It was getting dark and Ed was getting worried.  He knew he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere—goddam GPS piece of shit—but had ended up in a dead space for the last forty minutes, unable to determine exactly where he was.

Earlier that day, he’d ended his relationship with Jack’s Krew; it has been an epic argument that had only been restrained from devolving into physical violence because it had happened in the parking lot of a fast-food place on the access road of a major highway.  They all knew better than to get ugly in public; that drew cops and too much scrutiny.

Especially since they still hadn’t washed all the nigger blood off their clothes.

The Krew had been heading back north after leaving Rigler County when their caravan pulled over for food.  Frankie and Hank were riding in Jack’s truck—the Harleys he and Ed had ridden during the coon kill had been rentals arranged privately by Dan. Ed was alone because Mike had stayed behind—fuckin’ quitter.  He’d been offered a job as a deputy down there by the sheriff down there.  The others had been kinda jealous, but not Ed.  Last thing he wanted was someone bossing him around like that.

In fact, that was what had led to the final break.  For some time, Ed had been nursing a grudging resentment against Jack.  After all, as the eldest, Ed considered himself to be the most experienced and most capable member of the Krew.  Mere seniority should have dictated that he be leader.  He’d managed to keep his ill-will under control for a while, but when Jack rejected his suggestion for an off-highway shortcut, it proved to be the final straw.

The words had been hot and quick—so quick that Ed didn’t even remember them now—but the upshot still burned in his memory.  Jack had told him that if he walked away, he was done.  As far as the Krew was concerned, he was dead.

What was worse, the other ungrateful scumbags had backed Jack up.

Snarling vicious curses at them, Ed climbed back into his car—a 2010 Camaro he’d bought used.  The vehicle was smokin’ hot in appearance, but mechanically—well, it would be best just to say that Ed didn’t have the kind of income that allowed him to maintain an aging sports car.  Still, it worked well enough for him to lay some rubber to express his contempt as he roared out of the parking lot.  Making a left at the next intersection, he proceeded down a state highway out of town.

The highway, though it had been a well-lit four-lane road within the city limits, soon dwindled into a narrow, snaky country road with confusing turns and ill-defined crossings; it was at this point that the GPS gave out.  Certain that he was heading in the wrong direction, Ed made a right turn onto a county road.  From then on, he was hopelessly lost.

It was already getting dark when he reached the outskirts of a small town and his GPS sprang back to life.  He didn’t recognize the name of the burg he was in, but he could see he’d come miles out of his way.

Well, shit.  He’d lost hours and was running low on gas—and he didn’t have enough to fill his tank.  That was ok; he knew he could handle that if he just found a gas station.  And sure enough, there was one up ahead on the main drag, to the right.  He pulled in and up under the well-lit canopy, parking at the pump furthest from the mini-mart attached to the station. 

Shutting off his ignition, he headed for the cashier inside, his knee-high oxblood Doc Martens thumping on the pavement.  As he forced the door of the convenience store open with an abruptness that drew the attention of the sole cashier on duty, the arrogant young Aryan—he’d just turned twenty-eight last month—was steadfastly ignoring the subconscious realization that Jack had been right about his shortcut.

Still, fuck Jack anyway.  Ed knew he was right about one thing—he shoulda been leader of the Krew.  So, yeah, fuck Jack.  And fuck the rest of the Krew.

“Five bucks on pump eight,” the buzzcut skinhead snarled as he slammed an Abe down on the counter.  The clerk, a young black woman, scrutinized him carefully.  The muscular white dude in the khaki wifebeater and Diesel jeans triggered all kinda of red flags for her.

“Only five?” she asked dubiously.

Ed couldn’t contain his racist rage.  “Ya fuckin’ deaf, ya goddam nigger?” he barked, “I said five fuckin’ bucks!”

The clerk, her face now ashen gray, took the cash and rung up the change as Ed stormed out. 

Two minutes later, Officer Bubba come out of the bathroom.

He was just off his shift at the police department.  It was part of his routine to stop off here, get a cup of coffee, and chat with the clerk—who was a distant relation on his mother’s side and never charged him for the coffee.  He was always considerate enough to park his squad car off to the side of the building so as not to take up any of the customer parking spaces.  Seeing the girl was in tears at this point, he asked what was going on.

