My black bully awaits

I walk down our street and cut across a park that separates the leafy residential area where we live from the busier commercial strip where my high school is located. I slow to a **** near-shuffle when I detour into an alley and find the unlocked back door mid-block. This former storefront is supposed to be vacant, but behind the boarded windows a series of computers bathe the half-dozen black men who man these stations in an eerie blue glow.

While a couple of the black guys are (or at least look) older than my mom, the youngest is eighteen like me. "I could see you slowin' down like a bitch," he taunts me, but is mercifully ignored by his colleagues. His name is Dontrell, and he has been my black bully since middle school.

Even though I endured cycles of his **** without tattling, they would only end when Dontrell somehow ended up suspended. I had a moment's relief when he finally dropped out of school to join the local street gang, but Dontrell was good with technology so instead of shooting other young black men over turf Dontrell takes credit card numbers and other confidential information the violent thugs in his crew obtain through burglaries, purse-snatching or just breaking into cars and uploads it onto the dark web for real criminals to use in identity theft and other fraudulent financial ventures.

Now that we aren't in school together Dontrell has installed a geo location application on my phone so he can track me and always know where I am. And he still wants me involved in his nefarious side-hustles, which is now fulfilling a demand in a corner of the dark web for interracial pornography in which specific white women of beauty of privilege are fucked and inseminated by the sort of predatory negro strangers with whom they would otherwise never mix.

The initial target he identifies to me was the prettiest cheerleader on our school's varsity squad: the sort of girl Dontrell said went out of her way to avoid him when he was attending her school, always seemed to have a friend or other escort with her so he couldn't catch her alone no matter how hard he tried. "Dat Lexi a fine white girl but still a racist," he declared with a shrug, "Gonna need ta make me money gettin' blacked for all ta see and dat's all."

I'm ashamed to admit that knowledge of his scheme to profit on footage of Lexi getting blacked, with Dontrell likely to be first a participant and then her pimp, was arousing even though I was attracted to her myself. He knows I happen to tutor Lexi in science in my spare time, and tells me to obtain access to the cheerleader's mobile phone to download the same malware that allows him to track me. Then Dontrell surprises me when he adds an additional layer of complexity.

"You might only get one chance with Lexi, so test it on yo momma's phone first so we can make sure you do it right," Dontrell commands. I'm concerned about the request, having previously heard from him that my mom "is built for nigga cock," and doubly so once the older guys suddenly become interested and start pressuring me too.

My mom is a sweet and pretty news anchor for the local news, and the current strategy of this assortment of ugly negro criminals is to make money of the interracial defilement of women like her, so their sudden interest in tracking her through the phone she brings everywhere sends chills up my spine. But the fact also remains, now that they have been identified as worthwhile targets would she or Lexi be any safer if I refused or if I played along and somehow tried to save them?

The gangsters awaited my response, and I could see I would be late for school if I didn't leave now...