL! He’s hoping my boobs get bigger now that I’m pregnant, he thinks they’re too tiny. If they don’t, he says he might make me get a boob job. He likes white bitches with big tits, he says.
Carly is doing great! She has just started 9th grade and already has a boyfriend! She’s been dating an eighteen-year high school senior named Tyrone. Moises likes to take credit for how popular she’s become with the older boys. He’s always buying her sexy clothes, and I once caught him teaching her how to French kiss. He did warn her, however, that if she ever came home with a white boy, he would beat the shit out of her. As her father, he explained, he has to look out for her best interests.
Harry Jr. is thirteen now, but I’m afraid he still hasn’t adjusted to things. Moises thinks he may be a bit retarded. Because he’s so annoying, Moises does not allow him to eat with the rest of the family. Harry eats out of a doggie bowl that we keep in the backyard. It’s really for the best; Moises and Carly are much happier when he’s not around. And the new baby will certainly take up a lot of my time. I confess that I sometimes forget to feed Harry Jr. for a whole day or more, but you know how busy things can get. Moises has warned him that if his behavior does not improve dramatically, he might just sell him to a child slave ring in Africa, where they’ll put him to work in the mines. He’s probably joking about that. But I don’t know for sure.
Sorry to hear that prison life is so rough. I’m glad that you are out of the infirmary. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what a rectal prolapse is. If you were more of man, you could probably take better care of yourself. I haven’t talked to the lawyer yet about revoking the exchange as you suggested. Moises doesn’t think it’s a good idea to bother them, so I probably won’t.
Yours,
Diane
Hi Harry,
Well, you don’t have to worry about Moises sending little Harry away to be a slave. He’s dead. Harry, I mean, not Moises. (Thank God! That would be horrible!) It was the funniest, strangest thing: one day Moises came home and told me to get him a beer. I brought one to him while he was turning on the basketball game. “Oh,” he told me, “I think I ran over your loser kid in the driveway.” I ran outside, and sure enough, Moises had squashed Harry’s head with the back tire. What Harry was doing in the driveway, I don’t know.
We called the police. They took the body away, and asked us a few questions. When the two black officers found out that Moises was Harry’s legal father and part of the prisoner exchange program, they just looked at each other and sniggered. No charges were filed since it was obviously an accident. Harry went back to watching the game and drinking his beer.
When Carly came home from school, I told her about her little brother. She just kind of shrugged and curled up on Moises’ lap. I guess that I should probably be more upset about Harry, but at eight months pregnant, I really have enough on my mind. Moises joked that we should just consider Harry’s death as a late term abortion. When I told your mother, she simply said, “Everything considered, he’s really better off, don’t you think?” She’s probably right: I mean, this world is no place for a white boy. Especially, a retarded white boy. We were probably going to just have to dispose of him at some point anyway. We didn’t have a funeral or anything. Moises thought it would cost too much and just bum everybody out. To make things easier, he had me burn all the photos of Harry Jr. just like I did yours.
Oh! The good news is: we’re having a boy! Isn’t that great? Carly is really excited to have a baby brother. A NEW and BLACK baby brother, I mean.
Diane
Harry,
I understand that you’re upset about Harry Jr., but I really think you are overreacting. Accidents happen. Besides the new baby is so adorable, and not retarded at all. We’ve named him King Darius. Your mother simply adores him, she coddles him in a way she never did Harry Jr. And Carly has been such a great big sister.
Once I stop breastfeeding, Moises says he’s finally going to get me that boob job. He wants me to turn tricks for him to bring in some extra money. He really doesn’t like to work, he says. I can’t say I blame him. He’s already got a few girls that he pimps for, so he’ll just add me to his stable. He promises me that I’ll only have to fuck black guys; he says he’ll never let another white dick near me. Carly wants to turn tricks for him, too. She’s SO in love with him! But he says she’ll have to wait until she’s a bit older. In the meantime, he tells her she can practice giving head to all her black boyfriends at school.
That’s right: boyfriends, plural, not just Tyrone anymore. It turns out that she’s really popular with the black high school boys, and they kind of pass her around. So, by the time she is ready to start whoring, she should be an expert. Sometimes I come home to find she’s had five or six black boys in her bedroom when she’s supposed to be in school. They’re blasting rap music and smoking weed and doing God knows what. Our little girl is growing up so fast!