As she recounted her experience with Ed to the aggressive killer cop, the Aryan punk was outside filling his tank.  As he’d hoped, his verbal abuse had so rattled the cashier that she’d forgotten to cut off the pump.  After he topped it off, he jumped into his car and peeled out of the lot.

And hot on his heels was Bubba.  Already enraged by experience his cousin had gone though, his anger was only intensified by the knowledge that the scumbag white fucker had ripped the place off.  Ed had only just managed to reach the road out of town again when he saw the blue-and-reds flashing in the rearview mirror.

And just as he tried to accelerate and outrun the popo, his car gave a sudden lurch and stalled.  It drifted to a stop on the soft shoulder of the road.

Well, fuck.  There was no goddam fuckin’ way Ed was gonna let himself be brought in by some worthless pig to rot in some podunk little jail.  As long as he could act quick enough to prevent the cop from reaching his gun, the skinhead was sure he could take the local fuck.

It wasn’t the first of the many mistakes he’d made that day, but it would turn out to be the most fateful.  Despite his rage, Bubba was—so far—still inclined to treat it as a mere police matter.  What happened in the next eight minutes changed all that.

Ed leaped out of his car, his hands in the air and his 9 mm tucked into the waist of his skin-tight jeans at the rear; he could just barely feel the barrel against the crack of his ass.

He was blinded by the glare of the headlights of the car behind him, although he could still see the blue and red flashers overhead.  He was waiting to be ordered back into his car, which would give him a chance to smoothly whip out his pistol; he had no way of knowing that the town’s police budget didn’t run to such frills as a PA system for its patrol cars.

After all, violent crime just didn’t happen here.  There was the occasional disappearance of a disreputable youth, but that was only to be expected…

Then, a huge anthropoid form slowly took shape, becoming increasingly silhouetted as it grew nearer.  Ed still couldn’t make out any specific details of the man until he barked out, “Hold it right there, boy!”

It was another fuckin’ nigger; the town must be crawling with ‘em like cockroaches.  So, this one thought it was gonna get its black dick off on kicking around and trying to arrest a white man?  Aw, hell fuckin’ no.

Ed’s hard, handsome face curled into a faint sneer.  His own cock was swelling in anticipation.  “Sure thing, officer,” he drawled, trying—not very successfully—to keep the contemptuous sarcasm out of his voice, “I wasn’t doin’ nothin, I swear—”

“Shaddup, punk,” Bubba barked, so close enough that Ed could clearly make him out.  For a moment, the skinhead’s heart quailed; aside from standing a good seven inches taller, the cop was more than twice his weight and all of it was muscle.  The light was gleaming off his head, shaved even more smoothly than Ed’s own.

Then his Aryan cockiness sprang back with full force.  Deep in his heart, he knew that a straight white man was better than an overgrown ape any day of the week.  If he couldn’t take this bulked-out monkey then he deserved whatever he got.

Bubba recognized the smirk on the punk’s face; he’d seen it often enough.  Another racist douchebag who wanted to make some trouble.  The cop was tired; he needed to get home and take a bath—it had been a hot day and the cruiser’s AC had been acting up.  And now the piece of skinhead shit wanted trouble.

Well, it had found it.

Bubba knew what was coming even before Ed sprang at him; the white boy never had a chance.  Swinging out with his left hand, he whipped his right hand around behind and grabbed the gun.  Bubba easily avoided the clumsy attempt at a jab and clutched Ed’s wrist.  For a brief moment, the two men were locked together in a grunting embrace of arm-wrestling.  But Ed, of course, couldn’t hold up his end. The soles of his oxblood DMs began to slip backwards on the gravel of the soft roadside shoulder, even as Bubba’s Gore-Tex utility boots seemed to gain traction.

The white boy gave it a good try.  He desperately tried to blow the nigger cop’s head off, managing to fire two shots uselessly into the air when his right wrist fractured, rendering that hand useless.  His hand nervelessly dropped the weapon, at which point Bubba let go and allow him to sink to his knees, staring dumbly at his maimed arm.

The nigger broke his wrist.  The goddam nigger broke his FUCKIN’ WRIST!!!

