/pol/ - Politically Correct

BVMO

Classic Quote gem.

More.

GEG!

LMFAO they really do be like this.

>>48761
qeq white bois are pathetic

No shit women prefer BBC over tiny rice peckers QEQ

>>48765
armeniARYAN hands wrote this post

Gemmy bread

>>48768
I dont need a folder for racebait since all i have saved on my phone is racebait

Bibisi

>>48771
you're not croatian i think you're an armeniARYAN

Can you post multiple webms?

>>48776
ytbois are so weak and pathetic qeq

>>48776
chimperator irl

>>48778
Rent free

>>48779
Here comes the pathetic ytboi to seethe in the thread and sage it. How does it feel to be replaced? How do you feel knowing your crush is having sex with POC while you sit in a chair and moderate an imageboard for free?

>>48781
U r white too retard

>>48784
Nope im from Haiti

>>48789
Larp

>>48784
Croatia isn't white LMFAO.

>>48779
jej impie is so pathetic

>>48791
tsmt

>>48791
Unfortunetly it is but not for long. I already got 12 white bitches pregnant and left em lmfao

gemerald thread

>>48794
unironically based asf

Nigger i meant to make a thread

>>48798
Huge turkroach fail!

BLACK FUTURE: BOOK ONE

BY WHITNEY RYAN

Alex labored up the mountainside. His charcoal-black hunting cloak flapped in the late afternoon breeze. His eyes were two slits, glaring beneath the shadow of his hood. Through familiar trails he trudged, his legs burning as the terrain steepened, carrying a pair of plump rabbits freshly retrieved from his traps. Subsistence living must have been hard enough, Alex thought, in the pre-war days. But to do it now, stripped of manhood, bereft of тестosterone, addled with government-issued hormones? It was humiliating.

Such was life in New Africa.

Alex arrived at his log cabin, tucked away at the edge of a small village. It overlooked a panorama of peaks: a stretch of glorious mountainous terrain which, only ten years prior, had been part of the state of Georgia. Those days seemed like a half-remembered dream: hazy, idealized, unreal.

Alex stopped at the doorway and looked back over the winding trails he’d climbed, over the mountains of his youth. It was a

beautiful day. The late summer’s air was warm and filled with golden sunshine. Broad-tailed hawks lazily patrolled the sky. Alex hated beautiful days; they tempted him into the seductive trap of hope. And ever since the revolution, Alex had learned one thing with total certainty: a whiteboi must never, ever, ever dare to hope.

He entered the cabin, placed the rabbits on the handmade kitchen counter, and removed his cloak. Alex’s shoulder-length pink-and-blue wig bounced, shiny and voluminous, as he pulled it off and placed it on its mannequin’s head beside the hat rack. Many whitebois wore their wigs at home, but not Alex. He was only legally required to wear it out of house, and by god, he wouldn’t wear it a moment longer. He gladly exchanged the humiliating, slutty wig for his natural, short dirty blonde hair when he could. It was one of his small, personal rebellions.

Alex heard the drone of the television in the main room. He knew what that meant: Cori and Tori had sneaked in again to watch television. Wearing his government-issued skirt and stockings, Alex went into the main room to see what the two troublemakers were doing.

“Where’s Kaylee? I brought dinner,” Alex said, trying his best to sound gruff and manly, despite the hormones.

“Down in the village square,” Cori said, twirling the tresses of his green wig, lounging on the old threadbare couch.

“She’s reading stories to the kids again,” Tori said, eyes glued to the screen.

Cori and Tori were born male. They were only teenagers, and consequently they barely remembered life before the revolution. Like all whitebois in New Africa, they’d been placed on hormones immediately following the cease-fire. They knew nothing of the world before. No John Wayne, no cowboys and Indians, no white male heroes. They became natural sissies, dressed the part, and though Alex tried his best, he couldn’t awaken any rebellious masculine impulses within them. They, like many others in the village, regarded Alex as a quixotic subversive: a dreamer with delusions of grandeur.

“You two want to stay for supper? Kaylee’s cooking up her famous rabbit stew,” Alex said.

“Ohmigod that sounds soooo good, Alexa,” Tori said, eyes still glued to the ancient, pre-war flat-screen TV.

Alexa. Alex hated his government name. He shuddered at the sound of it. But by now, he was far past correcting other whitebois when they used it. It was the sort of trivial humiliation that chipped away his soul. His life was full of these small indignities. Such is the cost of losing a race war.

“You’re amazing, Captain Soul,” came a pretty voice from the TV. “Thank you for saving us from those whiteboi losers.”