Do you remember the Blakes from across the street? Gayle had her husband and two teenage sons disposed of just last week. Apparently, the boys were given lethal injections while their father watched and jerked off, then he was hanged while Gayle was spit-roasted by two African studs. Real Africans, too, Gayle told me, straight from Somalia. She said that seeing me and Moises together really inspired her. She’s going to lend us the disposal video to view. Carly is really excited to see it. She says she’d like to be a disposal girl when she grows up, convincing white boys to dispose of themselves. But you know kids, they change their minds about careers so often.
Anyway, I hope your cellmates are going easier on you. I warned you: things go a lot better if you just stop resisting when a black man wants something.
Sincerley,
Diane
Hi Dad (LMFAO),
Mom asked me to write you with the news. She’s had her hands full with little Darius, my new baby brother. He’s really a handful. I mean, he’s only three and he already bullies all the white boys in his pre-school (which gives Daddy Moises a great laugh; he’s taught King Darius to call all the white boys “cracka babies,” isn’t that hilarious? LOL!) Oh, I really shouldn’t call you Daddy, anymore. For one thing, I barely even remember you; for another, I have a much better Daddy now in Moises.
So, anyway, Mom wanted me to tell you that it turns out that the Governor has decided that the Penal Exchange Program is just not “cost effective,” paying to incarcerate all you white losers at taxpayer expense. She has a point, I guess. Unfortunately for you, the Governor has decided to cut costs by executing anybody convicted of a capital offense. Since Moises committed murder, I’m afraid that means…you. And the State Supreme Court has ruled that appeals would prove racially unjust, so they’ve refused to hear any. Sucks to be a white boy, huh? We got a certified letter in the mail last week telling us that you are scheduled to be executed in on May 15. That’s just next month! Everybody is really excited!
The whole family has been invited to your execution. Moises even volunteered to do the honors of shooting you, telling the lawyers that they wouldn’t even have to pay him (more savings for tax payers is always a plus!), but, apparently, the guards have to off you. Some union thing. Too bad! Moises was really bummed, says he hasn’t wasted a white dude in way too long.
Anyway, I guess we’ll see you in just a few weeks. Mom has already arranged for me to have the day off from school, and Grandma is flying into the town just for the occasion. I may have to go shopping for something new, I mean, what exactly does one wear to an execution? Especially the execution of one’s own father? Former father, I mean!
Try looking on the bright side, though: at least you won’t have to stay behind bars for the next however-many-years it would have been, always getting beaten and raped by men stronger and tougher and better than you.
See you soon!
Carly
P.S. now that I’m a senior, Daddy Moises has both me and Mom turning tricks for him. Mom does pretty well with her new tit job and all, but I’m his highest earner. He says he’s going to keep me on the streets until it’s time to breed me. I can’t wait to give Moises more black babies. I love him so much!
They arrived at the prison much the way some families might attend a county fair or a fireworks display, with an air of expectation and barely contained excitement. Moises wore a burgundy silk shirt, untucked, several heavy gold chains around his neck, the sleeves tight on his corded, tattooed arms. A gold Rolex decorated his right wrist, purchased with money cleaned out of Harry’s 401K. Harry wouldn’t have to worry about retirement anymore, anyway. Diane’s new bosom was well-displayed in a red Chanel dress, cut several inches above the knee. She had thought that perhaps she should wear black to the execution of her husband, but Moises had insisted that she wear something bright, cheerful, revealing. Carly, now seventeen, wore jeans and a tight, pink blouse, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her style of choice since Moises had shown her that black men often liked to grab hold of something while forcing their oversized members down a girl’s throat. Charlotte, Harry’s mother, dressed in a sensible blue pantsuit, holding King Darius’ little hand with pride. Much to Moises disappointment, the prison would not allow children under sixteen to witness the executions, so a temporary playroom had been set up for the younger children.
