7/28/20
Becky, a tall, pale blond woman of the only race ever to hold people in bondage, was enjoying her rarified privilege, unaware of the crusading justice driving her way. This occurred in a small Pennsylvania town at some point in mid-July, in the First Year of the Ascension of Our Savior Floyd.
Hallowed be his name.
Becky was walking either to or from work from a parking spot when a disciple of Floyd, resplendent in ebon majesty, possessed of the kindness and empathy of Heaven, operating his conveyance in an attitude of unprivileged martyrdom, cruised up next to her and asked, “Are you Аrуаn?”
Becky, being a fairly well brain-washed child of Modernity had no idea what an Аrуаn was, that an Аrуаn is a wraith-like being, a lich out of deepest antiquity, who long ago sabotaged the manna dispensers of the Scientists of Egypt and drove Big-Headed Yakub in his Mothership back to Sirius, and have ever since bitterly hunted ebon innocence across the face of this wounded planet…
In other words, Becky did not realize—had been blinded by her rampant privilege—that she was in fact the scion of the great vampire race which had drained Wakanda of its heavy water, had swooped down on ivory bat wings to spirit way the diaspora to this land a whore, and was therefore unprepared for her interview by the crusading Knight of the Reparations Order.
Becky, dumb bitch that she be, stopped, neglecting to take a knee in supplication or bow her head before his dark majesty, and said something vapid like “Excuse me?”
The nobleman then said, “Do black lives matter?”
Becky, not a total stupid bitch, then squeaked, “I’m not comfortable with this conversation,” and quickly sought the nearest safe space.
Ghosts, get a clue.
The yoke is on the other neck now.
Bitch, be owned!
-Justin W. R. Justice
