if you get lost just take my hand

Shane Dunn was fired for bad-think. ‘What have I done?’ he thought as he left his office with a cardboard box containing his personal items. ‘And what in the hell am I going to do now?’ Shane became more and more desperate as he got closer to the last sip of his coffee. He imagined the job listings on LinkedIn. Yes, they were all probably just as boring as his old job, one shitty corporate role after another. He could see them, scrolling in front of his eyes even though there was not a computer in sight and his smart phone was in his jacket pocket. But that didn’t matter any more. All of those corporate jobs were out of reach now. Any search of his name on the internet would show that he was a non-Woke outcast, banished from his global corporation and entirely irredeemable.

“We’re closing, mister,” said the dead-eyed barista, who was almost finished with the clean-up required at the end of her shift.

“Can I get a refill, to go?” Shane asked.

“Yeah, but you gotta go when I give it to you,” she replied.

“No problem,” Dunn said, and waited. When it arrived, he took the coffee cup, said, “Thank you,” and walked outside. The cold air stung his lungs. He miscalculated and took too big a gulp of the hot coffee, which burned his tongue and throat.

“Damn it,” he muttered. He hated having a burnt tongue, yet here he was again. “Fucking cock-sucking bitch mother-fucker cunt faggot.”

‘It’s only ten o’clock,’ he thought. ‘Now, I have nowhere to be tomorrow. To the bars!’

It was, of course, a bad decision, and he knew this even as he walked toward Johnny’s Train Wreck, his favorite bar. But at ten o’clock the city lights still shined bright and he knew he couldn’t face what he dreaded most — tossing and turning in his bed all night. There was no way he would be able to sleep, given what happened. ‘Why couldn’t that fucking journo have anything better to do than to check which tweets I liked?’ he asked himself with extreme displeasure. Shane walked on, sipping more coffee when he forgot, momentarily, about his burned tongue and throat. The coffee was still too hot, and it scalded his mouth once more.


“It’s a Tuesday, Shane,” the bartender said as she delivered his second whiskey. The hole-in-the-wall was empty; Shane gulped it down.

“That it is,” he replied, fidgeting with his right hand only, rubbing his index finger against his thumb with a nervous energy. “What time do you close on a Tuesday?”

“Two. Like any other day,” she replied. “You’re not thinking of closing the place down, though?”

“Maybe,” he said with a forlorn grimace. “I got run off my job today. It’s over. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“No kidding? You seem like a good corporate worker. Like you follow instruction and stuff. Show up on time. You tuck in your shirt and you have that… that haircut. So that’s a shock.”

“It is, it is. I’m fucked.”

“Was it a layoff… or did you… do something?”

“I— I did something.”

The bartender leaned toward him, conspiratorial. “What did you do?”

“I liked the wrong tweet. On Twitter,” Shane replied, wistful.

“Duh, I know what Twitter is,” said the bartender, rolling her eyes.

“I mean… I guess it was wrong. No… I mean… it wasn’t wrong. I still agree with what it said, so the whole thing is confusing. It was just—”

“Don’t even say it… I’ve been through that,” she said. “Why do you think I’m working here? I have a degree from Duke.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I made a joke on-line, though. Also, on Twitter, by the way. Funny as hell. But a couple days later I was fi-nish-ed.”

“Really? Must have been quite a joke.”

Shane stared at her; she was cute. Puffy Lana Del Rey lips (except natural), blue eyes, brown hair, thirty-four Cs and a taut round bubble. She wore a white tank top over ripped blue jeans and some gray Chucks.

“It was pretty funny,” she said with a smile. “I mean, not to brag or anything. But I got mobbed by the woke crowd and… well, here I am pouring whiskeys.”

“That stinks.”

“Yeah, whatever. At least I can be myself…”

“But… you’re stuck here serving drinks!”

“It’s fine. The depressing part is seeing people with so much potential come in here, but it wastes away because they are weak and scared,” she said with a devious smile.

“Like m—”

“Exactly. You’re six-one, good frame, easy on the eyes. You’re funny. But you’re soft. You’re such a pussy it’s pathetic, in here crying about losing your job at some gay-ass corporation. You were really going to do that for your whole life? That was your plan?”

