This morning at 4:45, deep in the hood, at the scene of last year's mighty victory over the faceless functionaries of The Man, one of the many reincarnations of Black Jesus among the crackers—I don't want to hear about Jesus not being a Hindu. He's Jesus, and since he's black, can do what the hell he wants!—walked up to cold-hearted Butch, the frozen food man, who was taking his break out front, and asked him for a dollar. Butch, busy counting out his ones, told Black Jesus, coldly, "Don't have any dollars, sorry."

The down-trodden street Christ, suffering under the Whiteman's sins, then stepped over to the unnamed Mexican chick, who cleans the floors, as she took advantage of Butch's angry shadow to step outside for some fresh air, and asked, "You gotta dolla, miss?"

The little Latina, already swayed by the money of The Man and hateful of a brutha in need, then looked up to him and said, "No dolla."

To which he spat, "Fuckin' bitch!"

Driven once again to shame himself by the evil hand of White Devil Daddy on the back of his innocent neck, the street Christ staggered off in shame, still unable to convince a single devil soul, white or brown, to redeem themselves before the Lord.

A short time later, a young athlete, Rejuvean by name, entered the White Devil nest, where black women were enslaved, chained to the registers and counters by the invisible bonds of the Whiteman's cruel desire. In the name of the New Afrikan Resistance, Rejuvean showed how tragic the tyranny of white oppression is. Instead of playing ball at a private high school, like all of them privileged white-boys, Rejuvean is reduced to demonstrating his quarterbacking qualifications in such forlorn hope attacks against The Man's infrastructure.

Rejuvean headed right to the health and beauty aisle, so that he could resell Dove bar soap and hair straightener on the street and hopefully raise enough money to move his mother, who is sick with cancer, to a nice island in the Pacific where no white people will mess with her. Unfortunately, as he loaded up his hat and spare shirt with bars of soap and bundled them together—there was that mean looking white dude stocking the frozen food case and grilling him like he was doing something wrong, when in fact, even after this reparations recovery strike, America would still owe him like $40,000, with interest compounded daily for like four hundred years, so he wasn't even wrong.

Being a realist, Rejuvean knew he would not be able to get back out the front door. He walked into the stockroom, located the employee lockers, found that his brother must have accidentally left a pair of bolt-cutters in the side pocket of his cargo shorts, and was struck with an inspiration. He snapped the lock on an employee locker belonging to some bitch-ass-nigga named Dante and put his work shirt on. Unfortunately, as Rejuvean pulled on the shirt and some white voice came over the intercom talking some shit about "Baltimore City Police to the stockroom," he discovered that Dante was a giant, bitch-ass-nigga, because that shirt came down about his knees. He saw daylight though, just around the corner past that wire rack that—oh no, yo—was getting caught up on that giant bitch-ass-nigga work shirt. He managed to get himself free as some smirking white employee man stood between him and the door with his arms crossed.

Free, free at fucking last, Rejuvean cradled his reparations package like Ray Rice before the White NFL leadership screwed him out of a spot on the team, and ran right at this old cracker, knowing that he was going to fake his old ass out and—blam, smash, crash...

Yes, indeed, this is unfortunately how so many Reparations Recovery Agents are thwarted in pursuit of their righteous goal, by some big-ass traitor-nigga in a police uniform blindsiding their ass and kneeling on their head while slapping on The Man's shackles.

What more can I say than to point out to you non-militant bruthas, that if Rejuvean had been but one of three strike team members, his sacrifice would not have been in vain, because as big as this traitor was, he wasn't tackling three dudes at the same time.

-Webone Shoop, edumacating your ass