DonkeyHotey
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 7 de Ago, 2025
Nervous, dreadfully nervous: I had been and am. But would you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily and how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. There was an old plantation house at the end of a forsaken dirt lane, its walls black with mold and the ghosts of dreadfully archaic farming equipment.
I had taken it for the summer, seeking solitude after the city’s nigger-loving madness. The agent, a sniveling Yiddish coward with eyes that darted like a field nigger caught stealing watermelon, pressed the rusted key into my palm and whispered, trembling: “There might be niggers in here.”
At first I laughed. What folly! Yet that night, as the sky was moonless, starless, and black as the skin of a common Nubian thief, the words echoed through my soul: "There might be niggers in here." And I repeated it like a mantra. "There might be niggers in here."
Not regular porch-monkey niggers, nay! No sir! But the old ones. The tar-black, thick-lipped phantoms of the auction block, the cotton-picking, banjo-strumming, fried-chicken-stealing spooks that never really left. I lit every candle, yet the darkness crept closer, reeking of chitlins and grape drink.
In the dead hour of the night I sat by the hearth, where the fire crackled like whips on nigger backs. Then I heard it: a low, dull, watermelon-munching sound, as of a nigger’s heart beating slow and stupid beneath the floorboards.
Thump. Thump. Not mine. This was the heavy, lazy thump of a welfare nigger napping on the job. I rose, lantern in hand, and crept to the cellar door.
The stairs descended into a blackness thick as nigger lips.“Who dat?” I called, and my voice mocked me back. No answer. Only that persistent, lazy beating heart; the sign of very high cholesterol, and growing louder as I descended.
The air stank of malt liquor, cheap cigars, and the sour sweat of a thousand cotton-picking niggers. I searched for hours. In the farthest corner, behind barrels of watermelon moonshine, I found a hidden door.
Forcing it open, I beheld chains: still warm, as if freshly slipped off some runaway nigger’s ankles. Scratched into the stone with a filed-down spoon: "De niggers never left, massuh." A wild laugh burst from me. Mad? No, not mad! For now I understood.
The niggers were everywhere in this cursed house. Their big flat feet padded across the attic, their nappy heads poked through the walls, their bulging white eyes watched me from every shadow. Whispers slithered through the cracks: “Yassuh, massuh… we’s still here, massuh… gimme dat welfare check, massuh…”
I fled frantically upstairs, bolting every door. Yet the house pulsed with nigger life. In my chamber I cowered, but they came anyway: tall, coal-black phantoms with lips like inner tubes, teeth shining like stolen silverware, afros big enough to hide bowie knives.
There were dozens of them. Hundreds. They gathered at the foot of my bed, grinning that wide, idiot nigger grin, reeking of cocoa butter and entitlement.“You built dis big ol’ house on our backs, cracka!” they moaned. “Now we’s hauntin’ yo’ ass forever!”
Night after night the torment swelled. I boarded the windows. I nailed the doors. Still the beating came: louder, louder! Thump-thump, thump-thump, like a nigger banging on a welfare office door.
From under the floor, inside the walls, even inside my own damn skull. There might be niggers in here. THERE MIGHT BE NIGGERS IN HERE!
There WERE niggers in here! Lazy, shiftless, shapeless, ethereal criminal niggers filling every room until I choked on the smell of their greasy hair pomade. The dreaded Jerry curl that had not nauseated me since 1982 was back.
On the seventh night I could bear it no longer. I seized the axe and tore at the floorboards. “Come out, you goddamn niggers!” I shrieked. “Come out and pick this cotton!” Splinters flew. The beating turned frantic, like a nigger running from the police.
Beneath the third board yawned a pit blacker than a nigger’s soul. From it rose hands. Horrible black hands! Countless nigger hands: reaching up with knuckles ashy, fingers sticky with watermelon juice. They grabbed my ankles, my wrists, my throat.
Cold black hands, yet burning with jungle rage and reparations demands. I screamed. I fought. But they dragged me down into the narrow space where the chains waited, still warm from the last nigger who tried to escape. As the boards slammed shut over me, nailed by phantom hammers, I heard my own voice, muffled and distant:“There might be niggers in here…”And then: silence.
Except for the faint, eternal sound of one last nigger voice whispering through the wall:“Yassuh, massuh… we’s all up in here now. Now pass de chicken.”
