Jack’s Krew in Rigler County: The Great Coon Hunt

Dan had just settled into his new chair and leaned back on it when Pete burst through the door, grinning.

 

“Man, I just heard about it and I’m so stoked.  You deserve it, bro—I mean, sir!”

 

Dan looked up at the eager, muscle-bound cop and smiled in return.  “Well, I’m only sheriff pro tem.  I’ll be finishing out Waites’ term till it ends in January.”

 

“Yeah, but they ain’t gonna hire anyone else after that—are they?”

 

Dan let his smile edge into a smirk.  “Well—to tell the truth, I just got back from a meeting with Ethan Hobart—he’s head of the county elections office.  Seems that the reason Waites was unopposed in every election for the last seventeen years was because ol’ Ethan’s a big supporter of law and order.  He liked the way Waites did things, but he told me he knew I had pretty much been running the department solo since Waites took ill last spring.  Looks like I got the same deal, come election time.”

 

Pete nodded.  “Shame about the old man; I never knew he was that sick.  At least it was quick.  Sounds like yer gonna be the new sheriff of Rigler County, if Hobart keeps his word.”

 

Dan’s masculine face went cold and hard.  “He’d better, or we’re gonna have to pay him a visit one night.  That reminds me—I can’t be assigning a deputy to my important tasks.  I’ve already started the paperwork to make you my lieutenant.”

 

Pete was literally speechless, unable to express his appreciation in a coherent way.  Dan chuckled.  “Don’t worry about it, son—you done good.  In a way, you’re pretty much the son I never had, and I trust you.”

 

“I won’t let you down, sir,” the new lieutenant replied, his voice husky with solemnity.  Pete revered Dan and would have followed him to the ends of the earth—but Dan already knew that.  The two men had formed an incredibly intense bond based on authority and discipline—and the right way to handle someone who lacked them.

 

Which reminded Dan…

 

“Hey, my cousin’s supposed to be in town tomorrow.  I’ve asked him and his crew to stop by my place in the evening; I’d like you to be there too.”

 

“For the big coon hunt?  Fuck yeah, I’m gonna be there!”

 

“Good,” Dan grinned.  “I been doin’ a little research on what we’re gonna be up against, but we’re gonna need to work out some teams and tactics.  There’s practically gonna be a fuckin’ army of jigaboos comin’ in to pollute our county and we need to make sure we got a plan in place to track down and waste every single one of ‘em.”

 

“I’ll be ready, sir,” Pete said with a matching grin that was seconded by the huge erection tenting his chinos.  The thought of having free reign to hunt down and snuff niggers in his hometown had the lieutenant edging so hard he could barely concentrate for the rest of the day.

 


 

Dan’s place was far enough out of town for the gathering of strangers to go unnoticed.  They’d arrived in two separate groups; Jack, Ed and Hank, all riding their bikes, had arrived first.  Jack straddled a 2012 Harley Night Rod, his tight jeans and twenty-hole Doc Martens wrapped tightly around the hog.  Ed’s ride was a 2013 Harley Fat Boy, while Hank’s was a 2007 Honda Shadow.

 

The boys cruised up the well-maintained drive, their bikes scrunching to a halt in the gravel in front of the house.  Dan was waiting for them.  Leading them inside, he introduced them to Pete quickly, names only, since Mike’s car pulled up just then.  The boys could hear Mike and Frankie’s boots on the porch just as Dan got to the door.  Once everyone was inside, he passed around a twelve-pack of beer and got down to business.

 

“Ok, just so we know where we stand,” he said, looking around at the assorted skinhead killers, “I’m the law around here, and Pete here is my lieutenant.  This operation is under my command.  That means I’m in charge, and if I ain’t around, he is—got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack spoke up before any of his crew could object, “Yer callin’ the shots.”  He ignored the baffled looks of his gang, who were unused to seeing their leader take a back seat—but he knew what he was doing.

 

Dan grinned.  “Relax, men; yer gonna like this.  Pete, bring out that map ya brought.  Jack, what didja find out about this ape invasion?”

 

“Mike’s my guy for that—what’d ya find?”

 

Mike stepped forward.  In the dim interior light, his short hair and large eyes both seemed to be of the deepest jet black.  “Coupla coon fraternities from the main campus of the state college.  Not too much about ‘em online, although one was kicked off campus for drugs.”

 

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” Pete said, “Now they’re down here tryin’ to establish a safe base for their drug deals.”

 

“So we’re gonna handle it like a raid,” Dan said.  “Any idea how many monkeys are gonna be runnin’ loose in the woods?”

 

“I was able to access one of the frat’s websites,” Mike smirked, “Fuckin’ cunts don’t know a damn thing about security.  They’re doin’ what they call a Weekend Warrior Weekend where all the apes dress up like army men and play laser tag or paintball or some shit.  At least forty of ‘em are confirmed, and there may be more.  They got three fifteen-passenger vans rented.  Some place called Ranney’s Valley.”

 

Dan’s face darkened.  “Yer tellin’ me there’s gonna be forty niggers runnin’ loose out there?  Fuck.  Fuck.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked, concerned.  Jack leaned forward as well.

 

“That’s too many.  We can’t leave that much nigger meat out there; it’ll draw too much attention.  And it’ll be too difficult to clean up without some noticeably heavy equipment.”

 

There was a pause, and the room grew quiet.

 

“Not if the meat cleans itself up first,” Pete said, suddenly.

 

Dan looked questioningly at his lieutenant.

 

“You’re sheriff now, so that means you have access to all the county property, right?  Like access to the Poorhouse?”

 

Dan saw the light.  “Fuck yeah, we can herd some of ‘em in there.  And then your boys,” he went on, turning to Jack, “Can have some fun.”

 

“What’s the Poorhouse?” Ed spoke up.

 

“It’s actually an old jail overflow building.  It was abandoned eighteen years ago when the new county lockup was completed.  It’s got about twenty individual cells, and a nice large cinderblock cafeteria with a gallery and catwalk,” Dan responded grinning.  “It’s an ideal deathpit.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” Hank said, “This shit is on!  What’s the plan?”

 

The sudden sense of agreement, of unity, swept wordlessly among the hardbodied testosterone-laden killers.  Their imaginations inflamed with the sheer possibilities, their cocks responded as well; it was inevitable.

 

But release was for later.  Now, plans needed to be made.

 

“Ok, lessee what we got here—Pete, you get a map of Ranney’s Valley in this pile?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded, digging through the pile of maps and handing one to Dan, “Here; it’s an old topographical map of everything north of the bayou and west of the Old Randville Road.  Folks at the county office don’t know what they have themselves.  Glad I spotted this; it’s got Ranney’s Valley in detail.”