Makeshift bleachers had been erected before a wooden platform stage in the open-air workout yard, with several dozen people already seated. A prison guard showed them to their seats like an usher in a theatre. Diane noted that all the couples were mixed race, black men and white women. There were a number of children present as well, of various ages, which made her feel a bit better about bringing Darius along. Many of the children appeared to be of mixed parentage, like Darius, although there were several white girls and even a couple of white boys—presumably children of the white prisoners--the boys looking very ill at ease. The younger children were ushered to a makeshift playroom before the prisoners were brought out. Moises exchanged greetings and fist bumps with several of the black men that he appeared to have known from his time at the prison. “This shit’s tight, dawg,” Diane heard him say to one of them. “Cannot wait to see these losers get wasted! They should off some white boys every weekend!” Diane suppressed a giggle at Moises’s enthusiasm.
Charlotte nudged Carly. “Isn’t this exciting, sweetie?” she encouraged her granddaughter. Carly was snapping pics with her phone, admiring all the burly, uniformed black prison guards. Carly giggled. “I wish they’d do this to all the white boys in my school,” she said. Charlotte nodded approvingly. “One day soon,” she assured Carly, “they just might.” Just then, ten white men in orange jumpsuits, hands cuffed behind their backs, were marched single file up the platform steps. The warden, a smartly dressed woman of color, stepped up to the podium.
“I would like to thank you all for coming today,” she addressed the crowd. “It is encouraging to see how many citizens take an interest in seeing justice meted out. Rather than waste valuable public resources on expensive and unnecessary lethal drug combinations that simply enrich the pharmaceutical companies, my administration has opted for a more hands-on approach to dispatch these violent felons.” Behind her, one of the white convicts whimpered, fighting back tears. The warden turned to him, and with a wide smile said, “Inmate 17548, please step forward so we can demonstrate what I mean.” One teenaged girl observed excitedly, “Look, Mom! It’s Daddy!”
When the prisoner simply stood in his place, quaking, one of the black guards shoved him to the front of the stage. “Mr. Rawlins,” the warden said to the guard, “if you would be so kind…” As the prisoner, quivered and begged, “Pl-please, d-d-don’t,” the burly black guard, Rawlins, raised his firearm and shot 17548 in the back of the head, much to the astonished delight of, well, most of the audience. The inmate fell forward, off the stage, collapsing like a broken doll on the concrete. Cautiously at first, a round of applause broke out, quickly growing in enthusiasm. The dead man’s daughter and wife were among the most enthusiastic of clappers. The white boys seated among the audience, however, kept their eyes averted, some quietly weeping.
“As you can see,” the warden proceeded, “we would like to…expedite the day’s agenda as quickly as possible. For your enjoyment, however, each of our correctional officers will choose the method of disposal that gives him the most satisfaction. Inmate 12579, step forward.”
As a bald-headed, bespectacled, middle-aged white man shuffled toward the front of the platform, Diane pointed excitedly, and said, “Oh, Carly! Look there’s your father at the very end!” Diane noticed that her husband had lost a great deal of weight, the orange jumpsuit draped loosely on his thin frame. She smiled and waved. The motion caught Harry’s eye. He saw his wife sitting in the third row, Moises beside her, leaning back regally, one arm draped on the back of Diane’s seat, the other on the back of young Carly’s. He noted the near party-like atmosphere in the bleachers, the witnesses acting almost as if they were at a circus. Carly snapped a photo of her father with her phone. Harry hung his head, fighting back tears. Mere feet away from Harry, one of the thickly-muscled guards began beating 12579 over the head with a heavy black baton. With each crack of the prisoner’s skull, the crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.
When the inmate was all but dispatched, the guard casually kicked him off the side of the raised stage, where he crumpled beside the corpse of 17548, his body twitching in its death throes. The executions continued, each conducted by a different guard: one inmate was hacked at with a machete, another was garroted with a length of wire. The black men in the audience grew randy, watching as the white losers who had taken their places in prison drop one by one. They began massaging their bulging crotches, groping the wives and the daughters of the men being snuffed. Diane and Carly took turns stroking Moises prodigious member, which they had released from his jeans, in their small, white hands, as they enjoyed the brutal tableau of racial slaughter.
As the bodies piled up at the foot of the stage, the lewdness of those in the audience increased. Many of the white wives of the prisoners who were being executed were openly humping their black companions, the men whose freedom had been earned by these sacrifices. Most of the mixed-race, teenage children of the black men cheered with each disposal, while several of the white boys sobbed and shook in terror as they witnessed the gruesome executions of their biological fathers. Each of them knew that they might soon face a similar fate. After some of the executions, the guard who conducted the disposal would begin a triumphal performance similar to an endzone dance. Some would simply raise a fist in a black power salute, while others would execute complicated dance moves and mimes, spiking invisible balls or snapping imaginary necks. These performances served to excite the audience to even greater levels of frenzy and perverse lust.