Still on his knees in the gravel, Ed looked up at Bubba, his pale face a shifting, protean mass of emotion in which shock, anger, and pain predominated.  “You cocksucking nigger,” Ed said in a voice that bordered on amazement, “You can’t do that to me, you goddam jigaboo!”  He slowly managed to rise to his knees, his khaki wifebeater tightly glued to his broad pecs by the cold sweat forced out of him by sheer physical distress.  But Bubba had vanished into the glare of his own headlights again; all that could be heard of him was the crunching of his boots in the gravel.  “You can’t do this to ME, ya mothfuckin’ MONKEY!!!” he screamed.

And then the sound of Bubba’s boots became much louder and swifter. 

The impact of the tow-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of the cop’s body propelled in a flying kick didn’t just knock Ed off his feet.  He was literally thrown twenty-five back, emitting a loud, girlish ‘EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” as the air was violently expelled from his lungs.  He landed flat on his back in the middle of the blacktop road, striking his head on the asphalt.

He was still stunned as Bubba walked up and pointed something at him.  It didn’t look like a gun—Ed couldn’t focus well enough to make it out.  But it was yellow, so not a gun.  Was that a taser?

It was indeed a taser.  This was another item that the local budget wouldn’t cover, but Bubba had bought this one himself.

It had been a custom order.

Ed blinked blearily at the powerful cop standing over him.  He gaped and gasped for a couple of moments before his breathing was controlled enough to let him speak.  Where his earlier tone had been one of arrogant superiority, now there was more than a hint of fear as the Aryan cunt began to realize what could happen.

“Pl-please, bro,” he managed to stammer out, “Don’t tase me—urk!”

Bubba looked down with satisfaction.  The taser had worked perfectly.  The perp was down, its bootheels still drumming on the pavement.  The cop carefully reset the weapon and stowed it safely for further use, should the need arise.  Then he turned back to Ed, first gathering up the 9mm and spent casings before approaching the racist fucker.  The boy was still convulsing slightly but was very much alive.

That was good.  That was very good.  After all, they can’t learn their lesson if they’re already dead—right?

---

Light began to filter into the dark nothingness of Ed’s existence in such close conjunction with pain that the former seemed to be causing the latter.  For a moment or two the hardbodied young skinhead fought back against encroaching consciousness, but in the end was unable to stave off his return to himself.

It wouldn’t be right to say his return to awareness; Ed had little idea of where he was or what the hell was going on.  He knew he was laying on his back, he knew that his hands were bound behind him—cuffed, by the feel of it, he knew it was pitch black.  He also knew that he was nude except for his 20-eye oxblood boots.  And that over and above the thick, musty reek of mildew, he could detect the stronger scent of niggersweat.

What he didn’t know—yet—was that his dick was reacting to the subtler clouds of testosterone and adrenaline in the room.  The fact that his shaft was slowly but steadily growing more erect was minor compared to his other bodily aches–except maybe his wrist.

As he gradually recovered from the massive jolt of electricity he’d received, his eye became more accustomed to the darkness of the room.  He appeared to be lying on a bed in an old, abandoned house of some kind, but before he could take any more if it in, his attention was focused on the far end of the room, where the coon cop had one foot up on an old wood chair, lacing his boot.

Just like Ed, he was butt-fucking-naked, except for his boots.  His enormous ebony tackle dangled more than halfway to his knees.

What did that mean?  What the fuck was happening here?

Bubba knew the meat was awake.  He grinned; it had perfect timing.  Reaching down, he grabbed something else that had been on the chair, something that had escaped Ed’s observation.

It was his coiled belt.  He slowly approached the bed, his tightly laced tactical books creaking on the wood floor as he wrapped the belt around his fist, leaving the buckle to dangle free.  His grin widened into a leer as he reached the bedside and stood looming over Ed’s prostrate form.

The white boy hadn’t lost any of his arrogance.  What he felt most at this moment was anger at being treated like this by a worthless porch monkey, even one that was a cop.  He let that feeling flood him and stir him up into a righteous rage—partially to avoid thinking about what actual way he was being treated after being stripped and cuffed in a dark room by a nude nigger.

“You were resisting arrest, son,” Bubba murmured in a quiet, even tone, “You know what the punishment for that is?”

“Fuck you, jigaboo, I’m a victim of police brutality! I want a fuckin’ lawyer, NOW!” Ed snarled, “I dunno what kinda interrogation bullshit is going on, but I know my rights—speakin’ a’ which, you ain’t even Miranda’d me, motherfucker! I’m gonna sue yer monkey ass all the way back to Africa!!”