 

“All right,” Dan said in a brisk, businesslike tone as he spread the map across his dining room table, “Gather round, boys, and we’ll get operation White Knight worked out.  There’s gonna be two squads.  I’m leadin’ one and Pete the other.”

 

He paused for a moment, glancing around the room, looking each of Jack’s crew dead in the face.  If there was gonna be any challenge to his authority, it’d happen now.

 

There was nothing.  They met his eyes, but said nothing; he was the oldest, the strongest, the most experienced.  They accepted him as alpha leader.

 

He relaxed and grinned.  “That’s only because we wanna have an official presence if any of the coons tries to resist arrest.”  He broke into a broad grin which visible eased the tension in the room.  The hardbodied young men turned their attention to the map.

 

“Now, if they’re doin’ some kinda war game bullshit, they’re gonna be split in two themselves, and will have two base camps.  One here on the east side of the valley, and one on the west—even niggers can’t be stupid enough not to realize where the camps should go.  And if they are, there’s plenty of info to tell ‘em so.  At any rate, two gangs of apes, so two squads of men to hunt ‘em down.”

 

“Makes sense,” Jack said, “But we can’t be sure they’ll make a base exactly on those spots, can we?”

 

“No,” Dan admitted, “Which is why we’re gonna hafta start this clean-up op in full stealth mode.  Each squad will start at the top of the valley, here and here, and slowly work its way down until it finds the base camp.  Any coon you come across before you find the base camp, you waste, but it’s gotta die quiet.  Last thing we need is a buncha howler monkey shriekin’ in the woods, yeah?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Mike spoke up, “I can make ‘em suffer and die without makin’ a squeak.”  His handsome face was twisted with an evil leer.  Pete noticed the buff young punk; he hadn’t paid him much attention before, but the confident tone of the killer punk’s voice stirred something.

 

“When you find the base camp, don’t kill the niggers.” Dan said suddenly.  “We’re gonna use them to help gather up and dispose of the dead ones.”

 

“Dispose?  How’re they gonna dispose of them?” Ed asked.

 

“Well to start, they can stack the bodies in one of the vans.  All the vans—and all the nigs, dead and alive—are gonna be driven to the Poorhouse.”

 

“What happens there?” Ed put in again, his interest clearly picking up.

 

Again, Dan slowly glanced around the table, meeting each man’s eyes—including Pete’s.  This wasn’t a moment of challenge, though; something else passed between them as Dan smiled at each in turn.

 

“I don’t care what happens there.  At all.”

 


 

Pete scanned the valley stretching out below him before glancing across to the slope on the east side.  He couldn’t see Dan’s squad, but that was the idea.

 

Dan hadn’t specified any particular dress code, other than telling them not to wear bright colors.  He had emphasized the need for extreme stealth until the base camps were found.

 

“Y’all get a herd of fuckin’ apes screamin’ and stampedin’ outta here, we’ll never hear the end of it.  Each squad is gonna have two shotguns, but they’re for emergency only, hear me?  I don’t care what ya do to ‘em as long as it’s quick and quiet.”

 

Dan had Jack, Ed, and Hank on his squad; they had the east side of the valley.  Pete, with Mike and Frankie, had the west side.  The east side was corrugated forestland with hidden dells and unexpected rock formations; the west side was completely different—it was a gentler slope, smoother and much more wet.  Little rills and streams crisscrossed it, draining into the creek at the bottom of the valley.  The west side was better suited to spreading troops out and would need more men to cover.

 

“Most of the coons won’t go too far from their base on that side,” Jack had said authoritatively, “Niggers don’t like the water.”

 

So now Pete crept through the underbrush, his ears straining to hear over the constant background sound of trickling water.  His tight jeans were tucked into a pair of TideWe sixteen-inch hunting boots, proof against the mud and muck of the rivulets he stalked into.  His olive-green t-shirt was cinched across his broad chest by the strap of a shotgun scabbard that dangled the weapon across his back—out of the way, but easy to reach when needed.  His black hair was covered by a camouflage cap, the brim low over his hard, cold eyes.

 

Wrapped tightly around his waist—around everyone’s waists; Dan had issued them out—was a webbed nylon belt with a sheath holding a combat utility knife, with a seven-inch, double-sided blade.  One side was a simple edged surface, the other was serrated for extra sawing power.  Both were excruciatingly sharp.  Also on the belt was an extendible whip-like baton and a thick heavy bludgeon—the latter were custom made for Dan, a solid lead bar coated in thick latex.  Everyone also had a pair of handcuffs; Dan, Pete, and Jack had several pairs each.

 

Pete and Dan also had radios; cell phones were useless out here.  But radio silence was to be maintained until the coons’ camps had been located.

 

Far off to Pete’s left, he was aware of Frankie’s progress through the boggy woods.  Frankie was taking the only other semi-dry path the descended the west side. He’d stuck to his usual gear of khaki t-shirt, camouflage pants and combat boots; it was perfect for the mission.  Pete couldn’t see Frankie, he could only hear an occasional rustle in the distance.  The sound would me nothing to someone who didn’t already know Frankie was there.

 

Mike followed in Pete’s footsteps, his black engineer boots getting muddy as he quietly made his way across the sodden landscape.  Not much sunlight penetrated the tree cover; his black jeans and t-shirt merged in with the shadows.  Like the others, he had something slung over his shoulder, but in his case, it was a tightly wound coil of nylon rope.

 

Silently and carefully, the three hardbodied young men sought out their prey, inching closer to the kill.

 


 

On the east side, Jack was carefully negotiating his way down a broad gully.  The grade wasn’t overly steep, but it the ground was uncertain and covered with leaves; he had to watch where he planted his calf-high green DMs.  His tight, faded jeans and pale orange tank top weren’t overly noticeable against the fall foliage, but he had no intention of drawing attention to himself.

 

Ahead and off to the right, he could just barely see Hank.  They’d split into pairs and then the pairs split just to the point that they could keep each other in sight.  Hank wasn’t easy to spot; his oxblood Docs were too close to the ground to be seen from a distance and his tight dark jeans didn’t stand out.  Despite the relative warmth of the day, Hank had worn his olive-drab flight jacket.  Only Jack could pick out the tell-tale signs of Hank’s presence.

 

Then Jack picked out more than just Hank’s presence; the skinhead had halted and was making a motion with his arm.  It was a prearranged signal—coon sighting.

 

Hank waited for Jack to approach, slowly and quietly, then pointed it out.  The yard ape was leaning back against a tree, smoking a joint.  It wore a tight black long-sleeve t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and a pair of bright red Nike Vandal hightops.  Tucked into its waistband was a paintball pistol.  As Jack and Hank watched, it burned the J down to a roach, which it tucked away in a cigarette pack.