“I— I…”

The bartender walked away. Shane Dunn stared blankly and impotently at her ass as he finished his whiskey and asked for another when she came back over. She turned and poured it without saying anything. Then another. He pounded that one and when he got her attention again he ordered a double. He knocked it back and ordered again.

“Oh just great,” muttered Shane at one point, as he dwelt on his firing. “Fucking God-damn New York Times shit-covered fucking asshole bitch dick-sucker cumrag whore fuck-face. Who writes an article about Twitter likes?”

The bartender was out of earshot for Shane’s string of bitter, nonsensical profanity. He calmed down after that and made some more small talk, even though he was despondent. Sure enough, the alcohol began to overtake his organs and stupefy his senses. He felt better by the minute.

She put the half-full glass back in front of him and half-whispered, “What was the Tweet that you liked?”

Dunn whispered the details into her ear. He told her what the tweet said, verbatim, and described the attack articles written by the New York Times and a blogpost by the ADL as a result of the ensuing scandal.

“Ha! Holy shit, you’re fucked, Shane! The fucking ADL came after you? Those Jews don’t fuck around when it comes to censorship. I hope you know how to tend bar or make lattes. Or suck dick,” replied the bartender, laughing.

“Fuck off!” exclaimed Shane, laughing heartily for the first time since he got fired earlier that day. “But yeah, you’re not kidding… I couldn’t believe it. They called me every buzzword, there were -isms and -phobias right and left. I knew the main ones, but some of the -isms I had never even heard of until people were saying them… about me. About me! I’m so fucked.”

“Well if you need anything… like I said, I know the feeling. And maybe you’ll be more interesting now that you’re not working that job,” she said, sliding a napkin with her phone number scrawled on it.

“Thanks, Jess,” said Shane, pocketing her number. Soon he got off the stool and staggered drunkenly for the door.


The following morning, Shane got a late start. The clock on his phone showed 9:23 the first time he looked at it. Hung-over, he eventually roused himself out of bed even though he didn’t have anywhere to go. He opened his refrigerator which, to his chagrin, was empty, besides a clump of cauliflower and half a bottle of iced tea. Both items menaced him. He cursed: “Dogshit!” It was the first non-vacation Wednesday in seven years that he had not been in the office at MegaCap Holding Corporation before nine in the morning, drinking a hot coffee, always with two successive sips.

He reconsidered, grabbed the cauliflower, chewed a chunk of it down his throat and then flushed it the rest of the way with a swig of the iced tea.

“Nasty!” he exclaimed, out loud. “I need coffee,” he grumbled, as he pulled some white sneakers onto his feet. He grabbed his wallet and walked out of his nine-hundred-square-foot apartment, slamming the door shut behind him with frustration. He took the stairs down and soon enough he was walking along the heavily-trafficked sidewalk, alongside throngs of pedestrians.

His favorite coffee shop had not survived the ‘Rona lockdowns, so he had to walk an additional two blocks to get to a fucking Starbucks. It pissed him off, but he needed the God-damned caffeine. Just as he arrived, something caught his eye in the window of the adjacent store unit. A sign:


‘Wait a second. Woke? Maybe that was the problem in the first place! Maybe this is it?’ He thought. For a second, he forgot about needing coffee. On impulse, he walked through the Woke, Inc. door.

“Good morning,” said the receptionist. “How can we help you?”

“Hi… I saw your sign. I’m just curious as to what that means,” Shane said. “What do you guys do?”

“We can make you Woke for six thousand dollars. It only takes two hours.”

“Tell me more,” said Shane.

“You gotta see the Doctor for that,” said the receptionist, snapping her gum and adjusting her fake tits inside her blouse.


Shane waited in the reception area for nearly half-an-hour. Soon enough, he was ushered into a private office with a pot-bellied fifty-something year old man dressed in a lab coat.

“Sit down, Shane,” Doctor Vercich said, nodding toward a chair across from him.

“So, have you decided to go Woke?”

Dunn sat, feeling self-conscious. “Well, it’s not that I can’t go Woke on my own… I just have difficulty with it. I’m not sure what it is. I wanted to talk about it.”

