The Great Coon Hunt, part 2

The heavy thud of Dan’s boots echoed in the empty spaces of the Poorhouse.  He was striding across the central hall, glancing around at the holding cells.  The interior was dilapidated, but the old overflow jail was still patently secure.  It was dark inside, with few apertures to let in the quickly waning daylight, but the cop’s heavy metal flashlight was more than adequate for his recon walk.

Behind him was the entrance—back down a hall flanked by a guardroom on one side and a solid cinderblock wall on the other, behind which were empty rooms used for storage.  Between the two was a hallway that led to the two-story central hall, with a sliding iron door that let it be sealed off.  The center of the hall had two tables in it—actually, single-piece table/bench combos bolted to the floor.  Beyond them were three cells, each about sixty-four square feet and fronted with iron bars.  Directly above, another three identical cells opened onto a metal catwalk; it was accessed by a spiral staircase in the northeast corner.  The wall opposite the cells had three evenly spaced (and heavily barred) windows directly across from the upper cells.

Another sliding door at the far end of the hall led to the kitchen and maintenance rooms.  The sections at the front and rear were also connected by an enclosed passage that ran outside the south wall; this where the generator was located, and Dan fired it up.   After the lights flickered on throughout the building, he made sure it was fully fueled, with a backup supply.  After all, this could last for hours…   

Fuck yeah, the buff cop thought, grinning as he felt his thick cock stiffen in his jumpsuit.  If they did it right, it could last for fuckin’ hours

Entering back into the guardroom, Dan threw a set of switches embedded in the wall.  Glancing out through the thick bulletproof window that overlooked the common area, he was able to confirm that the cell doors were operating exactly as desired.

His grin became more malicious.  The rest of the boys were waiting in the parking lot with the vans in fully-erect eagerness—he needed to let them know it was time to start some ape herding.

Jack kicked impatiently, his tall green Doc Martens scuffing at the crumbling asphalt.  A few minutes ago, the exterior floodlights had snapped on.  That meant it was almost time to start the fun and the racist killer was restless to begin the slaughter.  And the niggers were starting to get antsy, too—it wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining if they all had to be gunned down to avoid an uprising.  Then the door banged open and Dan came striding out.  Inadvertently, the Aryan thug mirrored the Sheriff’s shark-like grin. 

 “Go ahead and unload ‘em,” Dan called out.  “It’s ready.”

Immediately, showing their superior discipline, Jack’s crew climbed out of the vans, along with Lieutenant Pete.  Pete and Mike each faced a van, listening to Dan while they kept their weapons trained on the captive horde. 

“Awright, this is how it’s gonna go down,” the muscular cop said authoritatively, handing out shotguns to those who didn’t have a rifle, “We’re gonna be taking the fuckers in, one man to three monkeys.  Ed, Hank, and Mike, y’all take the three upstairs cells—Jack, you and Pete and Frankie take the downstairs three.” 

He paused and smirked.  “My three ain’t goin’ into cells.  Let’s just call them the pre-game show.” 

The boys chuckled malignly as they marched the coons towards the massive steel entrance door.  Just as he was about to enter, Jack paused.  “Hey, sheriff,” he called out, “I gotta question—do apes wear clothes?”

Dan’s grin curled into a sneer.  “No, they don’t,” he said, “Strip ‘em before you put lock ‘em up.”

The niggers were staring at each other, their eyes wide with fear.  They weren’t hood rats, after all; they were fraternity members at a college.  Each one had had a relatively comfortable middle-class upbringing.  This mix of extreme racial hatred, erotic brutality, and toxic masculinity was so far beyond anything they’d experienced that it induced a kind of vapor lock in their minds. 

Dan and Pete were more used to corralling things—men and beasts—so it was clear to them that the prisoners were on the verge of panic; they needed to be locked into the cells before that happened, or it’d be a bitch to control them.  Even Jack’s crew, without having had crowd-control training, could sense the unrest bubbling just under the surface.