 

When it began to amble away from the tree, it was so high, it didn’t realize that it was being followed until Jack and Hank were less than three feet behind it.  Jack nodded to Hank; the latter, seeing the feral gleam of bloodlust in his leader’s eyes, felt the rush coming on.  Deep in the crotch of his tight jeans, the nigger-killer felt the familiar pressure as his thick white cock swelled at the thought of wasting a coon.

 

He lunged forward, grabbing both of the jigaboo’s arms and pinning them behind its back.  The nigger buck was young and strong; Hank could feel its thick biceps flexing as it struggled against him, but he had no intention of letting the yard ape escape.  He clamped down on it, making it moan in pain.

 

“What the fuck—” It began when Jack stepped in front of it.  It just barely had time to focus on the hardbodied skinhead before the latter spoke, making the dark-skinned nigrah turn ashy gray with fear.

 

“Hey, dude,” Jack said with an ice-cold grin as he slid his knife from its sheath, “What’s a nice place like this doin’ around a nigger like you?”

 

Its eyes widened in panic, but it was utterly unprepared for the speed with which Jack’s hand darted forward and slammed the blade into the angle of the unlucky jig’s jaw.  There was a searing shock of unimaginable agony as seven inches of razor-sharp steel tore through its mouth, slicing completely though the muscle of the tongue at its thick base with ease.

 

It had been a rich nigger; its daddy had owned a number of successful dry-cleaning businesses.  It had lived a cushy life for a coon, and now its mouth was full of steel and horrific pain as it gagged on its own blood.

 

“What’s that fuckin’ stink?  Smells even worse than niggers usually do,” Hank called out, a broad grin on his Aryan face.

 

“Aw, the fuckin’ jig’s pissed itself.  They always do when they die,” Jack responded, then spoke directly to the terrified jungle bunny.  “Yeah, yer dyin’, aintcha, coon?  Hope it hurts, motherfucker.  Hope yer sufferin’, ya black asswipe.”

 

The porch monkey made a horrible gagging sound and spit out its tongue.  It coughed again, this time spewing blood over its outstretched hands.

 

As it stared in bewildered horror at its own blood and meat, Hank swung his heavy bludgeon, popping the nigger on the back of its nappy head.  The latex-covered bar made contact with the cunt’s cranium with an audible crunch, like cracking an eggshell.  The jigaboo fell to its knees, eyes rolled back in its head as shards of its skull slashed through its cerebellum, inflicting massive brain trauma.

 

Its arms tensed up, the hand flailing limply and loosely.  It shit itself, completely losing control of its bowels.  But it still wasn’t dead.

 

“Goddam,” Jack muttered, “They’re gettin’ harder to kill every fuckin’ day.”

 

Hank had to shatter its skull to get it to lie still, smashing the heavy bar into its head until it pulped the coon’s brain.  As he beat it to death, Jack input the location on his phone for corpse retrieval, then both men headed out, fanning out to the east, remaining just within sight of each other, as before.

 

Behind them, the first dead coon of the day continued to twitch quietly as neurons in its pulverized brain matter randomly fired.  Its expensive Nike kicks—it’d waited in line five hours to buy them—jerked repeatedly, carving furrows in the leaves, each one slightly weaker and fainter than the last.  Its heart continued to beat for another hour, but it was nothing more than a pile of nigger meat, lying in the woods.

 


 

Three quarters of a mile to the south, Dan was making his silent, deadly way through the forest.  He’d grabbed a black tactical assault jumpsuit from the department and tucked it into his own pair of ten-inch black lace-up utility boots.  One of the reasons he’d chosen the outfit was for the extra weapon carrying capacity, and he was taking advantage of it now.

 

He’d been attracted by the sound of splashing water and had slowly closed in on a small creek that spilled over a five-foot ledge into a waterfall.  Approaching from the top side, Dan peered down and spotted two niggers lounging around the pool beneath him.  One was fucking around on its phone, trying unsuccessfully to find a signal; it was wearing a t-shirt with a college logo, jeans, and tan Timberland boots.  The other nig had gone full weekend warrior, with combat fatigues and boots.

 

Neither one deserved the name of warrior, Dan thought with contempt.  He was standing in plain sight, but the dumbass monkeys didn’t even look up.  He signaled to Ed, off in the distance, and withdrew from his prominent location to await backup.

 

Ed’s golden buzz-cut hair glinted in the dappled sunlight that broke through the trees.  Wearing a khaki-brown wifebeater that showed off his bulging, tatted biceps, the Aryan punk also sported a tight pair of Diesel jeans tucked into his oxblood Doc Martins.  He closed in swiftly on Dan’s position and soon they both had the enemy in view.

 

Dan and Ed were both experienced killers; no words needed to be said.  Dan nodded at the camo-wearing coon and ran his finger across his throat.  Ed nodded, bent his head at the other one, and did the same thing.  Using his fingers only, Dan counted down from three and they both sprang forward.

 

The jungle bunny in fatigues was farthest from the bank; Dan reached it before Ed reached his target.  The cop had his weapon ready in his gloved hands—a length of piano wire with wooden handles on then ends, a professional garrote.  He approached the ape from behind and, swiftly looping the wire, dropped it over the nigger’s head, cinching tight instantly.

 

“Gak!” the choking coon gagged out, “Grk! Guh!”  Dropping its paintball gun, it began clawing frenetically at the wire sunk into its neck.

 

“What the fuck?” the other jigaboo said, turning in confusion, only to be confronted with Ed, grinning and swinging at him.  Before the buck could react, the powerful Aryan had punched him in the face, hard.  The jig stumbled backwards, reeled, and fell face-down on the bank of the creek, its head over the water.

 

Ed instantly pounced on top and forced its head under the surface.  It thrashed and flailed as the hardbodied nigger-killer lay on top of it and began drowning it.

 

Behind Ed, Dan held on tight as he strangled the young coon to death.  It kept clawing and struggling, as if trying to rise to its feet, but the buff cop kept it down on its knees.  “Think yer gonna come out here and fuck my town, motherfucker?” he hissed at it as he bent over it and choked its life out.  “Fuckin’ die, ya worthless pickanniny.  All you nasty-ass yard apes need to fuckin’ die.  My boys are gonna take out all yer nigger cousins—you all related, right?  Fuck yer own sisters like goddam jungle monkeys, huh?”

 

The young buck couldn’t reply.  Its face was already blacker and lips thicker than usual.  Its huge eyes bulged comically as it gagged and jerked, dying helpless and alone in the woods.  It could see its friend dying, as well.