“Anytime,” came a deep African baritone. “And now, I think there’s somethin’ ya’ll bitches need to do for me.”

Alex looked up at the TV to see a black man on the screen — rippling, musclebound, hulking, with a powerful and heroic jaw — surrounded by two scantily clad blonde women. They wore sci-fi clothing in a futuristic setting. Two whitebois in neon sissy wigs were hanging from a light post behind them: lifeless and lynched by the brave ebony hero.

“What the fuck are you two watching?” Alex asked.

“Captain Soul Patrol,” Tori said. “Everybody loves Captain Soul Patrol.”

There were only three channels. All state-run. All full of outright propaganda or, worse, pulp action shows like Captain Soul Patrol. Alex hated when the village teens came over and watched the filth. It all was written, produced, and transmitted from Atlanta: the capital of New Africa.

“Hey Alexa,” Cori said. “Is it true there were, like, hundreds of channels before the war?”

“Yes,” Alex said. “And that doesn’t even include the Internet. The Internet had even more content than TV.”

“Must have been amazing,” Tori said.

Alex could hardly bear to look at the screen. It was total demoralization. For god’s sake, families got together to watch these shows. It was the only option. There was no escape. And whitebois like Tori and Cori actually liked watching it?

“Fuck us with your master cock, big black daddy,” one of the blondes said, bending her gorgeous, fat white ass over for

they’d tune in to watch a black hero save the day, defeat the evil whitebois, and impregnate their women. It stood to reason; most whitebois hadn’t laid eyes on a white woman in the flesh since the war.

“Enough of this,” Alex said. “You two go tell Kaylee I’ve got rabbits for dinner.”

“Fine, whatever,” Tori said, standing up, checking his sissy makeup in his compact mirror.

The two of them sashayed out the front door in their sissy skirts and heels, colorful wigs bouncing. A high-pitched alarm sounded on Alex’s end table: his daily reminder to take his E. Alex went to fetch his E pills from the kitchen and returned to the main room, still transfixed by the pornography. He unscrewed the cap of his E bottle with white knuckles, brimming with rage as the black hero gave dripping creampies to the nubile white blondes.

“I hope my baby has super dark skin. He’s gonna be a powerful African warrior!” one of the blondes groaned, ropes of precious black seed dripping from her pretty pink pussy.

“I’m naming mine Jamal. He’s going to fight in the New African army!” the other groaned.

As the camera zoomed in on the beautiful black cock, shimmering with the blondes’ frothy pussy cream, its head dripping master seed, Alex turned the channel. The rage had overwhelmed him again. The all-consuming furnace of envy and impotent anger burned in the pit of his stomach.

Those blondes looked just like Kaylee, he thought. It terrified and disgusted him. The one pure thing in his life, the oasis in a sea of cruel domination, would never been subjected to this filth. They’d never find her. Sweet Kaylee, meek and mild and un-defiled, would remain blissfully ignorant, contented with the simple life in the mountain village. Alex may not be able to marry her, but he could cling to his last tenuous thread of his manhood: he could protect her.

“We got breaking news up in dis bitch,” a news bulletin flashed across the screen as Alex flipped over to Channel One.

A dark-skinned black man wore an amalgam of traditional African and urban street garb. The news anchors wore African dashikis, but also elaborate hip-hop-inspired bling: huge

diamond stud earrings, platinum grills in their mouths, and 24-karat medallions on gold chains.

“Da High Council met in Atlanta today. Chief Darius X revealed plans for two new breeding facilities in da capital district. After da summit, he spoke to da media ’bout New Africa’s changin’ demographics.”

Chief Darius X, the leader of the New African government, stood at a spotless chrome podium. A black power fist, the young country’s national symbol, blinked with gaudy red, yellow, and green lights as Darius towered above. Darius was enormous: 6’6”, a mountain of hulking muscle. He had been a commander in the revolution, a national hero, and his powerful black face bore a long diagonal scar from an old war wound. He wore an ornate ceremonial robe, priceless jewelry, and a colorful tribal headdress.

“We have taken new measures to ensure a pure, undiluted black future in New Africa,” Darius said in a rich, rumbling baritone.

The assembled black crowd cheered, hooted, and hollered. Their voices were filled with rage and triumph.

“Our darkest purestrains are, at this very moment, breeding the white female cattle in our facilities. And those offspring, when they come of age, will in turn be given to the purestrains again. And again. And again, I say, brothers! Until there is NO TRACE of white genetics in this sacred land!”

