Brownie

The meeting was supposed to take place at one in the morning on a well-maintained ranch in the middle of Bumblefuck, Texas. The cost to find the date and location of this meeting was at least ten-thousand dollars, all to be paid in advance. Of course, I didn't pay a dime to find all this out. I’d gotten the info of where the Camera de Paraveredus was meeting from a fellow named Armand Richard (“It’s pronounced REE-shard, not ‘Richard’) who had it in for these bastards. I would be the sole person there of marginal employment or social standing. That night, I would be rubbing shoulders with people who were politicians, nobility (or as close to what our country will admit to), and assorted Captains of Industry.

I parked my car--a rapidly disintegrating twenty-year old Honda Civic--on the edge of the road and decided to walk the rest of the way to the ranch. I figured it would look conspicuous to have a valet park a car that’s worth maybe two-hundred dollars and uses a bungee cord to keep the hood from popping open. As I walked up the road, black Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and limousines slipped quietly past me in the night.

When I came within fifty paces of the ranch I donned my disguise; an ornate Mardi Gras mask and a cape. Perfect for going to secret, middle of the night meetings of groups that have ominous Latin names. All the limos were being parked by the stable, so headed over there. There was a young man in a tuxedo standing by the entrance with a stack of playing cards. He looked at me funny when I stepped up, but still picked a card from the top of the stack and tore it in half, handing one piece to me and dropping the other into a bin. I was the Jack of Diamonds.

When I stepped inside the stable, I immediately realized I was overdressed. I was expecting something like Eyes Wide Shut, but most of the fellows were just wearing thick flannel shirts and down parkas. They wandered about the stable, some of them talking and laughing with each other, clinking snifters of brandy. In the corner of the stable there was something like a buffet table set up, only this one was loaded with drugs. There were stacks of Oxycontins, Seconals, Quaaludes, a silver platter of Space Cakes, a silver platter of cocaine, and a fucking mountain of amyl nitrates.

Since I had not paid to be here and already looked ridiculous in my Mardi Gras mask, I went over and immediately helped myself to the drugs, figuring I should just do as the Romans do and perhaps give myself some confidence. A couple lines of coke and Quaalude would do it. Oh fuck it, I cracked an amyl nitrate under my nose and let it rush through my body like a tsunami wave.

When I came down from the initial rush, I noticed the Arabian horses set up in the corners of the stable. They were huge, magnificent beasts. Under one of them was a fellow jerking off the horse’s enormous schlong until it sprayed its semen. The stable hand did his best to try and catch as much of the horse semen into these large glass beakers he had sitting in the ground behind him. This was so bizarre that I pulled off my mask and buried my nose into the platter of cocaine again, Scarface style, just to get my bearings.

Another tuxedoed fellow entered the stable, followed by the fellow who was tearing the cards at the door, and he clinked the side of a champagne glass with a fancy metal pen. “The one o’clock hour has come, and we will inaugurate this week’s Camera de Paraveredus with a short incantation to the God Pan; the half-man, half-goat trixter of the woods…”

He started doing some Latin incantations while everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes. I understood exactly zilch of what they were saying, so I busied myself by dipping my fingers into the cocaine and rubbing it on my gums (it was really good cocaine) until they finished.

When tuxedo man finished, he clinked his glass again. “Yes, very well. Now bring forth the cards. We shall see which lucky soul will receive the essence of the Paraveredus…”

---------------------------------------

I was sitting at home last Monday night, fretting over having my account anonymized on this fucking site once again and writing pleading e-mails to Rusty when I received a call from some black guy. I thought it was a telemarketer and was about to tell him to fuck off, but it was actually the aforementioned Armand Richard.

“Okay, Armand. Why should I care who you are? And how did you get the number to my mother’s house?”

“I got it from the webmaster of some site you post on,” Armand explained. “Originally, I came to him with the story, but he said it was so fantastic that no one would believe it. He gave me your number because he said you had zero credibility and would print just about anything…”

Fucking Rusty....“Thanks,” I grumbled. “Fuck you and goodbye.”

“Wait, wait…” he said. “Just listen to me first. I think this story is right up your alley. Besides, you owe the black community after that Choose Your Own Adventure bullshit…”

I paused, then sighed, then said, “Okay, lay it on me.”

Armand Richard was born in the Deep South, but grew up in New Mexico, where he lived near a ranch and learned how to tend to horses. “I always loved horses. I just really like dealing with animals period, but I especially like horses.”

As he got more experience in horse-world, Armand got a great reputation for being able to handle all sorts of rare breeds. In the mid-Nineties, he moved up to Colorado to work for an organization that conducted horse shows.

"You love horses. You're good at handling horses. You got a job working with horses. So. Fucking. What?"

"The organization I worked for was the International Arabian Horse Association. Does that ring a bell?"

"Sort of..." I said.

"Well let me ring it harder. It's the sole major credential of our current director of a little organization called FEMA."

Oh shit...I thought. Major news. Major scoop. If I played this right, I could be the next Anderson Cooper or Shepard Smith. "Please, Mr. Richard, tell me more," I said.

--------------------------------------------

The first card drawn was the Two of Clubs. "Come forward, Seeker..." the tuxedoed man announced, holding the card up in the air. "Come and claim the essence."

A guy who looked to be in his mid-forties came forward and the crowd of men cheered. The man looked both bashful and elated at being chosen. There was no denying the nervousness in his eager stance. He stood next to the tuxedoed man and cracked an amyl nitrate under his nose as two other attendants brought forth a wooden sawhorse.

"Please, drop your lower garment and take the position, Seeker."