 

Ed felt the big buck nigger’s taut muscles flexing under him as it struggled to get its head above the water.  He had to clamp down on it, his bicep bulging with the pressure he was exerting to keep the jungle bunny’s head under the surface.  Its Timberland boots kicked out helplessly, scraping up leaves and carving furrows in the dirt.  Its arms splashed frantically in the creek, the sound becoming lost in the noise of the miniature waterfall.

 

No one else could hear the niggers die.

 

It took a while.  Dan’s coon kept swinging and swaying to each side, its struggles becoming weaker and more erratic.  A sudden acrid stench filled the air; the darky had pissed itself, a large dark wet spot forming in the crotch of its fatigues.  By now its tongue, thick and grotesque, was sticking out from between the ludicrously swollen lips.  Its eyes had rolled back in its head and it was drooling like a fucking dog.

 

Hank’s porch monkey was also slowing, its attempts to breathe becoming more and more feeble.  Its hands splashed limply just at the surface of the creek and its boots were not so much kicking as twitching and jerking among the fallen leaves.

 

With a hearty grunt, Dan tightened his wire around the nigger’s neck one last time.  This time, he put enough force into it to break the skin; in fact, the wire sank so deep he damn near cut the coon’s throat.  It hung loosely and limply from the garrote, its hand dangling in front and shuddering convulsively.

 

The sadistic sheriff finally had enough.  He let the cunt drop to the ground, then retrieved his wire.  It was so deeply embedded in the homeboy’s neck that Dan had to brace himself by planting his combat boot on the jigaboo’s chest to yank his weapon from its body.

 

Behind him, Hank finally rose to his feet.  The ape he’d offed was halfway in the water, only its jeans and boots visible.  Its legs still trembled and quivered.

 

“Thin they’re dead?” Hank asked.

 

“Good as,” Dan replied, “They damn sure ain’t gonna be infestin’ the woods anymore.”

 

“This is gonna be easy,” Hank went on, “Fuckin’ animals—ain’t as smart as us humans.”

 

“Apes don’t hunt, not with stealth,” Dan observed.  “Gonna make it easier to stop this coon invasion dead in its tracks—literally.  Mark the location so we can get this pile of fuckin’ monkey meat dragged outta here later.”

 

Seconds later, they were back out on the hunt themselves, heading silently toward the partying young jigaboos who were blissfully unaware of the brutal Aryan predators about to ambush and slaughter them mercilessly.

 


 

Back on the west side, Pete was crouched expectantly in the undergrowth; he’d seen movement in the distance and had pulled out a pair of binoculars.  Cautiously and quietly, Mike and Frankie approached him.  By the time they got to him, Pete had spotted what he was looking for.

 

“Here,” he said, handing the binoculars to the first arrival, Mike, and pointing to the west, “See ‘em?  Coupla niggers—and they got drugs.  The Cap—er, the Sheriff—was right as usual.  If we don’t wipe ‘em out now, they’re gonna fuck this place up.”

 

The view through the intervening foliage wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for Mike to make out the two coons Pete was referring to.  One of them, in a dark t-shirt tight across his broad ape chest, loose jeans hanging halfway off his ass, was rolling a huge fat blunt.  The other, with a crooked ball cap, torn jeans and white Nike hightops, was sprinkling white power into it from a baggie which it replaced into its hip pocket when finished.

 

The second jig was the one that had caught Pete’s attention; its neon-yellow t-shirt was easily visible, even in the overgrown brush.

 

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, handing the binoculars to Frankie, who’d just arrived, “Ya gotta treat ‘em like roaches.  Ya see one, ya know there’s hundreds around somewhere, spreadin’ filth.  Best thing to do is find the nest and wipe ‘em all out—any that get away can breed more.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Frankie said, grinning as he peered at the prey, about five hundred yards to the west.  “Fuckin’ hard to kill as roaches, too.  Ya gotta hit ‘em hard and keep hittin’ ‘em till they ain’t nothin’ but twtichin’ apemeat.”  He paused, keeping one hand on the binoculars and rubbing the swelling bulge in his crotch with the other.  “I ain’t down with this ‘fast’ and ‘quiet’ shit, though,” he muttered.  “I wanna take my time over it.  I wanna hear ‘em beg and scream when they die, fuckin’ jigaboos…”

 

“Time for that later,” Pete said peremptorily, “We gotta get to the camp first.  Once we corral the apes, you can worry about havin’ some fun with whatever’s still alive.”  As he spoke, he could see that the coons had fired up the blunt and were passing it back and forth.  “C’mon,” he said, “Looks like they’re too busy gettin’ fucked up to see us comin’ to fuck ‘em up.”

 

The three aggressive young killers slowly moved forward; Pete, in the lead, making sure they remained undetected.  Even though the prey was getting high, he still didn’t want to take the chance of panicking the jungle bunnies before he was close enough to catch one.  He and Frankie didn’t really have different aims, it was just that Pete, under Dan’s tutelage, had learned the value of Discipline and Authority, and for both, control was needed.

 

Pete was becoming one of the most dangerous of killers, a buff, hardbodied young who got off on inflicting pain and death but had the self-control to pick and choose the appropriate moment to indulge himself.  And he had a badge.

 

He had no problem with lingering over a nigger, making it squeal and suffer before dispatching it to monkey hell, but first, he wanted information.  He wanted to catch one alive and interrogate it, find out where its nest—er, camp was.  He’d waste it when he was done with it, but not before he’d pumped it for all it knew.

 

He was looking forward to making a monkey talk.  His hand slid down to the handle of his utility knife.  He hoped it would resist.  As he unclipped the strap securing the blade in its sheath, his dick started to stiffen.

 

He was still in full control—but he really, really hoped the jigaboo would resist.

 

They burst suddenly out of the underbrush.  “Freeze, niggers!” Frankie yelled.  One did and one didn’t.

 

The coon in the dark shirt, the one who’d rolled the blunt, took off like a shot, earning the name of jungle bunny by scampering through the woods like a wild hare.  Just a swiftly, Mike and Frankie went after him, vanishing back into the undergrowth.

 

Pete was left alone with the jig in the yellow shirt.  It popped up as if to flee, but Pete sprang forward and clamped it in a power hold, one hand tightly over its mouth while using the other to press his knife into its throat.

 

“You can feel that, cantcha,” he said menacingly.  It wasn’t a question.  “I’m gonna ask some questions.  You don’t answer, I cut your fuckin’ throat.  You do anything but answer, I’m gonna cut yer throat.  You dig, nigger?  Ya feelin’ me, tarbaby?”

