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Uprising #6
© 2022 James LaFond
The snow began to howl in blustering drifts down the single street, the road that wandered above and within and besides the Bear Tooth Mountains and served as the one and only thoroughfare in this quarter-mile long town…
Why did he leave his mask in the hotel?
They had known that they would not be alone.
He felt naked. Out in the trees and on the mountains, with his lover, there was purity in that. But somehow, being driven back to this place off of the trail by those freakish snow storms of summer, made him feel rejected by the planet and infected by the irrationally of the bold and asymptomatic…it did not feel right… there was something wrong…
Somehow, this early summer afternoon, that should have been so bright, was now closing grayly in like a gathering winter night.
Jerry was simply terrified. To his left was that towering slut, casting aside and abandoning her hard-won identity to bed that yummy O G dick-slinger, who, in a just world would be ravishing Jerry tonight.
‘But, no!’
‘Beautiful black men with massive endowments are apparently—according to some immutable law of the cosmos—attracted to unprincipled blond bitches!’
‘Bitch, why don’t you just rip it out of his pants!’
‘Disgusting—no finesse. I bet they don’t even spoon when they’re done.’
Joey was trembling against his chest, cupping his little hands together under his adorable cleft chin. So Jerry hugged him with his right arm and soothed, “Things will be fine, Joey. These men are capable and brave. The morning will be here before we know it—here, have a sip,” and he pulled Joey’s beer to his lips and felt so warm and fuzzy to have these ruthless, unapologetically strapping men of the sort that had originally conquered this wild country, entertained by the women.
‘Fucking sluts!’
A cacophony of howls sounded outside and were overtaken by a great, mournful howl of hurricane proportions until they were dissolved into one indistinct moan, a moan as if a planet wailed because it was adrift in the cosmos and all alone.
The slut next to him snuggled into the ebony god’s arms and sucked on the bottle of rum like some viperous resident of Eden intent on acquiring the repose of a goddess.
‘Just think, if I had gotten the change, that could be me snuggling under that low, broad mountain of bleak confidence!’
‘Yes, but you would have never come here in the first place.
This was all Joey’s idea—that little fаggot!’
He noted that the Major was half-hugging the pink-hatted slut like a fatherly breeder even as the blue beanie hat was coming off of the taller tart to his left, as she heated up to her naturally selected master.
‘Breeders are just disgusting. The lesbos are always so easy to bring back into the breeding pool, like tadpoles swirling in the murky waters of change, leaping back into the arms of those murderous pigs anytime there was the slightest bump in the road of life.’
The big breeder across the table stood as Toby—the unfortunately named dog—howled over his half-drunk shot of rye. A man that big, that easily suited to this wicked environment, verily a man designed by Nature Herself for this winter accidentally arriving just before his advent…and the great howling outside, whether of wind or of a many-fanged mouth, was done, dampened into silence.
The obscene sword and gun on the easy man’s thighs rested just below his huge, flexing hands.
Toby stopped howling and licked the hand of the black man who had gently petted his neck as he howled. All eyes were on the dog, whose amber eyes shown cloudy in apparent confusion against his glossy black coat.
‘No wonder—the dog is drunk already.’
Joey shivered and quivered and queefed unfortunately and Jerry squeezed a cold, obligatory hug to still him with his right, and raised his left hand to ask the big kind-faced mountain man a question. As the man fixed him with a cat-like stare and erased the question that had come to mind, Jerry was saved from embarrassment by the entrance of Putin’s evil step children: the pony-tailed cuոt was smiling and holding a platter of biscuits, and to either side each of her evil triplets from the fascist breeding nations of the White Continent, were holding a big steaming bowl of stew, of the unfortunate beast known as Sweet Plums.
Putin’s evil stepdaughter then opened her mouth as a question as she set down the tray and Jerry recovered nicely, showing no sign of the gnawing fear building to terror within him, “Do you have any Tabasco, Miss?”
The bitch then joked, “Oh, we only have To-basco!” and smiled into his face like he would ever be attracted to some reeking, white gash!
It was simply word-play that excited the spoiled mutt dog with the unfortunate name to more misbehavior as he wolfed a slobbering bark and reached across the table and took a biscuit in his teeth and started gnawing on it obscenely, crumbs raining from its filthy mouth upon the table, to which the negro being groped simply laughed at his eating surface being polluted.
‘Disgusting beast.’
‘Floosy flashers, floosy flashers! Look at this whore grabbing at his divine member!’