The man dropped his pants and bent over the sawhorse. One of the attendants came up behind him carrying a bucket of Crisco and a rubber glove and proceeded to grease up the man's hairy ass crack. Another attendant was in front of the man, cracking amyl after amyl under the man's nose until he was delirious.

"Bring forth the Paraveredus!" the tuxedoed man announced. The huge Arabian horse snorted as it was brought forward by the attendant who had jerked him off before. The other attendants worked of greasing the horses humungous erect schlong with Crisco as well.

Perhaps you've stumbled upon the mrhands.mpg video before. I had seen it (and posted Poopylinks to it) and had heard a detailed description of what occured at these Camera de Paraveredus events a few days before from Mr. Richard. Still, I will tell you that even on enough coke and 'ludes to make my face feel completely numb, witnessing a man being sodomized with a horse cock is still a brutal event.

For one thing, it took much longer than in the "Mr. Hands" video. The smell of blood, shit and hay permeated even my coke floured nostrils. I was disgusted, but the rest of the crowd seemed profoundly engaged with the act. The fellow next to me whispered, "I hope I get chosen this time. They only choose three Seekers a night for the Paraveredus."

I nearly handed him my half of a playing card and said, "Here, double your chances." I couldn't fathom what sort of mind would subject themselves to this, but I had to be careful not to blow my cover.

This Arabian horse must have been trained for this. Or maybe it received a good dose of horse Viagra, for it lasted for a good five minutes before blowing it's horse muck and pulling out limply. The man fell off the sawhorse, barely conscious and bleeding a river from his anus. The look on his face was somewhere between agony and ecstacy. The crowd cheered as the attendants picked him up and carried him to a gurney, where they checked his blood pressure, gave him oxygen, and began packing his ass with gauze and styptic.

"That was truly glorious what we have just witnessed," the tuxedoed man opined. "To see the essence of Paraveredus passed onto the Seeker is always a sight to behold." He held up the glass beaker of horse sperm. "Each of the lucky Seekers tonight will receive a gift of the essence to take home with them and be consumed at their leisure."

"Now, let us adjourn for fifteen minutes, basking in the lifeforce of Pan and his aphrodisiacs, before the next Seeker is chosen."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After Armand finished his description to me, I just snorted. "Bullshit. That's gotta be an urban myth."

He chuckled on the other end of the line. "I swear to you, it is absolutely true. I could even tell you where the next one is being held. I still have friends who work for the Registry who can find out when it's going down." (Due to scandal and financial problems, the International Arabian Horse Association was merged with the Arabian Horse Registry of America.)

"So the IAHA's real job is to set up these horse-fucking events?"

"No. Not officially. The IAHA just concerns itself with breeding and horse shows and so forth. The Camera de Paraveredus--which is Latin for 'Chamber of Horses'--, is mostly a sideshow, run by people at the top of the organization. They are the ones who have the money and the contacts to set these things up."

"People at the top of the organization like Mike Brown?"

"Exact-a-mundo," Armand said. "In fact--though I wasn't working for the IAHA at the time--I heard from other guys there that he was the one who started the Camera, and it is a fucking cash cow. It costs several thousand dollars to even attend an event. Only a few people get chosen each time to be, you know, fucked by the horse. So those who don't get chosen keep paying and paying until they finally get what they paid for. In fact, they built a whole cult religion over the act of having sex with horses. Believe me, they make bank doing this."

"They worship horses? Break down for me exactly what these fuckers believe?"

"I don't know and I don't want to know; it's nothing a good Baptist would concern himself with," Armand said. "I only witnessed it once first hand. They paid us a lot of money to keep quiet, and the non-disclosure agreement was pretty airtight. With the disaster in New Orleans though, I figure I'm pretty safe talking to you."

"I know that Mike Brown had to resign from the organization in disgrace. Was it over this?"

"It could be, since the Camera was pretty common knowledge to many people in the organization," Armand said. "Of course the official reason he got canned was over his fundraising methods in fighting a lawsuit against a fellow named David Boggs. But I don't think the real reason on how he raised those fund ever came to light. Anyway, it made so much money that someone in the organization was bound to continue doing it."

I chuckled. "I always wondered how a failed lawyer and horse show director got a major seat at the Bush administration's table. It takes more than being the college roommate of the director of FEMA. It takes 'campaign contributions'. I'm just delighted that Bush was helped into office with horse fucking dollars. I wonder how that would sit with his homies in the Religious Reich."

"If you follow the paper trail of Brown's contributions, I'm sure you'll come up short," Armand said. "These guys know how to cover their tracks well. But I think bringing this to light will be enough to let people draw their own conclusions."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

During the intermission I did another amyl, swallowed another 'lude, and did a few more lines of cocaine. The rest of the fellows were looking peeved that I was hogging all the yayo. My heart was racing a mile a minute and I was sweating buckets even though the temperature must have been about forty degrees in the stable. I finished my line and figured I'd better quit before I go into cardiac arrest.

More clinking of champagne glasses. "Attention, attention, fellow Seekers. Come, it is time for us to choose who will next receive the essence of the Paraveredus!"

I didn't particularly want to watch this whole ordeal again. Seeing it once was unnerving enough. But I had to keep up appearances. Everybody was circling around the tuxedoed MC as he rifled through the box. They each held their torn halves of playing cards, tensely hoping they would be the ones to get the great honor of having their sphincter and lower intestine mashed into bloody pulp by a horse's oversized dick. I glanced over at the last victim, laying on the gurney with the gauze in his ass quickly being soaked through with his blood. He gripped his prized beaker of horse sperm like it was an Oscar while the attendants prepared him for a blood transfusion. I wondered what sort of crazed mindset one would have to have to consider him the lucky one?