 

The coon nodded its head.  Clutching the muscled black buck tightly, he could feel it tremble.  In a mix of anger and fear, it was sweating, a nasty niggery reek.  Pete closed his mind to it, thinking the smell was proof that offing these disgusting apes was utterly justified, if nothing else was.

 

“Where’s yer camp, fuckwad?” he asked quietly.

 

“Down dere by de riber,” the porch monkey replied, fear making his coon accent thicker.

 

“How many more guards you got out?  Where are they?”

 

“Homie, I dunno that kinda shit!  We’s jist here fo’ some—” Pete cut it off, clamping his huge strong hand back over its mouth, feeling its thick soft lips crushed under his palm.  He drew the blade across the cunt’s throat—not deeply, just enough to break the skin and leave a thin line of blood encircling the jigaboo’s neck.

 

“Not an acceptable answer,” the hardbodied cop growled, “And you call me homie again and I’ll gut you here and now like a fuckin’ pig, you got me, boy?  Now where are the rest of yer fuckin’ tribe?”

 

The young nigger was almost in tears when Pete lifted his hand this time; it was clearly confused and terrified.  Stupid motherfucker couldn’t figure out what was going on.  Pete felt nothing but contempt and impatience.

 

“Answer me, ya black piece of shit, or so help me God—”

 

“I dunno!! I really don’t!!  I mean I saw Andre an’ Deontay go dat way an’ Marquis an’ Lamar said dey wanted to off an’ do some hits—but I dunno!!” the coonboy wailed.

 

Pete snorted in disgust.  It figured.  He shoulda known better than to expect an ignorant fuckin’ yard ape to talk sense.  He pressed the knife against its neck again.

 

“Yer a worthless sack a’ monkey meat, aintcha,” he muttered and ripped its throat open.  “Doin’ the world a fuckin’ favor.”

 

The razor-sharp blade sliced easily through apeflesh, but once it reached the nigger’s trachea, Pete had to put some pressure on it; it took a little effort to saw through the rubbery tissue.  The jungle bunny had tried to scream as its white deathmaster began the kill, but Pete kept its jaw in such a tight grip that all it could do was give off the despairing bleat of a dying lamb.

 

That changed once the windpipe was penetrated.  The monkey still wasn’t able to scream—the buff lawman had carved its larynx to gristly shreds—but its trapped air burst out in a high-pitched squeal, followed by violent gagging on blood.  It was the sound of a young nigger cunt in mortal agony.

 

Pete let it go and stepped back to watch it die, his dick so hard it hurt.

 

It fell to its knees, blood spewing from the gash in its neck.  It coughed and choked and vomited up blood in stunned shock, holding its hands up to the wound.   Pete chuckled at the dumbass coon, thinking it could hold back the blood.  For a moment it turned to look at him, its eyes wide with sheer terror.  Then, as Pete watched, the nigger’s eyes rolled back in its head.  It pissed itself and collapsed, lying huddled on the ground.

 

The cop had done his duty.  He went in search of Mike and Frankie, leaving behind him a pile of apemeat, struggling convulsively to breathe, its muscled body heaving and wheezing as it bled out in a muddy pool of its own blood and urine.  Its Nikes twitched in the leaves a few times as it died alone in the woods.

 


 

Fifty yards west, Frankie and Mike had come across their prey struggling to free its expensive Air Jordan from a crack in a boulder; the coon had tried to scamper over it and gotten its foot stuck.  It had just managed to get itself free when the hardbodied apekillers burst in on it from the underbrush.  Trapped with its back to the rock it had been unable to climb, it looked at the muscled Aryans and whimpered, its eyes comically wide.

 

“Hey there, spook,” Frankie grinned.

 

“Gonna be a fuckin’ spook by the time I’m done with it,” Mike muttered, drawing the heavy bludgeon from his utility belt.  Frankie had already pulled out his expandable baton.

 

The nigger was a big black buck, well-built and strong.  It was obviously scared but was pathetically trying to brazen it out.  “Wh-wh—” it began, paused and gulped, and then restarted.  “Wh-what you white b-boys want?”

 

What they wanted was to explode and the coon had set the bomb off perfectly.  “Shut the fuck up, ya stupid black ape!” Frankie roared, his young, hard face twisted in rage and his thick cock so hard it was visible in the crotch of his camo pants.  He slashed at the nig’s face with the baton, laughing with malevolent glee as the street monkey wailed in pain.

 

“Goddammit, the piece a’ shit’s makin’ too much noise,” Mike said, stepping forward.  With a single brutal incapacitating blow, he pounded his bludgeon into the jigaboo’s simian face, shattering its jaw into shards.  The nigger made an odd squealing sound, then gagged and retched before vomiting out bloody clots of teeth.

 

As it did, Frankie, who’d torn the fucker’s left cheek open and broken its cheekbone with his baton, shifted to the other side.  Mike stood back for a moment to let him work, watching his brother-in-snuff demonstrate the flexibility of the baton.  Standing behind the coon, he whipped the thin metal rod horizontally against the side of its head.  It had enough give to follow the contours of the skull.

 

When the tip came to the front of the skull, it whipped around and punctured the spade’s eye.

 

It wheezed.  It was trying to scream, but it was trying too hard.  Then it wasn’t trying at all; it was bent over, vomiting uncontrollably.

 

“Well fuck,” Frankie said, smirking at Mike, “That’s kickass!”

 

“Aw, you can to the same thing with an untwisted coat hanger,” Mike said with a grin.  “Here, lemme put it out of its misery.  Mamma always told me to be kind to animals…”

 

His thick-soled engineer boots crunched in the fallen leaves as he closed in for the kill.  The quivering nigger was too overwhelmed with agony to notice his approach.  He was able to walk right up to it and, with his unerring precision of aim, break its neck with a single blow.  The coated metal bar caught the ape just at the nape of its neck, three vertebrae splintering with a loud crunch.

 

The jigaboo twitched violently, twice, then went limp.  It instantly soiled itself.

 

“Jesus,” Frankie said in disgust, “Ya try to do ‘em a favor, and ya end up havin’ to deal with this stench.”

 

“That’s what ya get for tryin’ to do a coon a favor,” said a voice close behind them, making them jump.  They whirled simultaneously to find that Pete had caught up to them.

 

“I take it you got what ya needed from yours?” Mike asked him.

 

“Aw, stupid darkie didn’t know shit,” Pete muttered.  His eyes shifted to the pile of monkey meat lying behind them.

 

“Y’all do know that one’s still alive, right?” he drawled casually, a gleam of humor in his eyes.

 

“Huh?” Frankie blurted.  Mike spun and looked carefully.  Sure enough, it was still breathing.  Shallowly and badly, but it was breathing.

 

“Dude, it’s gotta be dead; it shit itself,” Frankie protested.