“Well, boy,” Bubba drawled, “You see, the Miranda only applies if you’re arrested.  But you resisted arrest.  In fact, you resisted so well that as far as anyone knows, you got away.”

“But I—” Ed began confusedly.  Suddenly he noticed the belt dangling from Bubba’s hand.  “Wait…I’m not under arrest?  Bu-but then what—?”

He never got the chance to ask his question before Bubba lashed out, the inch-and-a half thick strap of black leather flashing in the dim ambient light.  Its raw leather interior contacted Ed’s smooth flat belly with a loud smack, the buckle leaving a huge welt where it slammed against the young man’s skin.  Blood trickled down his side from where the skin had been torn.

His screech of pain was music to Bubba’s ears.

“Testify, brother,” he chuckled, “Let the world hear the death cries of a skinhead fuck!”  Then the belt flashed through the darkness again.

Bubba had struck in the other direction this time, with the buckle targeted directly on the solar plexus.  The cop was an expert marksman, and not just with a gun, at he proved to the Aryan punk.  The cherry-red welt that ran up his abs to the center of his chest was nothing compared to his inability to breathe.

But as he struggled for air against the spasms of his own chest muscles, the import of the cop’s words sank into Ed’s limited, hate-inflamed mind—or at least one word.  That word had been death.

That possibility simply hadn’t occurred to him.  And it still seemed highly unlikely.  After all, wasn’t he of the superior race?  Surely, he could outsmart this muscle-bound jungle bunny, if only he could get free.

“You goddam yard ape!” he yelled in pain-fueled anger the moment he had enough air to do so, “Ya know the only way a black fuck like you can take a white man is to tie him up!”

And with that, things changed.  Ed couldn’t believe it—the nigger was actually taking the bait! 

The Aryan thug smirked.  They really were that stupid.  At times, he’d had his doubts as to whether the whites were the master race in every case, but never again.  Clearly the coons were just as idiotic as he’d always heard.

And sure enough, Bubba had retreated to the back of the chair where his uniform was and retrieved the key to the cuffs.  He’d been waiting for this. Even with his right hand out of action–one hand tied behind his back, so to speak–he was still superior. 

What happened from now on would mindfuck the skinhead asshole so bad that its ultimate death would be a mercy that it certainly didn’t deserve but was gonna get anyway.  After all, Bubba had the ultimate advantage.  While Ed thought of himself as the better man of the two, Bubba knew that he was. 

And he knew how hard he’d get off by proving it to the white cunt.  Hell, the meat might like it.  All racist white boys secretly wanted a thick nigger cock rearranging their guts.

At least, all the ones he’d run across had experienced powerful orgasms as they died on his dick, which was evidence enough for him.

The musclebound cop leaned over the prone youth, grabbed him by his left bicep, and casually flipped him over onto his belly with the ease of an experienced cook flipping a burger.  But before Ed got the chance to mull over this display of preponderant strength, his hands were free.

It was time to teach this nigger who was boss.

Instantly, he rolled off the bed and planted his boots solidly as solidly on the floor as the creaking woodwork would allow.  And just as instantly, he showed his utter ineptness for hand-to-hand combat by taking his eye off his opponent and glancing around the room.  “What’d ya do with my clothes, spade?” he demanded.

“I cut ‘em off,” Bubba replied with a wide grin that gleamed almost phosphorescently against his dark skin, “After all, you ain’t gonna need ‘em anymore.  Whatsa matter, boy, you ashamed of yer tiny white cock?”

Ed snarled with rage.  His shaft might not have been as long or thick as the porch monkey cop’s, but it was still respectable at seven inches.  And at any rate, what mattered was that he was white.  It was with that firm, unshakeable conviction of his own racial supremacy that he launched himself forward, hisleft fist pistoning into the cop’s ripped abs with all the force of his strong young frame.

It was like punching the trunk of an oak tree and left just as much trace of the impact.

For a moment, it played out like a hackneyed movie scene: Ed staring down blankly at his fist, then up into Bubba’s malicious smirk.  What happened next was no movie scene, though.  It certainly wasn’t anything that Ed’s tiny mind could have conceived.