For all of them, it translated into a sense of excitement.  Jack’s eager shaft was already swelling into a thick and very obvious ridge running down his thigh.  Everyone, to a man, was visibly erect at the thought of the upcoming violence.  Even Dan’s black jumpsuit was tented at the groin as he anticipated guiding Pete and maybe some of the others through some hardcore maiming and kill moves.

After all, what better to practice on than a herd of destructive howler monkeys? Hell, he was doing the community a favor, getting rid of the trash that was trying to invade the county like a plague of locusts.

He was just exterminating some pests.

The coons started murmuring among themselves as the got inside.  “Shaddap!” Mike barked at one in his custody, smacking it in the head with the butt of his rifle.  That sufficed to quell the muttering, but they all knew it wouldn’t last long. 

“Get ‘em to their cells,” Dan said evenly.  “Cuff two to the bars or the handrail; keep the other covered while it strips.”  He paused, his shark-like grin returning.  “And remember, they’re probably too stupid to recognize your natural authority as a white man.  If one resists, bash it in the head and cut the clothes off.”  He said it loud enough for all the niggers to hear.

As Mike led his captives up the spiral staircase, his black engineer boots thudded heavily on the metal steps; the sound was soon multiplied by the Doc Martens sported by Hank and Ed.  Dan’s voice came rising above the noise, “Meet me back here when you’re done; we need to do a little inventory.”

After that, the abandoned jail echoed with barked commands that would have sounded familiar to any plantation owner used to keeping an iron control over his slaves; even the grunting of the coons as they unwillingly removed their clothing would have had the accustomed ring of niggers toiling at their labor.  It took more than twenty minutes for the boys to rendezvous back in the central hall.

“Let’s go see what we’ve got in the shop,” Dan said.  “I walked through it, but I didn’t make time to take stock.  I have no doubt you boys can improvise; let’s see you get…creative.

The shop provided several things of interest.  Pete located several rolls of barbed wire, used to maintain the perimeter fence; Ed and Frankie pounced on these while Hank located some four-foot two-by-fours and a toolbox.  The dragged these out into the central hall and set up a miniature assembly line on one of the tables.  Using work gloves and wire clippers from the toolbox, Frankie spooled out three-foot lengths of the wire and cut them off, handing them to Ed and Hank.  The latter two, with gloves and items from the toolbox, would hammer a nail into the wood, wrap the wire around it as an anchor, then wind the wire around the two-by-four before driving in another nail to anchor the other end of the wire.

They worked almost as well as a baseball bat would’ve.

Mike and dug around among the chemicals, locating an industrial drain cleaner with an acidic base; he took that out as well, along with some zip-ties.  But it was Dan who hauled out the item that was to start the festivities. The boys had just completed production of what they were calling Koon Klubs; everyone looked up at what Dan was wheeling into the room.

It was a professional plumber’s snake, run by a fourteen-horsepower electric motor.  Inmates flush all kinda shit down prison toilets; it had been purchased for its ability to chew right through the most stubborn blockages.

“Niiice,” Ed commented as Hank whistled, impressed.  “What’s that for?” Jack asked, his throbbing groin hinting that he had his own suggestions.

“You’ll see,” the Sheriff chuckled, and tossed Pete his keys.  He nodded at the niggers cuffed to the staircase.  “The one to the left,” he said to his lieutenant.  Unhesitatingly, the young cop retrieved the captive, the crotch of his tight jeans straining painfully under pressure from his excited erection.

“See, boys,” Dan announced in an echoing voice, “We’re gonna start with this one.”  He was speaking as much to the prisoners as to their guards.  “Why this one?  It looks like any other worthless criminal ape, right?  But if you look closer, you can see it isn’t just another uppity jigaboo that needs to learn its place the hard way—it’s a faggot, too.”

Here the look on his face became one of sadistic glee.  “I don’t tolerate jungle bunnies in my county, and I don’t tolerate homos.  Only thing worse than either is something that’s both, and that’s what we’ve got here.” 

Jack’s crew exchanged smirks while Pete almost writhed in anticipation.  The nigger gibbered in terror, too scared to deny the accusation.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway…

“We need to make an example of it.  If we don’t stomp out this fucking nigger infestation here and now, we’ll be dealing it for years, so we need to do something that even the dumbest coon can understand.  C’mon, Pete, give me a hand.  You boys get it face down on the table.”