The crowd cheered in rapture. Despite the drugs and the programming meant to dull his emotions, Alex’s heart seethed with rage. He couldn’t bear to watch another second. He turned off the pre-war TV, his face red with resentment, and choked down his estrogen dose: a pink pill with the letter E printed in black on either side.

Like always, with a small swig of water, the E tasted bitter on the way down.



Alex walked down to the village square, wearing his pink-and-blue sissy wig once again. He couldn’t chance being seen outdoors without it. Many horror stories circulated about those

who were found in violation of the whiteboi dress code and protocols.

The village square sat in the center of the dozen or so rustic cabins comprising the village. Like spokes on a wheel, paths led out to each home from the central village square. It was the center of community life in the village — a place where whitebois of all ages socialized and rested in-between their daily toil.

Alex hated socializing. The other men in the village, and their sissified sons, were resigned to their fate. Whether it was the E pills, the chemical castration and sterilization, or the daily grind, Alex wasn’t certain. But even men who had fought in the war, men like Rob (now “Roberta”) Morrison, who was ten years older than Alex, a man Alex had known and looked up to, had all become mindless sissy bimbos during ten years of black rule.

The village, truth be told, wreaked of death. Though the whitebois went through the motions, they knew their days were numbered. Every surviving white male had been sterilized and put on a strict regimen of hormones following the war in 2035, and every white woman was legally conscripted into the New African Breeding Force. White women spent their lives locked away in mysterious facilities giving birth to litters of black babies.

New Africa spanned almost the exact same geographic region the Confederacy did during the Civil War. In the wake of the revolution, many of the surviving white men stayed in the cities, working as house sissies for their black masters or turning tricks on the streets for cash. But plenty of others, like Alex and the rest of the villagers, fled to rural areas to live out their lives quietly as a conquered people.

But in the middle of this cruelty and madness, there was Kaylee. She was a spark of hope in a dark world. Alex’s heart soared as he rounded the last bend of the trail and entered the village square. The late afternoon breeze kicked up, sweeping past his bare sissy legs, billowing his skirt, and he smiled when he laid eyes on her.

She was a jewel. A precious gem. A treasure beyond measure. Kaylee, sweet Kaylee, wasn’t just Alex’s beloved little step-sister; she was one of the last free white women left in New Africa. The government called these women “lost vessels”, and they stopped at nothing to hunt down every last one of them.

Hidden away in the remote village, Kaylee had managed to avoid detection.

“Who can tell me what this is?” Kaylee asked her whiteboi sissy students, pointing to an illustration of a mushroom cloud in a leather-bound pre-war book.

“A bomb!” the whitebois shouted. “A nuclear bomb!”

“That’s right,” Kaylee said, in her sweet matronly tone. “Very good.”

Kaylee was Aryan beauty personified. Blonde, regal, dignified, blue-eyed, and in the full blossom of youth. She’d just turned 18 — only three years younger than Alex — and she grew more beautiful each day. She wore a pure white traditional dress, cut long and modestly. Her hair fell in gorgeous blonde cascades, adorned with a handmade bow. Her body was soft, porcelain, and undulating with the irresistible fullness of fertility: she was a peach at the peak of its ripeness.

“And what’s happening here?” Kaylee asked, pointing to a second illustration.

Alex loved watching Kaylee teach. Over time, she’d become the informal schoolmaster of the village. Most days she taught the young whitebois in a one-room schoolhouse over the ridge. But on particularly beautiful afternoons, she taught lessons in the open air of the square.

“That’s when the EMP detonated!” a precocious whiteboi shouted, pointing at the dramatic illustration.

“Excellent,” Kaylee said. “And what does EMP stand for?”

“Electromagnetic pulse,” the young whitebois said in unison.

Every whiteboi knew the story. The ones who were old enough to remember it — the poor souls who lived through it, like Alex and Kaylee — couldn’t shake the chain of events from their minds. As Kaylee retold the story to her students, Alex looked out upon the mountains, and the grisly images flooded back into his brain.

“And what does an EMP do?” Kaylee asked her students. “Does anybody know?”

“It messes up all the computers,” a whiteboi in a peach-colored sissy wig said, sitting Indian-style on the ground.

Alex remembered it all. The drones with their rattling chain guns. The explosions. The howling jets overhead. The tanks crushing the ground beneath their treads. The sporadic power outages. The alarms sounding, the emergency signal on the television set, the foreign troops invading, city block by city block.

But of all the images seared into memory, Alex remembered the panic on his father and step-mother’s faces most clearly.

Alex’s dad and Kaylee’s mom were divorcees, and they had recently married when the tactical nukes fell and the EMP detonated, ushering in the beginning of the Revolution of 2035. Little Alex was eleven, and his little step-sister Kaylee was seven at the time. The horrors they witnessed were unspeakable, and the trauma forged a deep bond between them.