As the Putin triplets all began setting out bowls and spoons for them he began to feel a deep fear rise within him, with the realization, that the two most ruthless, and dangerous characters here—if you discounted the cigar store Indian as he was inclined to do—were no longer on their guard at all since the blonde sluts had fallen into their laps. The truism that Breeder World was ruled by women and not men—because men just had to have that reeking, oozing, dripping, disgusting, probably crawling, vaginal gash!—made itself manifest as the tall white fool and the short black fool both cast aside all of their very useful and intimidating suspicion and bad intentions, for the clinging, form-fitting sweatered company of those two duplicitous creatures who so surely despised the very brutes they would be sleeping with tonight.
‘The day is gone and it is not 2:00 PM!’
Jerry looked outside and saw not a ray of light, not even the buildings or trees or mountainside across the street that had so captivated him this morning, on an overcast, but not yet grey, morning.
The foreground shown whitely with big snowflakes falling thick against a grey matt…
It was hideous and dark, white without light, the lights in the bar here in their kerosene obscenity, gobbling fossil fuels and spewing carbon—but pleasing to the eye—granting a tunnel-like claustrophobia to the scene that had been a few hours before one of the great wide open.
Then, with Putin’s two evil boys gone, the three whores, observed dotingly by the four fools—all the cocks other than the subhuman Indian mesmerized by ladles dipping in big bowls and stew filling in little bowls—demonstrated the malefic power of their evilly regenerative kind…by spooning stew.
Those terrible whores placed those fools—two with smitten looks seemingly descending into drool—utterly in their power, by the simple act of slopping stew into bowls, like Circe and two mute sirens casting pearls before swine.
Just like that—‘yes, and the fucking dog gets a bowl too?’—the evil little tart and the two long-legged whores placed every man in the room [Joey, fuck you lover-boy, you are no man!] forever out of the reach of Jerry. Jerry, the culmination of 500 years of Modernity, the ultimate futures-trading wonder bruv, risen like a Titan at the end of history to tell His Story, was brushed aside by three stupid bitches with double-digit IQs slopping stew into bowls.
“Oh, why thank you, that smells so good,” came from one witless male mouth, and Jerry Stroudsdale knew on that instance that he was extinct—at least after a fashion—for it had been he who had just spoke like an automaton of latent microsogyny.
Looking to recover from the gaff, he noted that the dumb bitch next to him, spooning his stew, and now the dog’s goddamned stew, while she grabbed that negro dick under those sweat pants, smiled in ignorant recognition and Joey was staring uncomprehendingly at the other dumb blonde filling his bowl as “The Major” crossed his eyes trying to maintain focus on her posterior…
‘We are so fucked!’
On impulse, Jerry spoke, before thinking, in the manner of a thought cast out loud, “How can the atmosphere outside be so gray?”
He had hesitated to say “sky.”
The Indian answered, “Wendigo Sunset”
He looked questioningly at the ancient Indian as the dog began lapping at his bison stew irritatingly. But the savage paid him no heed and looked to the big man who said, “My people, the Norse, they had a saying about the twilight of the gods, the final battle. Is that what you mean?”
The Indian spoke, “How is one different from the other?”
These two cryptic ciphers of humanity continued to answer each other with questions:
Ishmael: “How old was your White Buffalo?”
Medicine Crow: “What is seven winters to the Wasi'chu?” [1]
Ishmael: “My people had a white stag, a white wolf, a white dog—why did we take their name?”
‘Fucking nut-job barbarians!’
Medicine Crow: “You took our buffalo—why?”
Ishmael: “Why is it white like snow?”
Medicine Crow: “Why don’t you know, Wasi’chu?”
It seemed as if everyone around the table was either drunk or hypnotized. The old Indian and the even creepier mountain man stared at each other like fools looking for gold.
Finally, the most brutish of the four masculine breeders, seated like inverted pillars of doubt at each corner of the table, spoke by passionate rote, “Medicine Crow, this is some good chewin’ The blessings of your buffalo are appreciated…God is speaking in stew.”
‘These rednecks and savages are—you can think it…you don’t have to think it…fuck it—retarded!’
There was a calming lightness of being, a pal of snow cloaking the gray world without as Joey slurped from his spoon and Jerry decided to eat some white buffalo…
‘Why does that nasty, drunken, black-Irish dog have to slurp when he has such a tongue?’
A distant howling climbed in octave like a sky rent with sound…but the stew tasted good, the biscuit too, the beer was cold and the grey-bearded fools all around began to speak and chatter about times of old and…
“He who takes fat,” a pillager of alien origin, with no racial connotation and no reference to skin color.
Toby, Tobias, Tobbison
songs of aryas
the greatest boxer
the fighting edge
song of the secret gardener
winter of a fighting life
plantation america
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