 

“Sometimes the spinal cord ain’t severed,” Pete continued.  “I been readin’ up on how to break necks.  Seems ya gotta really work the fucker to make sure ya do enough damage to kill it and not just leave it paralyzed.”

 

“I think we can handle that,” Mike said.  Standing over the nigger, he raised his leg and stomped on its neck, grinding the heel of his big black boot into its spine.  Again and again he stomped it, crushing its throat and leaving no uncertainty whatsoever that the jungle bunny was dead.

 

“So, which way now?” Mike asked, turning his back on the corpse and heading towards Pete and Frankie.

 

“Well, it’s gotta be further east,” Pete replied.  I’ll go this way.  You”—said to Frankie—“go thirty yards north and you”—to Mike—“the same to the south.  If we’re lucky, we should be able to locate their camp soon.”

 

The three men merged back into the underbrush, silently moving forward, on the hunt and primed to kill.

 


 

Dan and Ed were the oldest members of the coon-killing squad.  They had the most experience and the most control.  Dan had divided the groups up knowing that Pete and Jack could handle those with them.  Ed didn’t need to be handled; he and Dan moved on parallel courses, close enough to help each other if needed but not actually coordinating their movements.

 

That’s how Dan happened to be alone when he unexpectedly stumbled across an armed nigger.

 

Dan had decided to take advantage of some of the SWAT tactical gear stored in the back of the new jail.  He’d gone all in black, with a tight-fitting jumpsuit belted at the waist with the nylon utility belt he’d handed out to the others.  The cuffs of his jumpsuit legs were neatly bloused into his SWAT 8” Alpha Fury boots, a black knit cap covered his head and on his hands was a pair of custom-made fingerless leather tactical gloves with metal insets in the palms and brass (well, steel) knuckles sewed into the right glove.

 

Dan was literally dressed to kill, and it saved his life.

 

The jigaboo was leaning back, basking like a lizard in a small spot of sun.  It had a black satin do-rag on its head, an Oakland Raiders t-shirt stretched across its broad monkey chest, a pair of dark, low-slung jeans, Nike Air Jordan IIIs on its feet, and a Newport dangling from its thick lower lip.  If Dan hadn’t been upwind, the smoke would have told him it was there.  As it was, he popped right into the small clearing, making the yard ape jump up and go for its waistband.

 

Dan saw the Glock G17 in its hand; his reaction in the split-second he had before it drew a bead on him was the result of professional training.  He punched the nigger in the throat.

 

The brass knuckles in his glove collapsed the dumb ape’s esophagus instantly with the sound and sensation of crushing a foam cup.  The jig dropped its gun and clutched at its ruined throat, its eyes wider than seemed physically possible.

 

Strange thick sounds came from its blocked windpipe.  “GUK!  GRK!  NGK!”  The porch monkey was too stupid to realize it was dead; it staggered forward, reaching out to Dan as if pleading for help.  Its face was already swelling and becoming congested; tears welled from its bulging eyes as it gagged and choked.  It took another faltering step towards Dan, then fell to its knees, its hands still upraised in a beseeching gesture.

 

“Bad idea to draw on the sheriff, nigger,” Dan said evenly.  “See, yard apes with gats get the death penalty in this county.”

 

It may have even been stupid enough to feel hope when Dan suddenly grinned at it; if it did, it was soon dashed as the muscular, black-clad ape killer reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he hauled up his enormous tackle and brandished it, semi-hard in the coon’s face.

 

“Aw, I’m just kiddin’,” Dan said cheerfully.  “Gats or no gats, all you jigaboos are gonna die.  I got death squads out there now, huntin’ yer monkey kin down.”

 

The nigger knew it was going to die now; its tongue was already starting to protrude.  Snot from its nose trickled down to mingle with the drool spilling over its thick dark lips and blood vessels ruptured like fireworks in the whites of its eyes.  A hot, sour smell filled the air as dark moistness spread out from the crotch of its jeans.

 

“Boy, yer a fuckin’ mess,” Dan drawled.  “Here, lemme help ya wash that off.”

 

And with that he started pissing in the dying nigger’s face, the hot, acrid urine splashing over the gagging monkey’s exposed tongue and into its protruding eyes.  Its hands, which hadn’t ceased clawing at its throat, now came up in a weak attempt to block the flow.  They fluttered like dying birds, splashing in the stream of hot piss, before the jungle bunny suddenly pitched forward, face down into the dirt, and began to convulse violently.

 

Dan had a bladder like a barrage balloon.  He kept giving the spade a nice warm golden shower as it kicked its life away, its Nike kicks scraping in the dirt as a puddle of urine formed around the depression where it had faceplanted.  As the stream finally trailed off into a trickle, Dan took a moment to shake the last few drops out onto the soaked do-rag on its head, then tucked his rod back in.  Bending down and retrieving the gun from where the nig had dropped it, Dan left his prey still twitching in its own little sunny spot.

 

He was in a hurry; some inner sense had told him Ed had found something interesting.

 

 


 

 

Ed had.  Crouching behind a huge, moss-covered oak, his gaze was riveted on a wooden shed, about twenty feet square.  He’d seen at least three niggers go in, and the front was guarded by two coons carrying what looked like paintball guns.

 

It was the base camp he’d been looking for.  Deep in the groin of his tight Diesel jeans, his long, thick, white cock stirred with the through of the slaughter that was about to occur.  He needed Dan to put in an appearance, quick, or he was gonna start wasting the fuckin’ porch monkeys on his own.

 

Luckily for his libido, Dan slipped silently out of the undergrowth just in time.  “Lookee here,” the buzz-cut Nazi grinned, “Found the fuckin’ coon nest.”

 

Dan grinned back, the cold, hard grin of an experienced calculating his target’s death.  “How many inside?”

 

“I’d say five to ten, maybe more.”

 

“Ok, here’s the plan…”

 

Dan wanted to reconnoiter the structure before making his move, making sure the one visible door was the only practicable exit.  They agreed to circle around to the rear, Ed heading to the left and Dan to the right, giving the open space in front of the shed a wide berth and moving quietly so as to leave the guards undisturbed—for the moment.

 

The next time they saw each other, they were peering around the back of the shed; it was up against a thickly wooded bank, and didn’t even have windows.  The set-up was perfect; this team of nigs had been stupid enough to set up headquarters in a trap.  As the muscled killers—one a skinhead and one in cop gear—conferred behind the shed, they could head the motherfuckers chattering away on the inside like a troop of apes.

 

“The two in front,” Dan whispered, holding up his knife and making a slashing gesture across his throat.  Dan nodded, and they each began to creep back to the front of the shed, along opposite side, staying low to avoid the windows in the sides.  They reached the front simultaneously, crouching at the corners of the building and scoping out the guards.