“Well, if you have trouble with being Woke it’s usually one of two things: too much noticing or no self-censorship. Those are the main things that prevent people from fitting in with the Woke. That’s if you’re not Woke… or pretending to be Woke in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” asked Shane, feeling some tightness in his left temple.

“Just think about it. You’ll get it,” said the Doctor with a smile.

“Yeah… I haven’t had my coffee yet and I’m… uh… hung over. So I’m a little slow or whatever. I lost my job yesterday.”

“Oh, no. What company?”

“MegaCap Holding Co.”

“Mm-hmm, good company. What division?”

“Leverage,” replied Shane as his cheeks flushed with either embarrassment or anger.

“And what happened… with the job?”

“I liked a bad tweet.”

“Oh man. A bad tweet… Was it a racism, a transphobia, a sexism or something else? Maybe a homophobia?”

“I mean… It was a racism or whatever. But I guess there was also some -phobias and some other -isms. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll do it. That’s a big no-no!” bellowed Doctor Vercich.

“Yeah. I didn’t realize this really nasty lady from the New York Times—”

“Woah! Just hold on! Calling her nasty will not solve your problem,” interrupted Vercich.

“Oh, umm, well I didn’t realize this woman was watching for likes. That’s what she does, I found out. She just searches for people doing buzzwords on Twitter and then goes in for the kill. That’s her job. Didn’t even cross my mind that someone like that existed.”

“Did she publish?” asked Vercich with a grave tone.

“Oh yeah, she looked up my job and my background — it wasn’t hard, it was in my Twitter bio — and wrote an entire article and a series of tweets attacking me.”

The Doctor grimaced. “Well, there it is. It’s the self-censorship that got you?”

“I don’t know, it kind of felt like noticing. I mean, fuck, the tweet was true.”

“Truth doesn’t matter in the context of doing a racism. Easy mistake to make if you’re not careful. Let’s go with a bit of both… noticing and self-censorship,” replied Doctor Vercich. “The good news is our procedure takes care of both.”

“So, how does this… process… work?” asked Shane.

“Brain-machine interface. In a nutshell, we insert a cable into your brain.”

“No shit? That will make me Woke?”

“Yes. The cable has an array of small and flexible electrodes threads. We blast a couple areas of your brain… the ones we talked about, noticing and reticence. We hit them with free-form electrodes. You can’t notice anything and, when we do an overload, you are stunned into silence. Can’t say or type anything that’s not Woke if you can’t move.”

“So, you’re saying I won’t notice shit and that means I can’t say anything that’s not Woke?”

“That’s the first part of it,” nodded Vercich.

“Because that doesn’t make sense! This sounds like bullshit, if you’ll pardon my expression. You said you can make me Woke. You didn’t say you can only make me not-not-Woke.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said it’s only part of it.”

“So you can actually make me Woke?”

“So, you see Shane, we have also built a neuro-surgical robot capable of bringing 192 electrodes per minute to the Woke party, you know, the one in your head. We pull from a few Woke websites and a couple other places and basically upload the contents of the website into the robot’s memory banks. So this small implantable device provides full-bandwidth data streaming from the device, right into your nodes. You see?”

“I have nodes? What does that even mean?”

“We basically just override your thoughts with new thoughts. Do you understand?” asked Vercich.

“Not really,” said Shane.

“The websites have every buzzword and attack vector mapped out against non-Wokes. We’ll teach you how to hate White people. And that really is the essence of Woke. If you take anything that a normal White person believes and loves and you shriek about it, you’re Woke.”

“So these websites specialize in Woke?”

“Yes. That is what they do. Black worship, Trannies, Gay Weddings to the most toxic strands of Feminism to anti-White Critical Race Theory. It’s all part of the same process.”

“Interesting. I had no idea. So, if I do this, I will know all those buzzwords by heart? And they just come out naturally? I won’t sound programmed, right?”


“No shit, man. This sounds great.”

“Fair warning, though. Woke means Woke. This isn’t play acting, it becomes part of you. You’ll be a whole new person, specifying your pronouns and speaking their language in no time. If you see a Pepe the Frog meme you will have a meltdown. You okay with that?”

“A frog?” Shane asked.