The tuxedoed MC stopped rifling through the cards and announced, "We have found the second Seeker of the evening. He will be..." he said, pausing to milk as much tension out of this as he could. "...the Jack of Diamonds."

It wasn't all the coke I snorted that night that made my heart stop for a second. Everybody started cheering, and the only thought that raced through my head was "Oh shit..."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Haven't people died from doing this shit?" I asked Armand while a twirled away in my swivel chair. In the other room, I heard my obese mother's honking laughter. She was obviously watching That 70's Show again... "I thought I read in May that someone got killed getting sodomized by a horse..."

"Yes people have died, and that person in back in May wasn't the first one. Usually the 'Seekers' or whatever they call themselves, get pretty good medical attention right afterwards, otherwise almost all of them would be dead. But sometimes the damage is just too extensive. In the time I was there, at least three people died from this. The Camera always was good about covering their tracks--they always had cover stories in place and the right people paid off from the coroner on down. I mean, all the people at these things are rich people; important people with reputations to uphold. Those huge fees they pay are mostly insurance. They do it so they can get fucked by a horse and not have it ruin everything they spent their lives building."

Armand sighed. "I guess they've just gotten sloppier about covering this up since Brownie got ousted."

"I have to ask, especially since these are some pretty crazy allegations," I said. "Why are you coming forward with all this now?"

"Several reasons," Armand said. "Partially revenge. I mean, my dad was born in New Orleans, so I feel sentimental about the city. My aunt has a house in Biloxi. She got out okay, but her place and everything in it got ruined. Also, with all these guys in the news with scandals brewing, I think I can talk about this and not have to worry too much about retaliation. I'm betting they'll just let those non-disclosure agreements slide..."

Armand continued, "Most of all, I think this is something the public needs to discuss. I mean, we watch the stuff on the news about New Orleans, and everybody is saying how this incident cuts to the bone of race and class in America. But I think this horse fucking scandal is what really defines class in this country. I mean, there's a lot more poor people in this world than there are rich, so it's not inconceivable that deep down in their sinful hearts, some of them really crave some horse dick. The difference is that a poor person can't pay thousands and thousands of dollar just for the chance they might get fucked by a horse. Most of them just get married, shuffle off to their dead-end jobs, and maybe think about--I don't know, maybe Mr. Ed--while they get down with their missus. In this society, the rich can cater to any perversion they can conceive. Since they run everything, I think it just mires our society in decadence.

"I just hope that by speaking with you, perhaps we can show the light to these wayward souls."

I was moved by his speechifying. "So, I take it you want all this on the record then..."

"Yes," Armand said. "Absolutely I do."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Drop your garment and take the position," the tuxedoed MC said. I don't know why I even stepped up to the sawhorse, since there was no way I was going through with this. I'd done just about enough to maintain my cover, I wasn't going to get buttfucked by a horse to keep up appearances.

One of the attendants came up dutifully behind me with his vat of Crisco. "Please bring down your trousers sir," he said with a Britsh lilt to his voice. "The taking of the essence is especially painful if you haven't been properly greased."

I looked at him, then I looked at the MC, then I looked at the Arabian horse being brought up behind me, his schlong pointing out eagerly and said, "Uh, I've changed my mind. I don't want to do this."

There was a gasp throughout the stable, "But...to receive the essence of the Paraveredus is a great honor sir," the MC stammered. "You cannot just say no."

"Well, I'm saying no, Jeeves. You want the honor, go ahead and take my place."

"I KNEW IT!" the fellow who had been tearing the cards at the door yelled as he pointed towards me. "I knew he was an interloper when I saw him!"

There was another gasp from the crowd, which was beginning to close in on me. I was flying on about seven lines worth of cocaine confidence, so I wasn't really muffed. "Do you people realize how fucking sick you all are? Jesus H. Christ on a rubber crutch this is foul."

"You dare defile the Camera de Paraveredus with this blasphemy?" the tuxedoed MC said, his face red and looking like it was going to burst. "GRAB HIM!"

A couple of the attendants went for my arms, but I was so coked up I beat them away easily. I ran across the stable to where the last Seeker was laying and snatched the glass beaker of horse sperm out of his hands. The tuxedoed MC tackled me from behind and we wrestled for a second before I shoved him off. He was moving in to pin me again when I brought the beaker down on his head, shattering it and drenching him is milky, goopy horse nut. I couldn't help but laugh; it was like a bukkake movie you might see on some twisted version of Animal Planet.

This pissed the MC off even more. "You spilled the Holy essence! Die infidel!" He came at me again but I took the jagged end of the beaker and rammed it into his cheek. A shard of glass slipped into his eyeball popping it. Jeeves fell to the hay and horseshit covered ground screaming like a little girl.

I waved the blood and horse semen covered shard of glass in front of me, screaming "STAY BACK! STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY HORSE FUCKERS!" as I backed towards the stable's exit. I went slowly, carefully, making sure none of those sickos flanked me. I burst out the door into the September night, running like a motherfucker in near total darkness up the dirt path in direction where I ditched my old Civic. My heart was beating so fast from the running and the cocaine that I thought it was going explode out of chest like the monster inAlien. Even though I was pretty sure that I hadn't been followed, I still throttled as much speed out of that Civic as its little V-4 engine could muster.

I calmed down after about ten miles and couple of minutes worth of soothing AM band country music. I could desperately use a shot of Jameson just about now, but I was covered in the gamey smell of horse sperm. Besides, I think I was driving through a dry county anyway. Once the fear subsided, it was replaced with disappointment. I knew what I had just witnessed was so bizarre and so twisted that no one would believe me if I wrote it. THAT is probably the Camera de Paraveredus biggest defense against being outed to the world. The little ceremony dreamed up by our current FEMA director Mike Brown is too crazy to be true. It exists in the blindspot of Joe and Josephine Q. Public and their little worlds of tract homes, SUVs, and church on Sunday.