The latter was easier said than done.  The nigger was a young, wiry buck.  It was on the college basketball team—it had tried for football but wasn’t quite built enough—and while it didn’t have the talent for stardom, it was stronger than it looked.

Especially when it panicked, which it did immediately.  Eventually, it took all of Jack’s crew to hold it down.  Mike and Ed each had an ankle, Frankie and Hank a wrist, and Jack had his arm clamped around its nappy head, as much to keep it quiet as to pin it down.  After all, it was screams of agony he wanted to hear, not the bleating of frightened pigs.

Pete plugged the snake in and fired it up.  “You yard apes watching?” Dan called out over the sputtering motor, “This is some real Rigler County hospitality, right here.  We’re really rollin’ out the Welcome Wagon for you spades!”

Then he grabbed the handle on the snake and advanced, holding the sharp whirling prongs out in front of him.  “Mike, Ed, pull the legs apart more.  Faggots always spread their legs so they can get something long and hard shoved up their asses, right?  Hell, yeah!  Awright, you fuckin’ nigger pervert, here’s the best assfuck you’re even gonna get!”

With a twisted sneer of hate and pleasure, the cop rammed the plumber’s snake into the coon’s ass.  As the metal claws tore their way through its sphincter, it managed to tear its head free of Jack’s grasp.  Instantly, its shrill, inhuman shrieks were reverberating from every corner if the large room.

The sound pounded its way into the other nigger cunts; it was like someone had lit a fuse.  Blind panic spread like wildfire, but as loud as the monkeys howled out their terror, they couldn’t down out the screaming of the ape that was having its guts chewed up from the inside.

Pete helped Dan control the line, keeping is steady as blood gushed from the nigger’s gutted asshole.   At some point, as the head of snake ground its prostate into dog food, it shot an involuntary wad onto the table, but no one noticed, not even itself.  It did notice Jack’s cock, though; since he was the only one with his hands free, he’d hauled out his massive shaft and was slapping the nigger in the face with it.

“Fuck yeah!” he crowed, “That’s some real white power, ya fuckin’ monkey!  Ya feelin’ it now, boy, yeah?”

Dan shoved, his thick biceps swelling the sleeves of his jumpsuit as they bulged.  He’d churned his way up through the coon’s intestine and was getting into the visceral organs, making paste out of the ape’s liver.  It shuddered violently, still screaming but slowly becoming quieter as blood loss and shock from major organ trauma began to take effect.

Even the other jigaboos were becoming quieter.  They weren’t calmer, but their screaming was subsiding into an inarticulate sobbing.  The bleating of the dying buck was still the loudest thing in the room, until Jack’s taunts took over.

“Yeah, ya worthless spade, feel the burn!  Real white fuckin’ power burning inside ya—don’t it feel great?”  He bent down and grabbed a handful of its greasy, curly hair, jerking its head up so he could look into its big black eyes, mute and bewildered as a spaniel’s.

“Look at me as you die,” the buff Aryan youth hissed, his hatred and bloodlust radiating from his eyes.  Just at that moment, Dan gave a final, mighty shove to the snake and it tore its way up into the nigger’s lungs.  It stared deeply and frantically into Jack’s eyes, gurgled, and blood burst from its mouth, flowing over its thick lips in a steady stream.  Its eyes rolled back into its head.  Jack let it go and its head fell limply to the table while its body thrashed.

Pete switched the motor on the snake off while the other boys let go of the body.  Still in its death throes, it slithered off the table, its dark skin slick with a cold sweat forced out of it by mortal agony.  On the floor, it flopped like an asphyxiating fish, with the snake still embedded deep in the corpse.

“We need a cleaning detail,” Dan said.  Pete, intelligent and obedient, was immediately on his way to collect the remaining two niggers cuffed to the staircase.  Herding them back, he had them pick up the dead one, one on each arm, and pull it while he and Dan grabbed the plumber’s snake.  The white men didn’t have problems touching the tool, but they had no intentions of fouling their hands with dead monkeys.