 

Two big buff bucks, with their backs turned.  One was in a too-small t-shirt advertising some fraternity event, a pair of tight jeans full of holes and so elaborately patched that they’d clearly been manufactured that way, and a pair of bright blue Nike Air Jordan Flight Varsity hightops.  The other wore the same t-shirt with a black flat peak cap worn backwards, worn but intact jeans and replica white-and-black Jordan 1 Homage sneakers.

 

The jeans and kicks were enough to tell—the one on the right came from money, the one on the left didn’t.  Not that it mattered—they’d both die just the same, hard and ugly.

 

It happened fast.

 

Dan’s boots were silent on the trodden dirt clearing in front of the shed as he crept forward.  Ed’s Doc Martens made faint grinding sounds, but the two coons never noticed.  They’d just finished sharing a blunt and were both higher than fuck.  The whole thing was a game, after all—until it wasn’t.

 

Dan took the one on the right.  His hand, in its fingerless leather tactical glove, clamped tightly across the jigaboo’s mouth.  It just had time to let out a startled grunt before he jammed his knife into its throat, powering up his bicep and punching the blade through any resistance he felt.

 

Ed did the same, but he didn’t stifle his target; as a result, his yard ape managed to blurt out a thick, gagging bleat of agony, unrecognizable as human and nowhere near loud enough to be heard inside.

 

Ed’s coon—the poor one—choked and spat out a spray of blood.  It and the other one turned to look at each other in shock and horror, each clutching their punctured, bleeding necks.  The wealthy one staged forward a few steps after Dan let it go, its thick rubbery lips working as if it was begging for its worthless life, but nothing came from its open mouth beyond the sound of a dying nigger gargling on its own blood.  As it shuffled its expensive Nikes in the dirt, it ruined its expensive jeans by losing control of its bladder.

 

“Aw, fuck, nigger piss stinks,” Dan muttered.  The jungle bunny paused and swayed, its already-huge pupils dilating as it started to lose consciousness.  The hardbodied cop darted forward; catching it as it fell, he dragged the shuddering spade off to the right and dumped it into the undergrowth where it spent its last few seconds facedown in a clump of poison sumac, drowning on its own blood.

 

The poor jigaboo with the replica Jordans had wrapped both hands tightly around its own throat as if it could stop the flow of blood that way.  Lightheaded and panicked, it stumbled ahead and to the left—instinctively trying to flee the danger.  Ed didn’t chase it; he didn’t need to.  As it lurched away, he swung out with the knife, twice, lightning-fast, and caught the black cunt in the throat again each time.

 

It made it three steps before falling to its knees and pissing itself.  Its hands dropped limply to its sides and it tried desperately to breathe, twice.  Both tries resulted in nothing more than grotesque, gurgling wheezes.  Then it fell facedown, its legs kicking spasmodically.

 

Following Dan’s lead, Ed dragged it off to the side and shoved it into one of the small creeks running through the area.  He didn’t check to see if it had stopped breathing yet; it would soon enough anyway.

 

He and Dan then executed perfect stealth approached to the shed.  The front had one centered door with a small window on each side of it.  Dan and Ed sidled along the front to the door, staying low to avoid the windows.  Once the reached it, they paused, flanking it, two muscled warriors awaiting their backup.

 

It didn’t take long for Jack and Hank to catch up.  There was no need to ask how their hunting had gone; the disappointment on their faces was obvious indication that they hadn’t managed to snuff as many coons as they’d wanted.  Dan grinned; once the monkeys were penned up in the Poorhouse, the Aryan punks could torture them to death to his sick little heart’s content.  Fuck, Dan was gonna be glad to help.  But they needed to have them corralled first.

 

The four killers put their heads together and came up with a quick plan of assault—not that the ramshackle shed justified the need of a plan, but the last thing anyone wanted was for a yard ape to escape and go off howling into the woods.  The actual attack was over faster than they would have thought possible.

 

Dan and Jack broke through the door as Ed and Hank blocked the windows from the outside.  The niggers paused, unsure of what was happening; it took the sight of the muscle-bound cop brandishing his shotgun to get the concept of danger through their dense skulls.

 

Then hell broke loose.

 

None of the coons had a real weapon, or any kind of hand-to-hand combat training; some had joined in street brawls, but it wasn’t the same.  Ten of the dozen made it out alive—bleeding and bruised, cowed into submission, but alive.

 

One big black buck, clearly the alpha of his tribe, tried to stand up to Dan.  He threw up his fists as if offering to box.  Dan let go of the shotgun, letting the shoulder strap catch it, and grinned holding up his palms.  The bull nigger waded in like he was going to deck the sheriff good and hard.  He drew his arm back, clearly telegraphing his swing, and that was when Dan’s arm shot out like a knife-wielding piston, driving the sharp steel tip of his blade between the jigaboo’s ribs and into its heart.

 

“Gurk!” the monkey cried, its eyes huge as a huge bubble of blood broke on its thick lips.  For a brief moment, its powerful ape body was rigid with shock and agony; Dan twisted the knife inside of it to ensure maximum damage before stepping back.  The nigger trembled, then fell tot the floor in heap of quivering, bleeding monkey meat.

 

At the sight of this, another one, this one young and slim, panicked and leaped head-first through the window.  It managed not only to avoid cutting itself too badly but to maneuver into a tuck-and-roll with an animal-like agility.

 

What it didn’t manage to avoid was Ed, with his bludgeon.  Just as the young niglet staggered to its feet, Ed swung the heavy metal bar against its head, knocking it to the ground.

 

“Hey,” Hank said, “We need to keep ‘em alive, remember?  They gotta drag away the ones we already killed.”

 

“Yeah, but this one’s already damaged,” Ed said.

 

“Don’t look that badly damaged to me,” Hank replied.  Planting his oxblood Doc Martens on each side of the moaning, shuddering pickanniny, Ed bent down and bashed it in the again, twice, his huge biceps flexing with the power he delivered to the crushing blows.

 

Standing triumphantly astride the thrashing nigger, Ed gave Hank a malevolent smile.  “How ‘bout now?”

 

Even Hank had to admit this one was brain-damaged beyond repair.  Hell, he could see its brain.  Ed had cracked its skull open like an egg.

 

Dan and Jack emerged with the remaining coons, their hands up.  Some looked angry and defiant, some looked terrified, and some were openly weeping, snot running down their ape-like faces.

 

“You and you,” Dan said, pointing out two of the darkies with his shotgun, “Grab the bodies.  Well, what the fuck are ya waitin’ for, nigger, another slave auction?  Yer on fuckin’ corpse detail; move it!”