But, I must tell the public what I witnessed, if only to confirm to myself that it was reality and not just a nightmare.

ADDENDUM

The preceeding was written before Michael Brown's resignation from FEMA last week, making it the third job he is officially a failure at. Delays in bringing this to you can be attributed to the anonymization of my account last week, but I'm through whining over that.

On Friday, I received a letter at my mother's house with no return address, containing simply a clipping from an Albequerque newspaper, the headline reading: LOCAL MAN MAN DEAD IN BIZARRE INCIDENT. It turned out that my source, Armand Richard, was found dead. He died from a hemmorage resulting from a perforated colon which was apparently inflicted by one of the horses at his personal stable. All the evidence pointed to an act of bestiality. I began to believe that poor Armand may have just been another horse fucker too, but the coroner was still examining his body because of the unusual amount of defensive wounds on his body.

So I publish this to serve a dual purpose: partly to honor the sacrifice of Armand Richard, who bravely brought me this story. Partly to cover myself from any retribution of the Camera de Paraveredus may be planning, since there is no use in silencing me once this becomes public.

Most of all, I write this to further shame our negligent public officials. Personally, I could give a fuck what rich people do in the privacy of their own stables, even if it's something as distasteful as being sodomized by a horse. I however give MANY fucks when it's American public being sodomized.

New Orleans: Choose Your Own Adventure

You are an African-American living in a crack house in a New Orleans slum. You decided to stay and weather out Hurricane Katrina since you were not sure if you could score crack at any of the evacuation centers. The windows of the crack house were already boarded up, you had a couple days worth of rocks and some Fiddy Cent CDs to listen to on a portable boom box. In addition, most of your fellow crack heads had abandoned the house, leaving you to rummage through their stuff for stray crack rocks. You find a couple.

When the worst seems to be over, the levee breaks and water floods into your crack house. That’s okay. You grab your boom box and crack pipe and run up to the attic. You are lucky and water doesn’t reach to the roof like it does the houses down the block.

Unfortunately, you cannot stay in the attic of the crack house indefinitely. You are starting to hear reports that the pumps are giving out and that an additional nine feet of water is going to come crashing down on your hood. You are down to your last box of microwavable red beans and rice and will have to live on dry grits after that. More importantly, you are down to your last three crack rocks. Flocko, your dealer, may be still be at his crack house down the street and might still be holding.

You hear choppers overhead. You look out the attic window and see some Coast Guard choppers lifting a family down the street off their roof and to safety. Do you…

-Grab a piece of wood drifting down the street and try and float to higher ground?

-Get on the roof and try and wave down a Coast Guard chopper?

You grab a door that’s floating down the street and hop onto it. You start paddling away, not sure yet where you’re going to go. Your neighborhood is a disaster area. You see a couple of other people holding onto whatever flotsam they can get a hold of and paddle towards higher ground.

You see LaQueesha, the neighborhood crack ho, floating down the street with her five welfare children on an inflatable mattress. You stop paddling for a second and wave to her. She waves back at you. Maybe you can help each other to find crack…

As you start paddling towards her, all of a sudden there’s a scream and LaQueesha and her five kids disappear under the water. What the fuck? You notice the water is red with blood and one of her baby’s dismembered arms floats up to the surface. You start pissing in your pants as you realize that something is moving under the water. Alligators from the bayou! You have to get out of here quick. Do you…

-Try going to Flocko’s crack house, which is nearby?

-Try paddling the other way up the street to the Wal-Mart so you can loot some food?

You arrive at Flocko’s crack house and scramble onto the roof and out of the alligator infested water. “Flocko!” you yell, “Where you at nigger?”

“Up over here, dawg,” you hear Flocko’s voice on the other side of the roof. You scramble over and see that Flocko has a boat and some other members of his crack gang are loading it up with guns.

“Yo Flocko,” you say. “You wouldn’t happen to be havin’ any crack rocks on ya nigga?”

“’Sho do,” Flocko tosses you a brownish colored piece of crack. You whip the pipe you have hidden in your collar out and take a huge hit. The cocaine washes over your like a wave and you can think straight now.

“Dat hit ain’t free, nigga,” Flocko says. “You gots to help us. My crew gonna put some work in down south of da Quarter. Some Red Cross niggas is gonna be bringing food, water, an’ medicine and we’s gonna cold jack it. You down?”

Do you…

-Go on the raid with Flocko and his gang?

-Say, “No way nigga! Stealin’ from da Red Cross is fucked up”

“Well, fuck you den nigga!” Flocko whips out his Tec-9 and blasts your full of holes. You are blown off the roof and into the water, where you feel yourself floating down to what was previously the street you used to hustle people for change on.

The last thing you feel before you die is your body being torn apart by hungry alligators.

THE END

“Sure nigga,” you say, “I always be down wit sum jackin’”

Flocko tosses you a Glock. “A’ight, let’s go.”

You get in the boat and start paddling down to where the rescuers are setting up a center to distribute food and water. As you are paddling, you see another boat coming with some white senior citizens that had been displaced from the old folks home.

“Please, help us,” the old people say. “We need to get to a hospital so we can get heart medication.”

Do you…

-Leave them alone?

-Hijack their boat so you can carry more loot?

“Sho ‘nuff, we’s goin’ to a hospital,” Flocko says. “Come up besides our boat here.”