Bubba instantly returned Ed’s favor with a gutpunch of his own, one so strong and brutal that it lifted the Aryan punk off the ground.  The youth fell backwards, his ass hitting the floor first, his head smacking down immediately after.  As the boy stunned, blurred vision began to achingly clear, he slowly became aware that the hardbodied black man was standing over him—was, in fact, standing directly astride his face.

Then Bubba stepped on Ed’s biceps, the tread of his tactical boots digging painfully into the boy’s flesh.  Looking directly up, Ed’s line of vision was filled the pendulous dark orbs of Bubba’s hairy scrotum and the jutting ebon cock, thick as a turkey leg and entwined with veins. 

“You want it, dontcha?” the bulked-out cop jeered as his dick began to throb.  “You want that nigger lightning rod deep inside ya, yeah?”  A stinging drop of viscous precum splatted on the punk’s forehead.

No, Ed didn’t want that monkey dick anywhere near him.  In fact, he staunchly refused to recognize the tingling, clenching sensation rising from his groin as his own shaft began to stiffen.  It simply wasn’t happening.

It didn’t matter, though.  What mattered was that Bubba noticed it as soon as he stepped off of the pinned skinhead’s arms.  He knew it.  He fucking knew it.  Just another macho-acting racist faggot that secretly craved nigger dick.

Well, it was gonna get it.  Not in the way it wanted, but it damn sure was gonna get nigger dick.  But Bubba hadn’t forgotten his academy training.  First thing to do was make sure the suspect was properly subdued.

The first thing Bubba did to establish proper dominance was to stomp on the fucker’s dick, hard.

Ed screamed as his thick tube of manmeat was ground remorselessly into his flat belly.  It was a loud, anguished cry, but the cry that succeeded it when Bubba stomped him in the middle of his chest, snapping three ribs like dry twigs, a high-pitched shriek of horrified pain.  Even as the jagged end of one of the broken bones tore into the Aryan cunt’s left lung like a machete, a deep purple welt began to appear between its pecs that was an exact likeness of the cop’s boot print.

Ed’s mind was a whirlwind of pain, rage, and confusion.  There’s no way a nigger could be doing this to him.  Something was wrong, the coon had cheated somehow—but he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was better than this.  He was bigger than this.  He would rise up and if this fuckin’ ape was lucky, it might have time to beg for his forgiveness before he wasted it…

…but such was his cognitive dissonance that while this consideration was running through his mind, his badly bruised tackle was starting to drip onto his abs.  And he was still howling like a baboon himself.

But by now, Bubba was tired of hearing him scream.  White punkmeat always screamed.  Bubba disapproved of that; screaming was a form of relief.  And in his self-assumed roles of judge and executioner, he had already sentenced the racist piece of shit to death.  A hellish nightmare of a death, one that deserved—and would receive—no mercy or relief.

To that end, he shut the skinhead up.  By kicking it hard, twice, in the mouth.

One of Ed’s favorite movie scenes—one to which he’d jacked off many, many times—was the infamous curb stomp from “American History X”.  It wasn’t so much cognitive dissonance as sheer irony that he was unable to see the resemblance between the piece of cinematography and the immediate physical impact of Bubba’s steel-toed boots on his mouth. 

Not only were half his teeth instantly kicked down his throat, but his lower jaw also broke in two places simultaneously, like a wishbone pull ending in a tie.  The stunned, agonized fuckwad coughed up a gout of blood and teeth.

But to its horror, worse was coming.  Once again, the black cop was standing astride its head.  But this time, the nigger was squatting, its musky ass getting closer and closer to his face.

But nothing stopped the descent of the hairy, muscled globes.  Seconds later, the (literal) asswipe’s mindless, guttural gurgle of psychological and physical agony was muffled to a faint grunt as Bubba clamped his powerful asscheeks shut on the skinhead’s face.

The last thing to fill the meat’s nostrils before its air was cut off was the stench of the sweaty, simian muscleman.  Then everything went dark and the true terror began.

In that moment, all of Ed’s former arrogance fled, and all that was left was a young man suffering horrifically—and learning that nothing, nothing was worse than being suffocated to death by a nigger’s ass.

As in so much of his violent, worthless life, Ed was wrong about that, too.

All sound was muffled except for the rapidly increasing throb of his own pulse.  His good hand scrambled wildly, beating at Bubba’s rock-hard ass and clawing at his thighs.  His legs thrashed, his bootheels drumming on the wooden floor.