The snake came out of the dead jigaboo with a disgusting slurping sound, accompanied by a brief flow of blood and some unidentifiable organ tissue.  Then under the supervision of Pete and his shotgun, the two live coons dragged their companion out and loaded what was left of it into the back of one of the vans.

When they got back, it was clear that one of them had reached a breaking point.  A big, muscular buck, it had been gibbering and muttering to itself the entire time while the one chained to it had made a few feeble attempts to calm it.  Pete locked the other one up first; just as he turned to it, it snapped and went into hysterics.

It screamed and hollered, shouting imprecations, and began to back away.  Pete swung at it with the butt of his shotgun, but the impact made little impression on the nigger’s thick hide. 

“Goddam it,” Dan growled, “Show that one what happens to niggers that resist arrest.”

Pete complied eagerly, planting the sole of his laced TideWe hunting boot so deeply into the yard ape’s gut the ebon skin broke out in an even darker bruise that matched Pete’s tread perfectly.  Wheezing, the jungle bunny doubled over and collapsed, clutching its belly.

Pete had been conditioned well; Dan’s pride in him was justified.  Standing over the hacking, helpless spade, the young cop didn’t feel the slightest shred of mercy; what he felt was a combination of disgust at the subhuman pestilence writhing in front of him like an insect, and the righteousness, the almost orgasmic joy, not just of terminating it, but of forcing it to understand why it had to be terminated.

But it took a lot of violence and suffering to make the stupid monkey understand why it needed to die.  As the coon shuddered on the concreted floor, Pete lifted his lace-up hunting boot and stomped it in the chest.  And then again, this time rewarded with an erotic cracking sound and an agonized bleat as one of the nigger’s ribs was broken.  And that was all it took.

In a flash, a pair of black combat boots had joined in as Frankie decided he needed to be part of the fun.  Then Jack’s green Doc Martens, followed by Hank and Ed’s oxbloods and Mike’s engineer boots.

Mike concentrated on the nigger’s hands, the heels of his black leather boots remorselessly grinding the spade’s metacarpals and phalanges into powder, while Jack’s DMs pounded its scrotum, mangling the thick nigger cock and crushing its balls with a squelching noise like overripe grapes.  Ed, Hank and Frankie continued working on its torso, breaking its ribs and rupturing its internal organs; Frankie got a particular thrill as he felt the jigaboo’s sternum crack under his combat boot.  Pete, in the meantime, had transferred his attentions to its face; he was busy flattening its nose and knocking the teeth down its throat.

Watching the coon die under their relentlessly pounding boots caused a unanimous sense of power to be passed among the young men; even Dan, who was watching the orgy of bloodlust with approval, could feel it.  Instantly, Jack’s hard dick was joined in the open air by others.  As the nigger shuddered and gagged on its own blood, it could somehow still feel the searing drops of white boy precum on its black skin.

Then the boys got synchronized.  It wasn’t immediate, but within five seconds, they’d all picked up on the rhythm, helped by the chant started by the Aryans.  Simultaneously, their boots rose and fell on the unlucky spade, with devastating effect.





At the end of two minutes, the nigger was not just dead but damn near flattened, a bloody mass of mangled flesh and shattered bones.  As the boys backed away, grinning, Dan approached.  The monkey meat made one last, reflexive movement, a kind of shuddering gasp, and Dan’s thick-soled utility boot came down on its skull, cracking it like an eggshell.

Then he turned to the boys, eyeing the jutting, erect evidence of their righteous bloodlust with a grin.  “Pete, get that last one there to clean this mess up.  Then bring it back here.  It looks thirsty—I bet it’d like a little drink.”

Chuckling maliciously, he stepped to the side to allow his lieutenant to unlock the remaining nigger and intimidate it into scraping up the remains of its companion and take them out to the van.  When it returned, he grabbed it by its curly black hair and dragged it to a support post directly opposite the cells, making sure that the other coons could see it clearly, even those on the upper tier.