Harry could not believe his eyes as he watched his seventeen-year old daughter bury her face in the lap of the man whose place he had taken behind bars. Her mouth filled with his engorged prick, as she bobbed her head up and down on his shaft. Harry's mother snapped photos of each of the executions, clearly excited by the sight of the kind of racial justice she had fought for her entire life. Harry tried averting his gaze, knowing that his end was coming soon, as each of his fellow inmates’ numbers were called out and they were dispatched with brutal efficiency. Finally, the last prisoner before Harry had his jugular slit by a guard who proceeded to strike several victorious poses, flexing his biceps in an elaborate gun show, before rolling the still twitching corpse off the stage. Harry bit back a sob.
The warden stepped forward. "I would like to thank everyone for coming out today, and sharing in the day’s festivities," she said. "I have to say that it is a great honor for all of us in the justice system to correct some of the racial inequities black people—black men, especially—have suffered for so long under the white man’s penal system. Our last execution of the day, inmate 11925, is a particular treat. The prisoner's mother is the well-known progressive activist, Charlotte Litman, who has been busy fighting to put white men in their rightful place for over two decades now." Charlotte stood and took a small bow, nodding to those around her for the smattering of applause. “Because of her service to the New World Order, Charlotte was granted a special request, specifically, that the man her son replaced behind these bars--whom some of you remember, I’m sure: Mr. Moises Montez--be allowed to perform the final execution of the day: Charlotte’s own son, inmate 11925! Isn’t that exciting?”
Moises sat forward, his fireplug dick oozing precum, and grinned enthusiastically at Charlotte. “Just for you, dear,” Charlotte said, leaning over and embracing the hard-muscled thug. “Ooh,” squealed Diane, “I don’t believe it! Just like you hoped, Moises!” Moises stood, flexing, cracking his knuckles, and made his way to the stage, accepting slaps on the back and fist bumps from those around him. “Do ‘im right,” they called. “Make whitey pay!” As he joined Harry on stage, Moises slammed a fist deep into the prisoner’s soft gut, causing the white man to double over. Standing over him, Moises slammed an elbow into the back of Harry’s head, knocking him to the floor with a sharp cry. On the ground, Harry was dealt a series of kicks in the ribs and groin from Moises’ booted feet.
The warden interrupted Moises with a hand on his rounded, muscular shoulder. “Now, now, Mr. Montez,” she cautioned, “there are specific prohibitions against cruel and unusual punishment.” Moises looked at her in momentary frustration, when the warden erupted in a burst of laughter. “Just kidding. The courts have ruled, of course, that such Constitutional protections don’t apply to whites.” Moises gave the warden an evil smirk, the audience applauded wildly. “Go right ahead and have your fun.” Moises raised a boot, smashing it down on Harry’s cuffed hand, relishing the sound of snapping finger bones. He drove his fist repeatedly into Harry’s face, shattering his nose, knocking teeth loose. “Ain’t fucked up a white boy in way too long,” Moises sneered. “Forgot how much fun it is.”
As Moises perused the weapons table that had been set up at the back of the platform, two guards lifted Harry to his feet by his elbows, holding him steady. Harry’s face was bloody, swollen; his vision was blurred as he looked out at the laughing audience. He saw his wife, Diane, sucking greedily on the big black member of one of the uniformed guards. He saw his daughter, Carly, sitting reverse cowgirl on the lap of a burly, middle-aged black man, bouncing up and down enthusiastically as she thrilled to the sight of her father’s beating. He saw his mother sitting contentedly, awaiting her son’s execution, one hand stroking the ebony shaft that fucked in and out of Carly, the other buried in her own snatch. It was all too much for him, witnessing his family’s depravity, their utter contempt for him, for their own race. He retched, his stomach dry-heaving painfully.