Even as his heaving chest burned with the stain of suffocation, the young Aryan could feel his cock pulse with the same increasing rate of his heart.  It couldn’t happen, no, it wouldn’t happen, he wouldn’t let it—

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t happening.  The nigger had stood up and Ed could breathe again.  Even the rank scent of coon sweat smelled sweet to the racist punk at this moment.

Then Bubba stomped his balls, hard, grinding the tread into the hairy, semen-filled sacs.  Ed jerked up from the floor, curling vertically into a fetal position.  With the high, inarticulate squeal of air being violently compressed through the tight confines of a trachea, the tenderized skinhead spout out a wad of blood from his ruined mouth.

As he rolled around on the dirty floor, wallowing in agony, it was easy enough for Bubba to cuff his hands again.

The cunt been given a chance to defend itself.  Now it was time to take what was coming to it like the bitch it was.

“Here ya go, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Bubba jeered as he knelt down, grabbed the fucker by its boots and roughly pried its legs apart, “I know how much you white bitches fuckin’ love a big black lightnin’ rod, yeah, motherfucker?”

And with that, he trust himself balls-deep into Ed, totally raw, his enormous ebony member ripping its way through the boy’s rectum after punching through its sphincter as easily as if it had been wet paper.

And that was when Ed realized that no matter how horrific being suffocated by a nigger’s ass was, being gutted by its gigantic gorilla cock was much, much worse.

His scream—more of a gurgling shriek at this point, thanks to his mangled mouth—was shill and ear-splittingly loud, and Bubba fucking loved it.  “Amen, fuckmeat!” he crowed jubilantly, “Tell the world how good that thick black dick is!”

The bound Aryan punk was utterly helpless under the weighty, hairy mass of the cop’s muscles.  He struggled fruitlessly to shift his lean, firm body away from the remorseless black jackhammer that was pulping his tender white fuckhole. 

The pain was worse than anything he’d imagined possible, both from the assault and the rape, but it was the psychological agony that the skinhead cunt found unendurable.  The hulking, sweaty coon filled his field of vision, its simian face a mask of feral hate and lust.  The only other thing he could see we his own oxblood Doc Martens as they kicked in the air above the killer cop’s shoulders.

Bubba was enjoying himself.  He loved dicking down stupid white fuckheads who thought they were superior. Nothing proved them wrong more than having his monster cock shoved up their tight fuckholes. 

But proving them wrong was one thing.  Proving it to himself was a different matter.

For that, the fuckmeat needed to die.  And it was time this one did.

“You want it, ya white bitch?  Ya want this thick nigger cum?” he snarled, pressing his muscled chest down onto Ed’s so that the latter’s hard cock was compressed between his own smooth belly and Bubba’s ripped abs, covered with wiry body fur.  It was like an afro scraping at his dick.

“’Course ya do,” Bubba continued, chuckling mercilessly.  “All you racist pieces of shit want to get some hot black nut.  Don’t worry, homo, you’re gonna get some.  All ya gotta do is milk my shaft like ya want it.”

Without another word, he wrapped his huge hands around the youth’s throat and stared him straight in the eyes.  “And if you can’t,” he growled, “I’ll fuckin’ make ya.”

Instantly, there was a crushing pressure on the Aryan’s throat.  It was as bad as suffocating under the jigaboo’s ass had been—but this time, he had to look it in the face as its horsedick reamed his intestines.

It was raping him and strangling him.  He, Ed, the strong, hard soldier on the frontlines of white pride, was going to die on a yard ape’s cock with its black seed filling his guts.

And that was what Bubba had been looking for.  That sudden realization where the white motherfucker realizes just how weak and useless it really is—when it realizes that its only real purpose is to drain off excess nigger semen and then be disposed of like trash.

Bubba squeezed harder, fondling the rubbery tube of the trachea under his strong fingers.  “I’m gonna crush your windpipe, fuckpig,” he sneered.  “Once that happens, you’re dead.  Not right away, of course.  You’re gonna kick a bit before you die and ass you do, your worthless white pussy is gonna make my cock feel ass you do, your worthless white pussy is gonna make my cock feel real good, bitch.  Ya’ feelin’ me, motherfucker?”

