For those of you who know me for my fan fiction, I've been writing original fiction since 2003 and decided why not showcase some of it? For anyone who may not know me for my fan fiction, I, uh, I write fan fiction too.
Niggers. Niggers everywhere.
The Racist pared the blinds and looked outside. A big fat black bitch, her rolls hanging over the waistband of her FUBU jeans, shucked and jived along, a cellphone to her ear. In her free hand was watermelon, chicken, greens, some grape Kool-Aid, a basketball, and someone else's bike. Always taking other people's shit. Damn.
Shuddering with rage, he moved away from the window and dropped onto the couch. His mind was racing. He put his face in his hands and rocked back and forth.
These niggers were always messing with him. Always coming and going and trying to break into his fridge when he wasn't home. Just a little while ago, he put his ear to the back door and heard a couple of them plotting to steal the dandelions from his backyard. When he looked out the window, he didn't see anyone, but he didn't see any dandelions either.
He was getting sick of this.
Chatting out there in jungle pants, watermelon rind smiles. Too many white Tall Ts and Kool-Aid stained dollar bills. You couldn't even find a good, honest person in twenty-five miles. His head was shaking so fast spittle flew from his lips. Fuckin fuck. Niggers, jiaboos, speaks, spocks, moolie. He got up from the couch and went into his bedroom. Bars on the windows because they kept trying to come in, smiling in the dark all you could see were their teeth. Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck all of them and their little alligator bait niglets too. You don't fucking take a man's flowers away from him. Stop stealing shit. Dipping in his pockets and nodding. Yeah? Yeah? Okay. I got your pockets right here, DMX.
He opened his dresser drawer and took out his Glock. He opened a box of rounds and shoved a big handful into his pants. He went to the front door and threw it open. The sun was bright. The air was warm. People were walking along the streets. Postage stamp lawns. Dead brown grass. Looked like Friday. Craig and Smokey sitting on their porch and smoking pot like lazy spear-chuckers. Ain't got a damn thing to do today, huh? Sit up on the porch. That's why they call ya'll asses porch monkeys.
Slamming the door behind him so no niggers got in while he wasn't looking, The Racist crossed the lawn. A black man was bent over the open hood of a car at the curb. One time these niggers stole his porch. Can't have shit in Compton. This motherfucker here was probably taking someone's alternator cap. Shit doesn't belong to you. Hunched over, black ass stuck out like he was looking for a man.
Grinding his teeth, The Racist put the gun to the darkie's head and pulled the trigger. The sound was loud. Brains splattered across the engine block, and the spook slumped over. Someone screamed. The Racist turned. A big old black bitch was standing on her stoop. Just got her nails did. Ghetto Freddy Krueger taking all the chicken. He raised the gun and fired. She fell over like a weeble wooble. He shot her again. When he noticed the pink Barbie Jeep parked around the side, he cussed and went to grab it. Niggers always taking his shit. They came in and out of his house and just handed his shit away.
"This Jeep is mine!" he yelled. He bent to grab it, but stopped. The steering wheel was cracked. Of course.
"You broke it..."
He was seething now. He went to the porch. The bitch was sitting on the top step, gripping the iron railing. Blood gushed from her big, black bosom.
"You fucking broke it!"
The bitch only cried and wailed, her chest heaving. Always loud. Always dramatic.
The racist shook his head and turned around. People were coming out of their houses now to see what was going on. On the other side of the street, a teen nig rolled by on a bike. The Racist had a bike once...until they stole it.
He raised the gun and fired. With a yelp, the kid flew off the bike and landed in the street.
"Fucking niggers!" The Racist yelled as he started down the sidewalk. "You motherfuckers! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"
He stopped and fired into someone's front window. Glass shattered. He wheeled around and fired again. The bullet struck the back of some broken down ghetto mobile parked in a driveway.
At the end of the street, he turned left. Houses. Fences. A car rolled through a stop sign and came toward him. THE SIGN SAID STOP!
The Racist walked into the street. The car slowed. He raised the gun and fired. The windshield shattered and red mist filled the cab. He crossed to the other side of the street and turned down an alleyway running behind a number of crack dens and hooker houses. Sirens rose in the distance.
Just before the next cross street, The Racist heard the sound of James Brown. Big, black, sweaty jungle drums. Boomchakaboomboomchakaboom. The sign in the window said DREY'S BARBER. The Racist poked his head in. Niggers sat in chairs. Niggers cut hair. All nappy weaves and fucking bandannas like Pac. The barber, an old man in a white coat, looked up from the nigger tangle he was working on.
The Racist aimed the gun and screamed, "Big lip bitch!" The shot drove him back. His arm swept glasses and bottles off the counter. People screamed. "White power!"
Moving on, The Racist turned a corner. People were looking around. Huh? Wat dat, homie?
The Racist shot into a crowd of them, and they scattered, one of them holding his arm and leaving a trail of blood behind him. An Arab came out of his hajji mart to see what was going on. The Racist didn't like Sand Niggers either, so he shot, but it missed and shattered the window. Osama ducked and ran back inside.
Standing in the middle of the street, The Racist loaded his clip again and moved on. Sirens were everywhere. Close. "Niggers!"
A cop car shot through the intersection and screeched to a halt. Two pigs jumped out. Both were white. Race traitor wiggers. They aimed guns at him. "Police! Freeze!"
The Racist aimed, but they fired first, one round catching him in the shoulder, the other ripping his ear off.
Screaming, he collapsed to his knees, the gun skidding away. Another cop car came up and stopped. Men jumped out.
This couldn't happen. He couldn't let the niggers win. If they won they'd stuff fried chicken and collard greens up his ass and make him listen to rap. Before he knew it, he was leaping for the gun.
Six niggers opened fire.
The Racist jerked, thrashed, and died.
L.A. Homicide Detective DeVar Brown parked his Crown Vic behind a cruiser and got out. Cars were parked all along the sidewalks. Yellow tape was up. A big group of investigators was standing around what Brown took to be the perp.
Brown found Sargent Hernandez talking to a shell-shocked looking black woman outside a hole-in-the-wall takeout place.
"What's the scoop?" Brown asked.
"Guy decided to take a walk," Hernandez replied, nodding to the woman. He and Brown were walking now. "And he brought his Glock."
"How many dead?"
"Three. Three wounded."
"Any idea what did it?"
Hernandez shrugged. "He kept shouting racist slurs."
"Racist? Against who?"
Brown's heart fluttered, just a little, as it always did when he heard of someone hurting people who looked like him because they looked like him.
"I don't think that's really it, though."
They were pushing through the investigators. A man lie face down on the pavement.
A black man.
"Meet Jarmarus Jackson, 6th Street's resident schizophrenic..."