 

The porch monkeys’ panic was amusing to watch; they scrambled about in terror, falling over each other in their hurry to obey their new master.  Within minutes, the four white men were leading their captive coons back uphill towards the ridge.  Dan brought up the rear, his gun pointed at the line of ape in front of him—and especially at the ones dragging their dead homies, just to make sure they didn’t lag.

 

They were near the top when the sound of a shotgun blast echoed across the valley, from somewhere high up on the other side.

 

The Aryan brothers looked at Dan.

 

“Get ‘em into the vans,” he said curtly, unlocking the rear doors of the two vehicles the coons had left, then spent a few moments peering across to the slope on the far side of the valley.

 

“See anything?” Jack asked.

 

“No,” Dan answered, “But Pete and his team must have found the other camp.  And Pete knows how to take care of himself.  Are they loaded?  Good.  You take the other van .  We’re gonna go over and see what’s going on with Pete.”

 

Having loaded everyone into the vans the niggers had so thoughtfully brought with them, Dan began the five-mile journey to the nearest crossing.

 


 

Twenty minutes later, when Dan pulled up to far side, where the third van was parked, his lieutenant had already corralled his group of niggers.  The sheriff gave no outward sign of his relief except for a slight, almost unnoticeable relaxation of his taut muscled body.  He opened the door and slid out of the van, about to ask what had happened, when he noticed that a couple of the coons were toting the corpse of one of their kin that was missing most of its head.

 

The buff young lieutenant followed the gaze of his superior officer and grinned.  “Yeah, one of ‘em tried to make a break for it.  Got the jump on one of my guys.”

 

Pete said nothing about who or made any kind of indication, but the fiery flush on Frankie’s face made it clear who the peccant nigger-killer was.  He and Mike were overseeing the loading of the third van, packing the live darkies in with corpses like cattle.  Dan and Pete ambled over to make sure everything was settled before heading out for the Poorhouse.

 

“You got all the bodies?” Dan asked, “Last thing I want is some redneck out frog-giggin’ stumbling over a dead porch monkey and making me waste time on a fake investigation.”

 

“Yeah, we got ‘em all, but these homies are fuckin’ scared as shit of dead bodies,” Pete growled, “Fuck, the one I shot panicked when he touched one and slugged—well, you get the idea.”

 

If Dan didn’t get it, it was soon openly demonstrated for him.  There were already ten living coons in the van, but Pete’s crew had rounded up a dozen.  The last two were carrying the headshot ape.

 

The youngest—he looked too young to be in college—stumbled and fell to his knees about five feet from the van.  Immediately Pete and Dan stood up straight and began moving towards the downed jigaboo; the look on their faces made the other one move double-time, dumping its dead buddy into the van before scrambling in over the corpse.  It wanted to be out of the way of whatever was about to happen.

 

It was Pete who got there first.  The teenage niglet, in boxy low-hanging short, pale Timberland boots and yellow sleeveless Lakers LeBron jersey, peered up at the hardbodied cop looming over him and snarled, “Black lives matter, motherfucker!” in an agony of defiant fear.

 

Dan was there by now.  The two men exchanged a look, and a malicious grin.  Nothing was said or needed to be said; Dan simply handed Pete his own latex-covered lead bludgeon.  Pete gripped it lightly, testing the balance, and turned back to the kneeling pickanniny.  When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

 

“Boy, I’ve taken shits that mattered more than your worthless nigger existence.”

 

With that, he swung the baton into the punk’s mouth, shattering its jaw and knocking out half its teeth.  It rose up instantly, hands clutched to its mangled, bleeding face, and Pete hit it again—in the same place.  There was much less damage to its face this time; the bones than snapped like twigs were the ones in its hands.

 

It bent forward, thick gouts of blood—and a few teeth—spewing from its mouth as it sprayed and gurgled.  Mike and Frankie found themselves having difficulty; as much as they were enjoying the show, the mutterings and weeping from their vanload of spades meant that the natives were restless and needed watching as well.  Fortunately, it didn’t last long enough for a revolt to start.

 

The agonized coon coughed up a thick gob of bloody phlegm, then tilted its head back—and that was when Pete delivered the death blow, smashing the baton horizontally across the jig’s throat, completely destroying its esophagus in one swift, devastating impact.

 

The young monkey’s eyes bulged and it fell to its knees again, its shattered fingers flopping uselessly at its crushed throat.  Its already dusky face, or what was left of it, swelled and blackened.  Then it pissed itself, acrid urine running down its smooth dark thighs.

 

“Get one or two of ‘em back out to move this one,” Dan called back to Mike and Frankie just as the baby ape pitched forward on its face and thrashed violently.

 

It was still shuddering and trembling as its terrified pack members reluctantly dragged it into the van.  They tried to avoid touching it as they climbed in; in fact, all the coons showed a distinct aversion to being anywhere near the still-convulsing corpse.

 

“Hasn’t even shit itself yet,” Mike remarked conversationally to the niggers as he locked them in with it.

 

Frankie, Hank, and Ed each climbed into one of the vans to keep and eye on monkeys.  Dan, Pete, Mike, and Jack met in the area between the vehicles to coordinate.  They’d already reviewed the maps.

 

“You’re five minutes behind me, right?” Dan said to Pete.  “And use the radio if there are any problems.”

 

“Five minutes, yessir,” Pete responded, then grinned.  “And if you’re referring to the cargo, sir—there won’t be any problems we can’t handle.”

 

Dan returned the grin.  “I know, Lieutenant.  Still keep your eyes open.”  He turned to Jack next.

 

“You’re five minutes behind him.  Need to get anything?  Any special equipment?”

 

Jack replied with a grin no less shark-like than those of the cops.  “Naw, my and my boyz, we specialize in improvisin’.  ‘Specially if there’s a lotta shit lyin’ around.”

 

“This was the old county overflow jail.  It’s falling apart, but it’s got plenty of debris and old tools that can be put to inventive use,” Dan said.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!  What are we waitin’ for?  We bagged us some coons; time to take ‘em back and gut ‘em!”

 

He scrambled eagerly into the van; it was the signal to depart.  Dan pulled out first; Pete obediently waited five minutes, then followed, with Jack trailing along the requisite five minutes after that.  Three vans, five Aryan brothers, two cops, twenty-one live niggers and at least a dozen dead ones, all heading out for a killing pit.

 

Once the dust from the vans settled, the valley was still and quiet again.  The piss-soaked terror, the bloody agony, the brutal slaughter wasn’t over—it was just being moved to a more convenient location.

One thought on “Jack’s Krew in Rigler County: The Great Coon Hunt

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