When the boat pulls up besides yours, Flocko puts two bullets in the chest of guy rowing, then jumps on the boat, grabs the wheelchair ridden old people and tosses them into the water. “Take dat you cracka bitch.”

They thrash around for a moment before slipping under. They are lucky. They will probably drown before the alligators eat them.

“Dat’s fat nigga,” you say. “Now’s we’s can gets us mo loot!”

“Word, let’s keep headin’ up towards the supply drop.”

Click here to continue.

“Fuck you dumbass cracka bitches!” you yell at the old people. “I don’t be given a shit about you.”

“Straight up dawg,” Flocko says. “Hurry, we gots to get to da supplies befoe they start givin’ em all away. Keep paddlin’.”

Click here to continue.

The boat creeps up to this partially submerged parking structure. You can see that on the top of the parking structure, some Red Cross volunteers are setting up palates of bottled water and canned foods to distribute to the hungry citizens of the city. “Let’s go over here, nigga,” Flocko says. “I be seein a roof over there we can use for dis.”

He pats the .30-06 rifle sitting disassembled in the bottom of the boat. “We’s gonna show dem crackas who’s neighborhood dis be.”

You put the boat around to the far side of the roof, where the relief workers cannot see you. You and the rest of Flocko’s gang crawl up there on your bellies. Flocko starts putting the rifle together. “Ain’t we kinda far away from dem?” you say.

“Naw,” Flocko says. “I done shot gators at two hunnerd meters in da bayou since I was fie years ole. These done be a lot easier targets too.”

“Yeah, they a lot whiter,” one of his gang members says.

Flocko snaps the scope on to the rifle. “Don’t worry. I just be scarin’ dese white boys.”

He takes aim and fires a shot at the rescue workers, who all drop to the deck, wondering who on earth would be firing at them. Flocko fires another shot, then another. One of the rescue workers makes the dumbass mistake of standing up and catches a bullet in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone. You can hear his screams from a distance and everybody laughs. “Damn! Whiteboys scream jus’ like bitches.” Flocko says.

The rest of the rescue workers grab their wounded friend and crawl back to the zodiac boats they used to transport themselves out there. They leave behind all the relief goods.

“We gots to get over there fast, nigga…” Flocko says. “I bet da cops be on dere way.”

Do you…

-Go with them to get the supplies.

-Stay back on the roof so you can watch out for the cops.

“Word, let’s get dem shits and bounce,” you say.

You paddle over to where the palates of food were being set up for distribution. “Fuck yeah, nigga!” Flocko says. “We came up on some supplies here! Start loading dis shit in da boat.”

You start loading the bottled water up. “I’m gonna make a bitch suck my dick if she wants one of these…” Flocko says, holding up a couple boxes of baby formula. “It’s either you or the baby bitch, that’s how it be goin’”

“Word nigga. This is our motherfuckin’ corner. For life.”

“For life dawg,” Flocko says.

Then, suddenly you freeze as you hear the unmistakable sound of a Mossberg shotgun being racked. You turn around and see a boat full of people in white robes, pointy hats, and bulletproof vests. It’s the Ku Klux Klan!

“Stop right there, boy,” the lead Klan member gets out of the boat and onto the parking structure. “We’re claiming those supplies for the good white people of this city.”

Flocko laughs. “You clamin’ dis?” he says. “Fuck dat. We got straps too, so watcha gonna do?”

The Klan guy shakes his head. “You niggers think that just because the law isn’t around, you can start getting all uppity. Well us white folk aren’t gonna have that!”

“Bullshi-“ Flocko was about to say before a rifle bullet caught him in his right temple and blasted the majority of his brains out his left temple. Guess the Klan set up a sniper too. The rest of Flocko’s gang starts shooting back with their Tec-9’s. You whip out your Glock and put two rounds into the chest of the closet Klan member, knocking him down. The bullets were both caught by the vest though, so he raises his shotgun on his back and fires, shredding your kneecap in a hail of buckshot. You fall down screaming and hear the Klan member racking another shell into his shotgun to finish you off. You have the presence of mind to raise your Glock and put a bullet into his face before you succumb to the pain of your destroyed knee.

Flocko’s boys keep the Klan members pinned down, but their sniper keeps picking them off one by one. Pretty soon it’s just the KKK standing. They get up and start putting the supplies into their own boat. One of them sees you laying there, sweating and shaking with pain.

“Hey, this nigger’s still alive!” he says over to his Imperial Wizard Dragon whatever he calls himself. He comes over to where you are laying.

“Looky what we have here,” he says. “You know boys, there’s an old tradition that I think we need to resurrect.” He starts pulling a rope out of his robe and starts wrapping it up into a noose. “Whaddaya say we lynch us a nigger today!”

They all cheer in approval. You are pretty much resigned to the fact that you are about to die. You just wish they would let you smoke a little more crack before they hang you.

Somehow, you get them impression that they won’t.

THE END

“I’m’s a stay here,” you say. “I’ll be like yo lookout. In case da 5-0 come.”

The rest of Flocko’s gang starts laughing. “Sure dawg, you stay here. Look out for dose po-lice,” Flocko says to you. “Pussy ass nigga. Yo niggas, to the boats, let’s roll up.”

Flocko leaves his rifle and his bag. While he’s gone, you look through it to see if he left any crack inside, but he hasn’t. Fuck.

You hear a noise. Over on the parking structure, Flocko and his gang are being accosted by…the KKK? Where the fuck did they come from? Oh well, at least they’re well armed.

Then you hear the crack of the rifle and the sound of the bullet cutting through the air. The Klan has a sniper too! You look over to where Flocko and his crew are and his head pretty much explodes. You scramble over to take cover behind a chimney, praying that the sniper hasn’t seen you yet.