“And who launched the bombs? Who sent the airplanes and soldiers into the US?” Kaylee asked.

“China,” a clever 12-year-old whiteboi named Christopher (now legally “Chrissie”) said. “The Chinese and their allies wanted to destroy the United States, so they set off nukes in a whole bunch of cities.”

“Correct,” Kaylee said, a hint of grief in her voice. “Anybody know which ones? This is going to be on next week’s quiz, just so you know.”

“First it was New York. Then Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, and Philadelphia.”

“Why did they pick those major cities?” Alex spoke up.

“Glad you could join us,” Kaylee smiled.

He couldn’t help himself. It was impossible to stand idly by while they discussed The Revolution. It was the central moment of Alex’s life — the fulcrum of his existence — and he took every opportunity to teach those who were too young to remember it clearly.

“Can anybody answer his question?” Kaylee polled the students, but no hands raised. “I’ll let my step-sissy here fill us in.”

“They chose those major cities because they knew it would unleash racial tension,” Alex said, stepping forward and taking a seat on the bench next to Kaylee.

A sea of inquisitive young whiteboi faces, gussied up in makeup and wigs, looked on curiously. They knew Alex had seen the massacres first-hand.

“China, the Arab states, and Israel seized the opportunity to carve up the world’s lone superpower. They used small, tactical Israeli nukes and EMPs to throw the cities into chaos. When the social order broke down, the races became tribal,” Alex explained.

“So how did the black masters win?” a whiteboi asked. “There were way more of us than them.”

“Good question,” Alex said. “The Chinese armed them. They armed the Latinos in the southwest. The Chinese themselves invaded the old Union territory and took over Washington, DC. And the south, they carved out for the blacks. In exchange for their loyalty, the Chinese furnished them with advanced weapons. They also shipped in warriors from sub-Saharan Africa as reinforcements. “Purestrains”, they call them. There was nothing we could do. It was… it was a slaughter.”

Pain quivered through Alex’s voice. Despite the hormones, he tried his best to sound manly, defiant, and resolute. He looked out over the class, and the awful truth fell fresh upon him once again. He still couldn’t believe it: they were the final generation of whites who would ever exist. None of the children was younger than ten.

No white, on the face of planet Earth, was younger than ten years old.

The invasion was been swift, and it happened in America, Europe, and Australia simultaneously. The entire western world, built on the backs of white multitudes, now belonged to the Chinese, the Arabs, the Israelis, and the Africans, whose might grew more impressive each day. A global ideology of revenge had taken hold. Solidarity against white supremacy swept whites out of power in their home nations, and it was decided their continued existence could not be allowed.

“That’s all for today,” Kaylee said.

The whitebois dispersed and chatted among themselves, leaving Kaylee and Alex alone on the bench. The whitebois were off to play hopscotch, paint their fingernails and toenails, and pop their daily doses of E. There was hardly a trace of manhood left, and Alex grew pessimistic at the prospect of lighting any spark of resistance within them. Increasingly, he felt the flame of masculine defiance wavering within himself. That’s what terrified him most of all.

“What’s the matter, Alex?” Kaylee asked.

Alex. Kaylee was the only one who still called him that. She knew what it meant to him.

“It’s just… it’s hard to relive it all,” Alex said.

“I know,” Kaylee sighed.

Kaylee put her arm around Alex’s shoulder with step-sisterly empathy and love. Or was it more than that? Alex was never certain. Their relationship was unfathomable, with deep, tangled roots. In an absurd and sadistic world, their connection remained the one constant. There were so many shades to their relationship: familial love, subtle flirtation, friendship, loyalty, and a desperate co-dependence. Alex didn’t dare unpack it all. The heaviness of their feelings lingered in the air between them, coloring their every interaction.

“Do you still think about the revolution?” Alex asked.

“Sometimes,” Kaylee said.

The subject was a raw nerve. The two of them navigated carefully around it.

“I always wonder what happened to her,” Kaylee said.

“Your mother?”

“Yes,” Kaylee’s blue eyes stared out over the mountains, lost in haunted memory.

She got up from the bench and walked lazily up her favorite path. Alex joined her, walking over a small wooden footbridge above a spring-fed creek. They glimpsed their reflections in the babbling water.

“Her birthday just passed, you know that? If she’s still out there, she just turned thirty-nine years old,” Kaylee said.

“Really?” Alex did quick math in his head. “I guess you’re right.”