“Well, boys,” he said sneeringly, his masculine bass voice echoing in the large concrete chamber, “I think this one here’s been workin’ like a slave, yeah?  And every good slave needs a little TLC so it can keep pickin’ cotton and boilin’ sugar.  Food and water, yeah, and even some medicine.  Now, before this one gets its water, I think it needs some medicine.  Looks a little sickly to me—what do y’all think?”

The room was instantly full of exuberant jeers and catcalls.  “Think the ape needs a good cleanin’ out like the first one got!” came from the crowd of sexually excited young men—it might have been Jack.  “Yeah!” yelled Mike, “Fucker needs a good high-power enema!”  The hardbodied killers laughed raucously.

“Nah, Dan replied, “That one bent one of the blades.  Must’ve hit a bone on the inside, and I’m not going to ruin state equipment on a worthless jigaboo.  Pete, here, those cuffs are too loose on it—replace ‘em with one of those zip-ties.  Hank, bring over that bottle from the table.  Ed, you’re closest to the shop.  I saw a funnel sitting on one of the shelves on the left.  We’re going to need it.”

By this time, Pete had clipped the cuffs to his utility after replacing them with a zip-tie cinched so tightly that the nigger’s hands were already turning white from blood loss.  Hand handed the gallon jug of drain cleaner just as Ed returned with an eager grin, a hard cock, and a large funnel of green plastic in his hands.

“I’m going to need someone to hold its head,” Dan said.  Pete had stepped away, so Ed was there first, his wifebeater plastered to his hard, firm torso with sweat, displaying his muscular body as a literal personification of the white power to which he was so devoted.

“Listen up, you delinquent porch monkeys!” Dan barked to the captives, “You fuckin’ niggers have no respect for authority.  When a white man tells you jump, you goddam well better say, ‘Yes, massa, how high, sir?’  And when a white man tells you have to take your medicine, you drink it down without any lip, you got me?”

Not waiting for a reply he knew would never come anyway, he turned back with a snort of disgust.  Facing the bound buck, he said, “Lookin’ a bit constipated there, boy.”  He hefted the bottle of drain cleaner with a wide, evil grin.  “I think you need something to clean the shit out of your nigger ass.  Open wide, cunt, your master has something to fix you up good.”

The coon began screaming in fear, its eyes wide and huge, the size of dinner plates.  They rolled comically as Dan approached.  Suddenly there was an acrid stench as the nignog pissed itself.

“Filthy motherfucker,” Pete snarled at it from the side, “Even a fuckin’ animal doesn’t piss in its den.”

“Told you it wouldn’t take its medicine,” Dan muttered contemptuously.  “Get its mouth open, Ed.  Hurt it if you have to.”

Ed had to, of course.  He had to.  His wifebeater revealed the glory of the powerful delt, pec, and bicep muscles of his right arm as he swung it again and again, each blow connecting to the nigger’s face with a thick, meaty impact.  Five powerful blows left it with lips even thicker than usual and most of its front teeth scattered like mints across the floor.

“Fuck yeah,” Dan grunted, stepping in front of his captive.  He stared the coon straight in the eyes; it was clearly reluctant to meet his gaze but was just as clearly unable to resist the white man’s steely glare.

“You know you deserve this,” the sheriff commented evenly.  “Niggers breed filth and crime.  You and all your littermates here are a stain that I intend to eradicate from my county.”  He held up the funnel and bottle of drain cleaner.  “Of course, it’d be faster and more efficient to just line all of you up against the wall and blow your monkey brains out—but where would the fun in that be?  Catch hold of its head, Ed; it’s gonna fight.”

Standing behind it, the buff Aryan wrapped one hand around the jigaboo’s forehead, pulling it back as he placed the other under its jaw, clutching the joint of the mandible with such brutal force that the screaming coon’s mouth was forced open despite its best effort to keep it closed.

“Listen to it sing!” Jack called out gleefully as the nigger continued to wail.  “Fuck yeah, man,” Mike chuckled, that’s the best noise a nigger can make!”

Dan’s grin became icy.  “You haven’t heard anything yet, my brother,” he smirked, “Listen to this shit.”