Soon the shooting stops. You look over at the parking structure. All of Flocko’s gang are dead and the Klan is stealing all the supplies. You are trapped on the roof with no water, no food, and only three crack rocks which you can’t smoke in case the sniper sees the flame from your lighter. This really sucks.

After an hour, you hear the sound of a Coast Guard chopper flying overhead, looking for survivors. You wave to it, and they lower a harness. They lift you into the chopper, let you drink from their water bottles.

“Where to next ‘cuz?” you say.

“We’re taking everyone we evacuate to the convention center. Are you hurt, sir. Do you require medical assistance?”

“Naw, I be straight. Let’s be goin’ to the convention center.”

Click here to continue.

The chopper starts coming on low over the Convention Center, where refugees from the city are being evacuated. As the Coast Guard chopper starts coming down, a throng of people begin to gather under the chopper. The pilot yells on the loudspeaker, “PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA SO WE CAN LAND.”

Nobody heeds that call. They just keep yelling, “Help us! Get us out of here!”

“We’ll never find a place to land if that mob keeps following us.” The pilot says.

“I think there’s a clear area over…SHIT!” just a bullet strikes the fuselage of the chopper next to the co-pilot’s head. “Godammit! They’re fucking shooting at us! We have to get out of here.”

You just need to find a place to smoke some crack. It’s been quite a long time since your last hit and you’re jonesing bad. The Coast Guard chopper is still low enough for you to jump out onto the ground. You leap out, fall and luckily land on a pile of dirty mattresses. What luck!

Then you notice that the mattresses are being used to cover a pile of dead bodies. You notice this as you roll off of them and see the body of a little boy. His eyes are moving, but then you realize it’s just the maggots that are beginning to grow in his sockets. The stench is terrible. You’d vomit if you had eaten anything substantial in the last few days.

You run inside the Convention Center…

Click here to continue…

God and human decency had left the New Orleans Convention Center. Death and human filth permeate the air. Dying people are lined up in sleeping bags along the wall. The dead aren’t even covered. You hear gunfire and screaming all over the place. Walking through this chaos you stub your toe on dead baby that slides across the floor. You shudder in horror.

All this though is secondary to you taking a hit of crack. You fucking need a hit NOW. Do you…

-Smoke out in the open. It’s not like any one will care.

-Go to the bathroom to discreetly smoke your crack.

This place is hell and you can see no real authority in charge here. Fuck it, you take your crack pipe out of your collar and pop a rock into the end. You pull out your lighter and take a nice hit of sweet smoke into your lungs. It feels like heaven.

“Holy shit!” you hear nearby. “That nigga be holdin’!”

Another crack head has observed you smoking in the middle of the room. He leaps up and comes up to you. “Yo man. I ain’t had a rock for days now. Can you hook a nigga up?”

“Fuck you nigga,” you say. There’s no way you’re sharing your rocks.

“Please. Just give me a hit,” the crack head pleads. “I’ll suck your dick.”

“You best get off me nigga,” you say. Why can’t you just smoke your rocks in peace?

“Fuck you then, biscuit head!” While you’ve been talking with this crack head, another has come up behind you and smashes the back of your head with a fire extinguisher. You fall to the ground and he keeps hitting you, pulverizing your jaw, nose and cheekbone. Splinters of your skull get jammed up into one of your eyeballs, blinding you, but the other eye is still working, long enough for you to see the crack heads rifling through your clothes, looking for your rocks. They find them and scurry off somewhere to smoke them.

You lay on the filthy floor of the Convention Center, not quite dead yet, but getting there. Thankfully you are paralyzed now and feel no pain. You just stare at the ceiling, slowly fading away. It takes about an hour for you to finally die.

THE END

You decide that it’s best to go to the bathroom to smoke your rocks. It’s always better to get high with a little privacy.

The bathrooms look even worse than the rest of the Convention Center. There has been no water for days and sewage is being backed up. There is a mountain of shit piled up in the center of the restroom. You grimace as you walk past it to find a corner you can smoke in.

You get your crack pipe out of your collar and pop in a rock. You take a hit and can almost forget this place for just a moment.

You hear the some lovely singing outside the bathroom. You are not alone. You look over and see a little girl with cornrows playing with her dirty doll outside. It's been awhile since you've gotten a piece of pussy and the crack is making your dick hard. Plus, in addition to being a crack head, you are also a pedophile. Do you…

-Rape the little girl.

-Just jerk off.

It's too risky to assault the girl. The convention center is full of people and it's likely one will come in and interrupt your fun. You decide to just start jerking off while the little girl plays with her doll.

"Oh yeah, lil' bitch. Take like dat. Take it, take it..." you groan to yourself as you yank on your Zulu warrior sized dick.

From all the noise you're making, the little girl hears you and sees what you're doing to yourself. "Gross!" she yells. "Fuckin' sick ass nigga!" she yells.

Suddenly a huge black man runs into the bathroom. "Sharonda! Wuz wrong?"

The little girl points at you. "Dat' nigga be pullin' on his jimmy while I be in here. Fuck him up daddy!"

"Mothafucka, I'm a fuck you up!" he says, rolling his sleeves up.

"Ain't like dat nig..." you start saying but he shuts you up with a fist straight to your nose. You are instantly seeing stars and are only barely conscious enough to feel the rest of the flurry of punches that redistribute the geography of your face.

"Teach you to fuckin' be jerkin' off 'round my kid!" the man then grabs you and shoves you head first into the mountain of shit and holds you there. The stench is incredible and you try to hold your breath, but you can hold it no longer and start to inhale the shit. Diarrhea and undigested fecal peanuts flood into your lungs. You flail about, trying to catch your breath, but end up suffocating in that pile of poop.