Just then, he felt Moises move behind him. “Like what you see, white boy?” Moises asked with a smirk. “This is it, we’re all finally free of you. Your house is mine. Your wife, your daughter: they’re mine. They whore for me. Your bratty kid is dead and gone. I had almost as much fun offing him as I’m going to have wasting you.” Moises grabbed Harry by his hair, yanking the white man’s head back. “I hate you white fucks, and can’t wait until the last of you is gone!” With that he pulled the clear plastic trash bag that he had selected from the table over Harry’s head, tightening it firmly at the neck.
Harry had barely sucked a breath into his lungs before his access to fresh oxygen had been cut off. He struggled against the cuffs that held his hands securely behind his back. He thrashed vainly against Moises superior height and strength. His breath grew rapid and hot in the confines of the sturdy bag. Through the fogged plastic, he could make out the women in his life pleasuring themselves at his panic and helplessness. How much better, he thought, to just receive a sudden bullet to the brain so he wouldn’t have to witness the laughter and elation of the audience at his impending demise. He felt Moises’ lips near his ear, whispering something, something. The hateful words, however, remained a dull roar, and all Harry could hear was the thunderous beating of his racing heart. His knees grew weak, he wanted to collapse to the ground, but Moises held him upright, facing the audience.
As everything turned grey, Harry could at last just make out Moises caustic words: “You are not the first white fuck I’ve snuffed. You won’t be the last white fuck I snuff. It’s all over for you faggots. This is our world now. This is a black man’s world. And faggots like you? You. Got. No. Fucking. Place. In. It.” There was more, more about how much Moises hated white boys, how much he enjoyed fucking and pimping out their women, how much pleasure it gave him to see white wombs swollen with his babies. But Harry was too far gone to hear it, his only awareness was of the agony in his lungs as they filled with the carbon monoxide that was killing him.
Diane stood to allow the black stranger whose cock she had been sucking access to her pussy, dripping with lust at the sight of so many white men being wasted. She watched intently as her weak, white husband convulsed under the power of the man she had come to adore. She felt the strange, thick cock probe at her pussy lips, and enter her vagina. She couldn’t say exactly how or when she’d grown so accustomed to the idea of Black Supremacy, but being under Moises sway had convinced her of the weakness and uselessness of white people, white men in particular. Harry’s mother had been right all these years in her pursuit not of racial equality, but of racial justice, a justice that could only become reality when white people had been bred out of existence. As these thoughts raced through her mind, she came hard as she watched Harry stop thrashing, as Moises released his death grip on the plastic bag and allowed Diane’s husband to drop to the floor. She laughed with a wickedness that surprised even her as Moises held his thick, black cock, and pissed over the corpse of her late husband.
Excerpt from the Chicago Sun-Times:
This week saw the execution of ten inmates who were part of the prisoner exchange program here in Illinois. As has become almost commonplace in the United States, these were white men who had consented to switch places with a black convict as part of a reparation program that acknowledges the racial inequities in our criminal justice system. The program has had its critics, of course, but has remained very popular, both with black inmates, who were awarded their freedom, and their white surrogates, who were given various financial incentives.
Unfortunately, the costs of the program have been very high. To ease the financial burden, the Governor elected to pardon any black inmate still behind bars for a crime perpetrated on a white victim, making the need for the exchange program largely superfluous. Furthermore, she issued a capital punishment directive for those white men who had taken the place of capital offenders, a measure which would save millions of dollars over the years. This decision, also, was not without its critics, including a number of white rights activists, who filed an injunction with the State Supreme Court. That injunction, however, was quietly withdrawn as a large number of those activists appear to have committed suicide. The first round of executions proceeded this past week, largely with the approval of politicians, the media, and the general public. "Really," said one police officer we spoke to, "they’re all just white guys. I mean, who's going to miss them?"
Among the inmates who were dispatched in the first round of executions was Harry Litman, the son of renowned racial justice activist, Charlotte Litman, whose tireless work in California's Bay Area led to the first VWD centers in that state. Said Ms. Litman, "Oh, it was really such a pleasure to be there and witness the correction of a mistake I made decades ago: giving birth to a white son. You would think that I, of all people, would have known better!" Ms. Litman was proud to announce her legal adoption of Moises Montez, ironically, the very man that her biological son replaced in prison. Mr. Montez, who grew up running drugs in Chicago’s Fuller Park neighborhood, and was convicted of the double homicide for which Ms. Litman’s son was ultimately executed, stands to inherit Mrs. Litman’s substantial holdings.