Jamming the funnel down the squealing ape’s throat, he poured a hefty amount of the drain cleaner into it.  Instantly, the cunt began to kick and thrash—a bad move on its part, since it partially opened its airway at the same time.  As a result, it aspirated as large of an amount of the caustic solution as it swallowed.

Dan and Ed both jumped back as it began to spew foam like a fire extinguisher.  Well, not entirely like a fire extinguisher.  Fire extinguisher foam tended not to be pink and flecked with sloughed-off lung tissue and esophageal lining.  The spade thrashed, its bare feet skidding on the concrete floor and its biceps swelling as it strained futilely against the zip ties that kept its hands bound behind it.

The other niggers had gone silent; the grotesque gurgling could easily be heard, despite not being as loud as the screaming.  The dying coon couldn’t scream anymore; its vocal cords had already been eaten away.  Even its tongue was being stripped, layer of tissue by layer.  It fell to its knees and turned its dark, misery-filled eyes up to its tormentors.  Dan stepped forward and sneered down at it.

“I know it hurts, you yard ape.  White power is all about putting niggers in pain.  Die, you worthless sack of shit.”

The last thing the coon saw was the tread of Dan’s tactical boot as the white stud raised his foot and stomped the kneeling jigaboo in the face.  It wouldn’t have been a fatal blow by itself, but the ape had suffered too much internal damage.  It retched up another pint of bloody foam and sank, gagging and shuddering to the floor—a dead pile of monkey meat.

By now the boys were so hard they were aching.  It was clear they wanted to have some hand-on fun themselves, and Dan knew the benefits of keeping up troop morale. 

“C’mon over here, men.  You all want to have some fun, right?  This will take a little coordination, but I have an idea to give each one of you your own personal nigger piñata.”

He got their attention with that.  Soon they were back at their assembly line, with Frankie, Hank, and Mike using gloves and wire clippers to cut differing lengths of barbed wire—and fashion nooses out of them.  As they finished, Jack and Pete took them up the stairs and fastened them securely to the strong upper railing of the walkway.  Within minutes, four nooses dangled to the lower floor, and Jack and Pete each held another in their hands, not needing to drop them.  And as soon as Hank joined them upstairs, he hauled the fourth one up.

Dan had gathered the Koon Klubs and handed them out, three to the downstairs group of Frankie, Mike, and Ed.  As he distributed the remaining three upstairs, he reminded them “One from each cell.  You men got the right nooses?”  They checked their lengths and confirmed, and the net elimination round began.

The brothers downstairs each entered their respective cells and dragged out the biggest, most muscular buck in it.  The men upstairs waited until the coons were dragged up the staircase, gibbering in terror like animals, then began to help.

Dan hadn’t just planned the proceedings, he’d damn near choregraphed them.  That included selecting the strongest niggers out of each cell—as he explained it, not only would they dangle a nice long time before finally dying, but it was good to cull the herd of those animals most likely to cause a problem.

The reason for the differing lengths of wire was clear, too—the spades on the longer ones would be kicking and dangling in full view of the lower cells, while the shorter one only had a two-foot drop so that the jigs in the upper cells could still see their heads and most of their torsos as they died.

And in no case was the drop long enough to snap an ape’s neck.  Having one of the cunts die that quickly would have been no fun at all.  They could have mutilated the corpse in front of the other ones, of course—but inflicting pain was the whole point.  Putting niggers in agony was what got the brothers off.

The brothers placed the nooses over the niggers’ heads, then made them climb the rail.  If the coons knew what was going to happen, the made no sign of it.  They had literally been scared into submission as the mental trauma their middle-class psyches had endured practically shattered under the shock.

The bothers pushed and instantly three coons were dancing in the air, their fingers frantically tearing at the barbed wire sunk deep into the tender flesh of their throats.  In less than twenty seconds, they were joined by their buddies from the upper cells.  Snatching up their Koon Klubs, Frankie, Mike, and Ed flew down the steps.

Dan stood to the side, fondling his massive jutting cock as the games began.

“Hey, Frankie, betcha can’t his that one’s scrote!” Mike challenged, pointing at the leftmost coon. 