THE END

Fuck it. There's no police around here. No authority, no one to send you to prison if you touch the child (you'd spent eight years inside for doing that.) Time to get your rocks off like you always wanted to.

You step out to where she can see you. "'Sup lil' girl?" you say, moving towards her.

"Nuttin' jus playin' wit my dolly," she says in a cute, innocent voice that makes your dick harder.

"You like lollipops lil' girly?" you say, moving closer.

"Yep. I sho do."

"Well, I gots somethin' for you to suck on right here..."

You pull your dick out of your urine stained drawers. The little girl gasps in shock. You grab her by the back of her cornrows and jam your cock down her throat. She gags.

"Yeah, suck it real good lil' girly...SHIIIIITTT!"

The little girl suddenly bites down on your dick. You shove her away and she scurries out of the bathroom screaming with blood dribbling down her mouth, leaving her doll. You look down and see that your dick has been half way chewed off. Only a thin layer of skin on the top is keeping it connected to your body. The blood from your erection is squirting out rapidly and is pooling on the floor. You are starting to get dizzy from the blood loss. Do you...

--Seek medical attention.

--Just kill yourself, dickless.

You have been a crack addict for over a decade now. You have submitted yourself to almost every degradation know to man during that time to feed your habit. You even sucked a transvestite's cock once to get a hit. But one bit of pride still remains in you and that is that you cannot live with a functioning dick. Time to end it all now.

You pull your crack pipe out and break it against the floor. You pick up one of the largest shards and start sawing at your wrist. You open up a vein and blood starts pouring out. You get even dizzier. The light in the room fades away. You are dying...

You see a bright light. Are you in Heaven? Glory halluljah! Home to Jesus!

Then you realize you are laying in a hospital bed. Somehow, someone found you dying in the bathroom and your life was saved. You see the calendar on the wall of your hospital room and see that it is a week later.

While you are regaining consciousness, the Reverend Al Sharpton storms into your hospital room. "Dear boy! What has happened to you is a tragedy!" he proclaims. "The poor and the black were left to die in that city. The situation was so horrible that many, just like you fell into despair and tried to end your own lives. This situation cannot be!"

"Yessir, Reverend," you say, still trying to get your head around the situation. "It wuz all fucked up out there."

"It most certainly was," Sharpton says. "And we cannot allow it to happen again. Myself and some other prominent black leaders are putting forth a campaign to blame this situation on the Bush administration. We would like to use you as an example of the plight of African-Americans in the city of New Orleans who were neglected during the crisis. Will you help your brothers and sisters in the community?"

Just last week, you were a petty thug, stealing tape players out of cars to score your next hit of crack. Now, you're about to become a political symbol like Cindy Sheehan. What else could you say? "Sho' nuff, I do it."

THE END

You get up off the bathroom floor, your pants soaked with blood from your partially severed dick. There has to be a doctor around here or some sort of medical personnel. Maybe if you reach them in time, they can reattach your dick.

You stumble out of the bathroom and start looking around, desperately trying to find some MDs. "Hey, stop there nigga!" you turn around and see the little girl's father down the hall. He'll kill you if he catches you. You run as fast as you can, while keeping your hand clamped to your crotch to stem the bleeding.

You stumble through the hordes of refugees, which is easier than it looks because they quickly shy away from a crazed and bleeding black man. You don't see any doctors anywhere that can help you with your dick. You are also beginning to pass out from the blood loss.
You run out the front of the convention center and out into the street. You are relieved because you think you have lost the girl's father.

Your relief is cut short though when a vehicle slams into you and flings your now lifeless body into the gutter with the rest of the bodies rotting there.

Someone yells out, "At last! The bus is finally here!" Everybody outside cheers.

THE END.

You get up on your roof and start hailing the Coast Guard chopper. "Help a nigga out!" you yell up at them, jumping up and down. You really hope someone is there to pick you up. Everybody knows your kind doesn't like to swim.

AS you jump, the rickety roof of the crack house caves in and you fall through. You are back in the attic now, this time with your thigh impaled on a jagged shard of termite eaten wood. The pain is unbearable, but you cannot pull it out or you will bleed to death. Hopefully someone will be searching the houses and rescue you.

Unfortunately, the pumps fail and the water level begins rising. Soon it is filling up the attic and you cannot swim with you leg impaled on a piece of wood. You drown to death, flailing in the water.

THE END

You are deathly scared of alligators, so you start paddling your piece of wood towards the nearest dry land by the Wal-Mart. It is on a hill and you can probably get supplies there. You are constantly scared that one of those reptilian bastards is gonna swim up and gnaw your foot off every time you kick.

Luckily, after a couple of blocks you hit an incline and can actually get your foot on the asphalt. You ditch the wood and make your way up hill as fast as you can. You are exhausted by the time you find dry street.

Wal-Mart is just another block away. You duck into an abandoned building whose roof has collapsed and smoke a crack rock to get your senses back. One down, two to go. You now feel good enough to keep moving.

There are throngs of people pouring in and out of the Wal-Mart. Shit, they probably got all the good stuff.

You make your way into the store. There is a lone white man in his blue Wal-Mart vest yelling at everybody. "The store is closed! The store is closed due to the disaster! What you are doing is STEALING! No one is allowed in the store!" Most of the people ignored him.

A couple of people yell at him, "Get the fuck out of here white man, foe we fuck you up!"

The store is indeed very picked over. There are only a few cans on the shelves. On the other side, you see a 38" Sony Trinitron that was too big for anyone else to carry out. Do you...