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. There was an old plantation house at the end of a forsaken dirt lane, its walls black with mold and the ghosts of dreadfully archaic farming equipment.
I had taken it for the summer, seeking solitude after the city’s nigger-loving madness. The agent, a sniveling Yiddish coward with eyes that darted like a field nigger caught stealing watermelon, pressed the rusted key into my palm and whispered, trembling: “There might be niggers in here.”
At first I laughed. What folly! Yet that night, as the sky was moonless, starless, and black as the skin of a common Nubian thief, the words echoed through my soul: "There might be niggers in here." And I repeated it like a mantra. "There might be niggers in here."
Not regular porch-monkey niggers, nay! No sir! But the old ones. The tar-black, thick-lipped phantoms of the auction block, the cotton-picking, banjo-strumming, fried-chicken-stealing spooks that never really left. I lit every candle, yet the darkness crept closer, reeking of chitlins and grape drink.
In the dead hour of the night I sat by the hearth, where the fire crackled like whips on nigger backs. Then I heard it: a low, dull, watermelon-munching sound, as of a nigger’s heart beating slow and stupid beneath the floorboards.
Thump. Thump. Not mine. This was the heavy, lazy thump of a welfare nigger napping on the job. I rose, lantern in hand, and crept to the cellar door.
The stairs descended into a blackness thick as nigger lips.“Who dat?” I called, and my voice mocked me back. No answer. Only that persistent, lazy beating heart; the sign of very high cholesterol, and growing louder as I descended.
The air stank of malt liquor, cheap cigars, and the sour sweat of a thousand cotton-picking niggers. I searched for hours. In the farthest corner, behind barrels of watermelon moonshine, I found a hidden door.
Forcing it open, I beheld chains: still warm, as if freshly slipped off some runaway nigger’s ankles. Scratched into the stone with a filed-down spoon: "De niggers never left, massuh." A wild laugh burst from me. Mad? No, not mad! For now I understood.
The niggers were everywhere in this cursed house. Their big flat feet padded across the attic, their nappy heads poked through the walls, their bulging white eyes watched me from every shadow. Whispers slithered through the cracks: “Yassuh, massuh… we’s still here, massuh… gimme dat welfare check, massuh…”
I fled frantically upstairs, bolting every door. Yet the house pulsed with nigger life. In my chamber I cowered, but they came anyway: tall, coal-black phantoms with lips like inner tubes, teeth shining like stolen silverware, afros big enough to hide bowie knives.
There were dozens of them. Hundreds. They gathered at the foot of my bed, grinning that wide, idiot nigger grin, reeking of cocoa butter and entitlement.“You built dis big ol’ house on our backs, cracka!” they moaned. “Now we’s hauntin’ yo’ ass forever!”
Night after night the torment swelled. I boarded the windows. I nailed the doors. Still the beating came: louder, louder! Thump-thump, thump-thump, like a nigger banging on a welfare office door.
From under the floor, inside the walls, even inside my own damn skull. There might be niggers in here. THERE MIGHT BE NIGGERS IN HERE!
There WERE niggers in here! Lazy, shiftless, shapeless, ethereal criminal niggers filling every room until I choked on the smell of their greasy hair pomade. The dreaded Jerry curl that had not nauseated me since 1982 was back.
On the seventh night I could bear it no longer. I seized the axe and tore at the floorboards. “Come out, you goddamn niggers!” I shrieked. “Come out and pick this cotton!” Splinters flew. The beating turned frantic, like a nigger running from the police.
Beneath the third board yawned a pit blacker than a nigger’s soul. From it rose hands. Horrible black hands! Countless nigger hands: reaching up with knuckles ashy, fingers sticky with watermelon juice. They grabbed my ankles, my wrists, my throat.
Cold black hands, yet burning with jungle rage and reparations demands. I screamed. I fought. But they dragged me down into the narrow space where the chains waited, still warm from the last nigger who tried to escape. As the boards slammed shut over me, nailed by phantom hammers, I heard my own voice, muffled and distant:“There might be niggers in here…”And then: silence.
Except for the faint, eternal sound of one last nigger voice whispering through the wall:“Yassuh, massuh… we’s all up in here now. Now pass de chicken.”