“C’mon,” Frankie replied, “First one to tear its balls off gets a case of beer from the loser!”  With that, they both stepped in, swinging their barbed-wire-wrapped Klubs.  It wasn’t an easy target; the choking porch monkey was kicking frenetically.  Mike and Frankie each managed to land a dozen blows, tearing open its thighs and belly, without hitting its dangling sack.  It rotated as it hung, so they even tried getting to it from behind, scoring the nigger’s smooth firm ass like a plowed field.  Suffering was written all over its pitch-black, swollen face, but it wasn’t just from Frankie and Mike’s target practice.

Ed, it turned out, was having better luck at his target practice on the next nigger over.  “Dude, y’all gotta aim somewhere else first!” he called out to the other two, grinning.  “Let the fuckin’ coon know the yer the boss!”  And with a mighty swing, he slammed his Klub into the monkey’s knee, shattering it and ripping the skin so badly that fragments of the kneecap came out.  The yard ape jerked and bucked in mid-air, its arms clawing viciously at anything within reach.

The first thing within reach, it turned out, was the spade Frankie and Mike were working on.  Soon, both coons were digging at each other with a mindless ferocity born of pain and terror.  As they fought, all three brothers turned their attention to the third one, who so far was merely enduring the relatively mild torture of being hung to death with barbed wire.

Upstairs, Jack had taken an early lead.  “Watch this shit, dudes,” he grinned and swung his Klub down over the railing.  He immediately hit a nigger in the face.  “Landed me a big one!” he joked, jerking the Klub up like a fishing rod, and with much the same effect.  The barbed wire had caught in the coon’s face; Jack’s jerk ripped its left cheek open and reduced the left eye to a bleeding socket of goo. 

“See, that’s how ya do it,” the Aryan smirked ghoulishly as he showed them that the nigger’s eyelid had been torn off and was still stuck to a projection of the wire.

Pete wasn’t slow to follow his example.  Lunging over the railing, the hardbodied young lieutenant landed his Klub in a coon’s throat, just above the spot where the wire noose was digging into its neck.  In blind panic and agony, the jigaboo clutched frantically at the weapon. 

It would have taken a skilled observer to determine whether Pete’s ferocious grin was bigger than his oozing cock when the young cop yanked the Klub back up, shedding the spade’s hands like a food processor.  The dying yard ape was unable to scream, but the way it wheezed and thrashed in midair elicited cruel laughter from its tormentors.

“Does it hurt, ya dumbass nigger?” Hank yelled down at it, his face and his pulsating dick both red with raging bloodlust.   “Only way to make the stupid monkeys learn!” Mike called up from below as he landed his Klub in its smooth flat belly.  The black-clad Aryan stud threw his weight onto it, dragging it downward with such brutal force that the barbs buried in the coon’s stomach tore its skin in long lines, damn near disemboweling it.  The nignog’s air dance became momentarily livelier as it suffered pain beyond its admittedly dim imagination; thirty seconds later, it convulsed energetically, then a gush of monkey cum erupted from its dangling dick.  Shortly thereafter its movements slowed and all that was left was a twitching pile of apemeat.

It died without ever seeing the fury of hate and lust its orgasm had triggered.

It was as if a switch had been tripped.  There air was already full of a toxic—and intoxicating—mix of testosterone, racial hatred, and mansweat, but the sight of semen—even if it was just nigger seed—hit the boys with the same effect as a bucket of chum on a school of sharks. 

Despite being the best-trained and most disciplined one of the six, it hit Pete first.  “Die, you motherfucking nigger scum!” he screamed, swing his club downwards and caving in a coon’s face.  As he and the others ran down the stairs to get better angles for beating, Frankie took up the war cry.

“White power!  White power!  White fuckin’ power, bitches!” he screamed, swinging his Klub frenziedly without aim.  Interestingly, he was more accurate that he’d been before; his first blow caught the ballsack of the first darky he’d been practicing with.  With a single jerk, the muscled young skinhead tore the nigger’s scrotum open.  Unlike its now-dead littermate hanging next to it, it couldn’t cum.  But Frankie could, and did—explosively, his hot wad splashing across the boots of those standing near him.