Ed was feeling Bubba in more ways than one.  His head seemed to be swelling, all the skin on his face was painfully taut.  His eyes were doing weird things, too—he couldn’t quite seem to close them, but he still had intermittent but increasing flashed of blackness in his sight.

Briefly, he’d managed to clench his hands–or at least clench his useless right hand with his left–and bring them down together, beating Bubba about the shoulders and back, but the latter had merely reached up and caught the boy’s cuffed wrists and pinned them to the bed with one hand while continuing to choke him to death with the other—all without missing a single stroke in the furious tempo of the assrape.

“You’re dying, faggot,” the hate-filled cop snarled, “I wish you could see your face, asswipe, it’s blacker than mine.  Drool, you fuckin’ racist pansy, lemme watch your drool run down your face as your worthless brain shuts down.”

The only sounds Ed could make in reply were faint forced grunts as his sweaty lithe torso heaved in panicked desperation.  His boots flailed wildly but stayed on—he’d laced them up tightly that morning, never dreaming that he’d die wearing them.  He could no longer see anything; the world had gone into a kind of white grayness.  The driving beat of his own pulse that had been clanging inside his skull was becoming feebler and irregular, and with it, the fiery pain of suffocation.

Within thirty more seconds, all Ed was aware of was the pain in his throat, his ass, and his cock.  Even as the central part of his soul surrendered to the inexorable icy oblivion to which the wrathful lust of the strong black man had consigned it, the writhing meat that had once been (semi)human was still able to feel that pain.

Unluckily for it.

At that moment, Bubba crushed its esophagus.

The gristly cracking sound, the satisfying sensation of faggot throat cartilage collapsing under the force of his hand, was all that was needed to trigger Bubba’s orgasm.  As the dying skinhead began to convulse in mortal agony, there was no one home to realize the prophetic nature of the cop’s words about death not coming immediately—there was only helpless thrashing boymeat, still capable of suffering and responding to pain.

The very last response that Ed’s hard young form was capable of producing came as a result of powerful muscle contractions as a reaction to the searing, potent, manseed flooding its innards.  As the vile racist punk crossed the line from living being to twitching corpse, it spewed its last load, its deathload, in a violent geyser of spunk between its belly and that of its killer, its death throes thoroughly matting the pearly ooze into Bubba’s fur.

For his part, as the buff cop spewed his thick wad with the added force of hatred. He raised his strong right hand, balled it into a fist, and began punching the dead boy in the face.  Over and over, with each ecstatic, agonizing jet that erupted from his raging member, Bubba beat the punk fucker into hamburger. 

By the time his enormous balls were finally drained dry and he let his hand fall limply by his side, his prey’s face was so utterly bashed in as to obscure the cause of death.

Finally pulling his gigantic tackle back out of the dead kid’s ass, Bubba got up and glanced about, finally picking of the meat’s t-shirt and using to wipe the sweat and cum off his body.  Within ten minutes, he’d gotten redressed, then gathered up the asshole’s clothes and headed out to his cruiser.

And ten minutes after that, he headed back into the cabin, a savage grin on his face.  He’d run the bitch’s ID and confirmed what he’d already suspected—no one was gonna miss the little fuckhead.  Assault, robbery, multiple hate crimes, suspected—but never convicted—of murder.  And best of all, no next of kin on file.

He grabbed the corpse by its ankles, feeling the smooth leather of its boots as he dragged it out of the cabin, its arms above its head.  When he got to the lip of the ravine behind the cabin, he took the cuffs off it.  For a moment, it lay on the forest floor, nude except for the Doc Martens.  Every few seconds some random limb would twitch; when it did, another tiny pearl of semen would tickle out of the limp dick.

With a contemptuous sneer, Bubba prodded it with his boot, then gave it a swift kick.  It vanished into the darkness, tumbling into the creek down at the bottom of the ravine in relative silence.

Bubba tossed its clothes in his trunk and drove back to its car, still on the side of the road where they’d had their original encounter.  As he’d expected, it was still there and evidently unnoticed.  He called it in as an abandoned car that’d he’d found on the way home.  When one of the on-duty cops finally responded, Bubba told him that he’d searched the woods nearby, but found nothing.

Not too far from his house, Bubba pulled over on a bridge spanning a small river and tossed the cunt’s clothes over, and that was that.

No one had cared.  Ed’s very existence was forgotten within a month.

Except by Bubba.