“It’s the worst feeling,” Kaylee said. Her Nordic face resembled a mourning angel’s. “Part of me hopes she didn’t make it. I want to think she resisted, like your father did.”

Alex said nothing. He knew the truth, but he didn’t want to unload it on Kaylee. Many times he’d resolved to tell her, but when the time came his words failed him. Her mother’s betrayal was too enormous to fathom. And, like Alex’s complicated feelings for his step-sister, the secret lingered in the ether: unspeakable.

“What do you remember about that night?” Kaylee asked.

“We’ve been through this,” Alex said.

“I just want to hear it one more time. Try to concentrate. Maybe there’s something I’m missing. Some detail I haven’t-”

“-I told you,” Alex said. “You were asleep. My dad and your mom, they were arguing in the living room. Something about her leaving. We never saw her again. I was only eleven. It was all way over my head.”

That much was true. They were arguing. But what Kaylee didn’t know — what Alex decided she must never know — is that her mother, Kate, had been a collaborator with the black revolutionaries. She left Alex’s father to join their “multicultural liberation force”. There were many white women who did it. Historians speculated that, were it not for a huge percentage of white women siding with the black conquerors, the revolution would have failed.

The awful truth was the Kaylee’s mother had chosen the violent black revolutionaries over her own flesh and blood.

“You’re starting to look like she did,” Alex said.

Kaylee managed a smile, brushing her blonde tresses from her face.

“You think so?”

“Mm-hm,” Alex said. “She was beautiful. Tall, blonde, blue eyes. Everything the New Africans want to destroy.”

The whole village had kept Kaylee and the young students in the dark about certain realities. She was forbidden to watch television. She knew nothing about the breeding factories, though she’d heard rumors. She didn’t know the details of New Africa’s genocidal policies. She had a vague sense of her importance as a “lost vessel”, but she remained cloistered and blissfully ignorant about many things.

In fact, in all her eighteen years, Kaylee had never seen a black person in the flesh.

“What would they do to me if they found me, Alex?” Kaylee asked.

“They won’t find you,” Alex said.

“But if they did-”

“-They won’t. Trust me.”

Alex pulled Kaylee into his arms. He held her on the footbridge. He pulled her in, close and tight and comforting. He almost, for a fleeting moment, felt like a real man. Not a “sissy”, not a “whiteboi” — a sterilized slave — but a protector.

“There’s always a contingency,” Alex said. “These mountains are full of hiding places. Tons of little settlements, an endless network of trails.”

Kaylee’s hair smelled of wildflowers and honeysuckle. Her plump, budding breasts pressed against him and awakened a primordial, masculine energy. Even through the thick haze of the estrogen pills, nature fought to assert itself.

“I just wish,” Kaylee whispered, “there was some hope for the future, Alex. Something to look forward to. Something more than hiding and fear.”

“I know,” Alex said, holding her sweet head to his chest.

“When my mom was my age, she was about to start her first marriage. About to start a family. And what do I have?” Kaylee whispered.

“You’ve got me,” Alex said.

They held each other tighter.

“And who knows?” Alex said. “I’ve heard rumors. There are doctors in the mountains to the northeast. And underground network of them. They can reverse the sterilization. They can fool the тестs. It’s not over. Even if it seems like it, it’s never over.”

Kaylee said nothing, but held her step-brother (now step-sissy) in the fading late afternoon light. She lived in a strange world, indeed: a world devoid of men. All she knew were whiteboi sissies: a breed of sterilized half-men incapable of impregnating her. In the prime of her life — her moist and fertile loins begging for attention — she was relegated to a life of celibacy.

Kaylee ached for the touch of a man. Alex was the closest thing she’d known to one. He hadn’t been psychologically defeated. Despite his clothing, the ridiculous wig, his hormones, and his government-mandated makeup, she still saw the spark of manhood somewhere within him. She was drawn to it. She needed it in a primal way.

“I love you, Alex” Kaylee said, her voice sweet and soft.

“I love you too,” Alex said.

The step-siblings hugged in the silence of nature, sharing a foolish dream. They hoped, somehow, Alex would one day take Kaylee further north, into the deep wildnerness, and somehow find the scientific means to repopulate the white race with her. It sounded crazy, but who knew what was possible? With the right drugs, the right therapy, Alex might get his destroyed libido and his flaccid sex organ working again.

He would be Adam. She would be Eve. And they’d start again, on the run from the New African government. They might even run to freedom — perhaps to the north, or down into Latin America — and start a counter-insurgency.

>>48776
why did you hit ytboi in the second video?

BWC WON. SAGE.

it is sad.