In the melee that followed, even Sheriff Dan joined in, picking up a Klub and beating at the dying niggers like piñatas.  His own cock, long, thick, and wreathed in pulsing veins, was on the verge of exploding when Jack began chanting.  It was the same as when they’d stomped the coon earlier; the sheer force of their mantra, repeated rhythmically, giving a timing and ferocity to their swinging Klubs.





With each impact, nigger flesh was torn and shredded and thrashing nigger bodies kicked and flailed in mortal agony.  Suddenly, one of the coons on the upper tier began to shoot its deathload.  None of the boys commented or even seemed to notice it, but now they began to unload as well, their rage and hormones going into overdrive.

“WHITE!” [WHAM] (spurt)

“POWER!” [WHAM] (spurt)

“WHITE!” [WHAM] (spurt)

“POWER!” [WHAM] (spurt)

The last thing the dying coons heard was the jeering chant of their killers; the last thing the felt, aside from the horrific agony of the tortures inflicted on them, was the searing splashes of white power made truly manifest—the hot potent manseed of the powerful Caucasian males, aroused beyond control at the dominance they were asserting over their inferiors.

It went on for a while.  The remaining monkeys still locked in their cells were screaming in mindless terror, especially those on the lower level, who had the best view of what was happening.  After about a half hour or so, though, things began to calm down.  The boys had stopped swinging and spewing, the shrieking of the caged apes had subsided to abject sobbing, and the ones hanging from the railing had been reduced to dangling pieces of quivering shredded meat whose resemblance to any human species was questionable.  Pools of blood and semen had spread across the floor.

Heaving and sweating, Dan paused to catch his breath.  Glancing around, he noticed that the others were as winded as he was.  “I think we could use a break,” he announced.  “After all, we aren’t even halfway through with the extermination.  Pete, you still got those coolers in your van?”

“Sure do,” the buff lieutenant replied.

“Go ahead and bring ‘em in.  Get someone to help.”

Pete corralled Mike and Frankie; within three minutes, they had returned, each carrying a pair of coolers.  Once they’d been set on one of the tables, Dan opened the closest and started pulling cans of beer out of the ice.

“Figured we might need this,” he grinned as he began to distribute them.  “This’ll get your blood—and your peckers—back up.  Drink up, boys, we’ve got work to do—and I’ve got an idea on how to do it.”

Guffawing with malignant glee, the muscular young coonkillers began to down their beers.  They were almost more excited to hear Dan’s plan than to get back to the slaughter itself.  After all, as even Jack had to admit, the dude had ideas.

5 thoughts on “The Great Coon Hunt, part 2

  1. JWC

    At last! Been waiting for this one, eagerly. That there are chapters still to follow is more than I could have hoped. I love the mayhem and carnage the Aryans are indulging, with countless niggers at their disposal. Interesting to see Alpha Dan take charge, and even top dog Jack back off and let him. No challenge to that Silverback. As always, it is Pete that gets me the hardest. I love this man, and the pleasure he takes in his new found passion, snuffing faggots and coons. Speaking of which: the boys have shown a willingness to sink their thick plugs into fag pussy, but have so far refrained from fucking any jigs. Without any white queers or even spics to rape, I wonder if Jack and his Nazi buddies will finally fuck some of that fine nigger snuff meat. I hope so! Pussy is pussy, after all, even if it is the backside of a monkey.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. BasqueMan

      JWC — I like how you analyse this very entertaining story full of expectation, excitement, violence and lust to the extreme. The events are very well described, and the detailed description of the action makes this a vivid, and quasi-realistic story.


  2. The author has again demonstrated his authority over a story, and his narrative is as real as it gets. M3M has the ability to bring the quick 1×1 snuff with total aplomb we have all seen – but again here, he is exercising his writing and giving us a saga. The details of the scene alone are amazing and thoughtful, but the dialogue amongst the crew, the sadistic ideas from Dan and the ever subtle but steady evolution of Pete from wide eyed rookie to seasoned slaughterlord – are all examples of the superior writing we are enjoying. Thank you M3M!!

    Liked by 1 person

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