Killmonger's One-Shot Collection

Three Weeks Into an Era

Notes:  Killmonger takes reform of the U.S. into his own hands! Comedy?
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It was high noon and the semi truck trailed over the dirt-clodden ground for its third drop off of the day. The gate went up and one by one, chained white men from their twenties to their late forties exited.. tugged by a guiding chain that linked all of their shackles. They’d already been stripped and searched thoroughly, and now each man wore the pants and the shoes he’d been abducted with.

How had they been chosen? From 4Chan, Reddit, and other sites where they “anonymously” hurled insults from the safety off their own homes. Some of them were self identified white supremacists and the rest.. typical white trash.

The guiding chain pulled and the newest truckload of men were placed on a field of cotton. Their eyes spotted the red necks and backs of the working white men before them, the sweat gathering on their bodies, and the squints in their heated faces. They were gathering cotton as if it were not beneath them and every overseer was black. Distaste and utter confusion turned into indignant disbelief. How dare his happen. An older one spoke up. He had short and thin brown hair, a stocky build, and a superiority complex. Connor O'Brien, college professor and lawyer. Erik couldn’t stand him. That’s why he was there.

“What’s this? You all got some reverse slavery thing going here? Vengeance against whitey?” Connor scoffs, “You ever stop to think that maybe your people are the ones with the problem?” The other guys linked to him begin to speak their agreement in a circle jerk of racist rhetoric. The white men of the first two truckloads do not utter a word, they keep picking cotton.

Moving to stand in front of the new group’s chosen leader, Erik’s posture is one of aggressive dominance. Connor doesn’t back down completely, but the group does quiet once they see his energy diminish.

“Listen up, white demons,” Erik barks militantly. The bass in his voice is enough to startle a guy two men away, who flinches at the volume.

“Welcome to your own personal circle of Black-ass Hell. You have been brought here because you are a disgrace to humanity. You are an affront to nature. AND.. The mere sight of you is a slap in the face of rationality. For years, your kind has stolen, pillaged, murdered, and generally FUCKED SHIT UP!” He yelled in the ear of the flincher and a large wet spot appeared on the seat of his jeans.

“You too old to be pissing yourself. But then again you too old to be leaving hate comments from a basement ain’t you, Josh?”

Erik’s attention shifts back to addressing the group. “From now on, I own you indefinitely. I’m your master and your GOD. You crackas answer to me.”

Their eyes, darting about searching for a way out only brings a smile to Erik’s face.

“Step outta line, I’ll knock you back in that bitch. Now. You gone get out there and pick all that damn cotton and if I hear one peep my boy over there crackin the shit out you. I might make a visit to your family too if you feelin especially froggy. This ain’t a game and we got a deadline. Each bag needs to be 300 lbs at least. If you don’t fill your bag, you don’t eat or sleep. You hear me?”

The group looks bewildered, but they have no choice in the matter. Once they’re marched onto the black soil, a few of them begin the process of picking cotton, hands freed from the cuffs.

“OW WHAT THE FUCK,” a twenty-eight year old yells out withdrawing his hand from the plant.

“Oh that’s right,” Erik smirks, “Watch out for the saw briars and cuckle burrs. The saw briars can fuck your legs up and the cuckle burrs can tear up your fingers. You’ll get used to it.”

More men began to pick the cotton, not wanting to be there all day and night. When two refused and just stood there. Erik was all too happy to address it. He signaled an overseer over who sent a whip cracking hard on both of their backs. They jolted and winced harshly. The whip cracked again to set them in motion and they finally bent to join their brethren.

“Get to work, lazy crackas!” The overseer steps back and takes a sip from his Apple Snapple. It was the best tasting drink he’d ever had after what he was just able to do. Vengeance was sweet and he could feel the approval of his ancestors coursing through his blood.

“Beats fast food, don’t it, Dante,” Erik smirked at the overseer who was enjoying the view set out before him.

“Man, I dreamt about shit like this since I was in fifth grade. Hell yeah,” Dante grinned. He loved his new job and a look at the other overseers told Erik that they did too.

Erik pulled off again with the truck. This was week three of the abductions and he was having a ball making white men disappear at an alarming rate. It was unheard of for that particular population.. and there were missing person reports and calls to action, but he didn’t give a fuck. It was about time they experienced some of the shit they put his people through. All the missing, murdered, and trafficked black people and no one was doing shit about it, but let some white guys go missing… It made him sick.

That’s why he had a plan. Abduct the white men for manual labor. The raw cotton would be processed and made into fabric. The men would then have a choice to work in shops, sewing garments for no pay or be trafficked like his people are so often trafficked. It wasn’t the justice he’d originally planned and it wasn’t much… but it was fun. He already had a group in mind to sell off.

–

A new day, a new truckload of terrible white men. Yesterday was another success. Erik’s team had successfully broken a group of white supremacists and turned them successfully into slaves.

“Ahh god dammit,” a new white man, redenned by the increasing heat yelled out. A whip came down on his legs and he jumped from the sting.

“That’s a pack saddle worm. They stay on the cotton leaves and they sting.. but no worse than this whip apparently. Get back to work, beet face,” his overseer, Faizon, sneers. Two others laugh.

“Beet face? That’s the best you could do,” Shavon cackles, visor shielding her from the sun.

“You got something better?” Faizon raises his brow and she shakes her head, still laughing.

“No,” she snorts, “No, no, I’d rather hear what you come up with it’s making my day.”

The hours roll on and as the sun gains strength the overseers take shifts retreating to the large tent set up with hip-hop and 90s rnb music, battery powered fans, coolers of ice and water, snacks, and pizza.

“Hey watch out real quick,” Erik takes a speaker and gets it as close as he can to the field. “I’m bout to make this educational.”

A familiar voice blazes from the speaker, and the many overseers break out in a chorus of ‘yesss’ ‘how fitting’ 'perfect’ and laughs.

If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.

Malcolm X

As Malcolm X’s voice swept through the field, a couple of men stopped, standing painfully. Cotton picking was definitely back-breaking work.

“Aye did I tell your pink asses you could take a break,” Erik yelled, “Get your ass back down and drag that bag.”

“Damn boss,” Alexis purred watching Erik’s muscles flex with an unspoken threat. “You can take some of that frustration out on me if you want.” There was lustful fire in her deep brown eyes.

“Damn you thirsty, get out his face,” Faizon snapped. She’d been throwing herself at Erik openly since it all started three weeks ago. He’d had enough of watching it. “Yeah, honestly just stop,” Shavon added, handing Alexis another slice of pizza to soften the blow. Erik was already gone with the truck to abduct another group.