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.

After cycles of torment and resulting suspensions (that Dontrell always blamed on me), I had a moment's relief when he finally dropped out of school to join the local street gang. He has always been adept with technology, however, so instead of shooting other young black men over turf Dontrell takes credit card numbers and other confidential information other thugs 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.

He has been tracking my movements with a geo location application that he installed on my phone, so that he can always find me now that we aren't in school together. And he still wants me involved in his nefarious side-hustles, which now seem to revolve around a destination he found on the dark web for interracial pornography featuring white women of beauty and privilege reluctantly getting fucked by predatory negro strangers.

Dontrell's initial target is the prettiest cheerleader on our school's varsity squad, who I just happen to tutor in science, in an ill-conceived scheme to profit on footage of her getting blacked, ideally as a participant and possibly a prospective pimp. He asks me to obtain access to the cheerleader's mobile phone to download the same malware that allows him to track me, but then surprised 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 directs. 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. Chills go up my spine that this assortment of ugly negro criminals are demanding my help that they be able to keep track of my mom, a sweet and pretty news anchor for the local news, through the mobile phone she brings everywhere.

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