--Try and get what food is left?

--Fuck it, grab the TV.

You look on the shelves of food. Everything non-perishable in the store is pretty much gone. There is a discount rack tipped over in the back with a few dented cans of okra and canned chicken. You pick those up and stuff 'em in your pockets. Then, you go looking for a can opener, which you find on aisle five.

You walk outside with your two measly cans and decide you're hungry and should eat them right there. You wander around the back of the store and bust out the can opener. You mix the chicken with the okra and then start shoveling the goopy, mucuous like concotion in your mouth. It tastes disgusting, but it's the first real food you've had in a couple days. You toss the cans aside and start walking north, hoping you will find some relief workers soon.

You get about a mile when your stomach starts growling. Another mile and it is cramped in pain. Oh no, the food you ate was expired! You run to the side of the street, try to find a private spot behind a bush, and spray loose shit all over the ground. You don't even have any toilet paper to wipe your ass with afterwards.

You keep walking, your dirty ass cheeks chafing as you head down the highway. You are nearly to the edge of town when you have to shit again. This time it feels even worse, like someone reached in your stomach and tied your intestines into a knot.

As you walk, it seems like you're barely able to go a few meters without wanting to shit again. Also, you are getting extremely dehydrated. Dehydration feels like getting really drunk and soon you're walking in a complete stupor. You shit again, this time you do it without dropping your pants or even stopping walking. The seat of your pants is one big brown wet shit stain.

Finally, your body cannot take any more. You fall down with your pants full of shit and hallucinating from the lack of water. At least one-hundred people pass by your body on the road before you finally die.

THE END

There ain't no food here fit for a black man! But that TV...when they finally drain the city, you could sure use that to watch basketball in style. There is an abandoned dolly in the corner of the store. Using that, you can get the TV out of the store.

It takes a lot of effort, but finally you are able to get it onto the dolly. You start rolling it towards the entrance when all of a sudden lights are shining in your eyes and a white man is shoving a microphone in your face.

"I'm Kent Custer from Action 7 news," the white man says. "Can I ask you a few questions?"

"'Sho," you say.

"Do you consider what you are doing to be looting?"

"'Naw," you say. "See, niggas need essentials right now like food and water, an' if you ain't sellin' 'em then we be takin' 'em."

"But I don't see you taking any food. It looks like you're trying to take a television set. Is that an essential to you?"

"You gots to understand," you say. "I done lost everythin' I got. An' I'm a done take this TV cause it may be all I have now."

"Sir, do you think that people should be more concerned with taking essential items like food and water like you say, or with getting things like TV sets?"

"Jus' keepin it real dawg."

"Shouldn't you just steal what you need to survive?"

This white boy is pissing you off now. Do you...

--Let him shame you into dropping off the TV and searching for food.

--Punch this cracker's lights out.

You've had enough. "Fuck you, honky," you say and then belt him in face. You start heading outside with your TV when a female NOLA PD officer runs up to you and says "Hole' it!"

Shit, you're busted. But then the officer says. "Can I shake yo' hand?"

"What?" you say.

"I wanna shake your hand for punching out that news motherfucker over there," she says. "He was all puttin' me on the camera and callin' me a looter, sayin' he was gonna make sure I lose my job." She says. She holds up a pair of shoes. "Look at these strappy sandals...I deserve these for having to put up wit dis shit."

"Word sister," you say.

"Hey, you kinda cute," she says. "I'm a probably lose my job cuz of that tape, so I was thinking of driving up to my cousin's place up in Baton Rouge and living there 'till they clean this up. You wanna come wit me?"

"Sho sista'" you say. "Lead the way." The cop was kinda cute too, and she had a fat ghetto booty. You figure there are worse fates.

"Nice," she says. "By the way, my name is Tamika. Tamika Hill."

Tamika takes you out to her cop car and you load the TV into the trunk, keeping the back from flapping open with a bungee cord. This is probably the first time you've ever been in a police car with stolen goods and felt relieved. She turns the sirens on so the refugees will clear out of the way. Since it is a police car, it is able to get around all the barriers and check-points with no problem.

You arrive in Baton Rouge within an hour. After stopping off at Popeyes for a two-piece and a biscuit, you arrive at her cousin's place which is actually pretty nice and still has electricity. "She's in Alabama right now, but she says I can stay 'till my apartment be dry."

You go to the bathroom and smoke a crack rock. Tamika smells it and you are scared that she will throw you out, but she says: "If you into that, I got some shit I kifed from the evidence locker before this hurricane an shit."

Turns out she had a whole BAG of crack rocks and you grab as many as you can. You smoke another for good measure, and she smokes some weed she confiscated from some yuppies at the Jazz Festival. Afterwards, you and Tamika fuck each other's brains out like stoned monkeys. She screams over and over, "Fuck me nigga! Fuck me!"

After Tamika is good and fucked, you go to the living room, where you got the Trinitron set up. You turn it on to watch TV and see that the news is on.

"This is Action 7 news. We are here to report that in the midst of the hurricane, one of our reporters was assaulted by a looter inside a New Orleans Wal-Mart. Here's the footage..."

Yep, it's you. And it looks like a pretty good punch too. The white reporter starts to pontificate into the camera with a bruised jaw.

"Yes, it is indeed sad, how in a time of such tragedy, some people will take advantage of the situation to steal and to assault their fellow citizens. This should remind everybody that society is a thin veneer."

You laugh out loud and smoke another crack rock. This is the life. This is truly the life.

THE END.

Chicken vs. Blender

Allahu ackbar.

Dear Fen...

Today's Poopylink goes out to you sir... TRANSHUMAN THIS NULLO.