“Never-mind, never-mind. So what do you think?” asked the Doctor, after a pause.

Shane’s face had shown excitement, but suddenly he looked downtrodden.

“What is it?” asked Doctor Vercich. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, I was just thinking that I could have used this before I liked that tweet. If I go Woke now, I still don’t have a job.”

“At least you would have a chance to get one,” said the Doctor, calm. “We also write references. We know all the Diversity and Inclusion professionals. We’ll get you a gig, you can pass as a homosexual if you have to.”

“A homo-what?” asked Shane, confused.

“Well, you’re not black. You’re not some other fucked up… oh never-mind. How do you think you get a diverse job if you’re White? It’s your call, you will have to go homosexual or trans. It’s just the way it is, man.”

“Can we just pretend?”

“It’s not pretending if we upload it…” said Vercich with a sick grin.

“Are there any risks that it won’t work?”

“Don’t think of it that way,” Vercich said severely. “Think of the possibilities instead. If you do it and you are not Woke after, what is the downside? You’ll still be the same broke castoff… no job… no life… if you don’t go Woke.”

“Well, the downside is six thousand dollars out the door. And I just lost my income so what I have left might have to last me forever. I’m a broke-dick mother-fucker right now but I don’t need to be broke minus six thousand.”

“You’ll be Woke, Shane. Don’t over-think it. If you’re Woke, you can get any job in America. Think about it, endless possibilities. Just say the right buzzwords and you rise to the top. Say it with me… say ‘racist.’”


“Say it… racist.”


“Get more enthusiastic with it. Come on, like you mean it. Say ‘sexist.’”

“Sexist,” said Shane, a little louder.

“Transphobic,” said Doctor Vercich.

“Transphobic,” repeated Shane.

“I hate White people!” yelled Vercich.

“I hate— okay, okay, I get the picture. It’s that easy, I guess?”

“Woke is easy. It flows once you get the hang of it. Remember to always start with ‘Racist.’ Just call everything ‘racist’ and the rest of it will flow right out. That’s Woke for ya’. Do you want to call someone to talk it over? A friend? Family? Something?”

“Nobody—” Shane was about to answer when he stopped himself. “Yeah… yeah. I’ll call someone.” He pulled Jess’ number out of his pocket.

“I’ll excuse myself, and just have someone grab me when you make your decision,” said Doctor Vercich.

Shane dialed Jess’ number on his smart phone. He was a bit surprised when she answered.


“Jess, it’s… it’s Shane Dunn. From the bar.”

There was a long pause.

“Jesus, dude. I didn’t think you would actually call. What time is it?” asked Jess.

“It’s like ten something. Or eleven. I don’t know. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I’m fucking sleeping, you dumbass! I closed the bar last night and got home at three. You called me to ask what I was doing?” she ranted.

“No… no I was going to get some coffee and I saw this sign… I’m here right now… they said they can make me Woke for six thousand bucks. A brain implant or something. They told me I could call someone and I just thought of you since you gave me your number. I just wanted to ask what you thought of it.”

“You’re gonna put some shit in your brain to make you scream “racist” all the time?” said Jess, laughing. “You’re joking, right?”

“I need a job, Jess. If I have to call people ‘racist’ to get it I’m fine with that. What choice do I have? Why are you being so negative?”

“Do it then. Have fun acting like even more of a faggot. At least you’ll get another shitty job, though,” said Jess. She hung up and went back to sleep.


Shane found the receptionist again and told her that he was ready to go Woke. She processed his credit card and dialed Doctor Vercich on the intercom. The Doctor came and got Shane and situated him in a big baby-blue leather reclining chair for the operation. Vercich licked his lips and rubbed his hands together as he called the two technicians into the room, the ones that would assist Vercich while he administered the gear, implanting it into Shane’s head.

“We’re all ready, Mr. Dunn,” Vercich said. “You’re going to go Woke, and you’re going to love it. The sky is the limit for you. You have so much potential.”

‘I can’t believe I’ll know all those Woke buzzwords,’ Shane thought. He suddenly grew worried, with an acute stab of fear, thinking that something would go horribly wrong with the operation.

“Are… are these technicians experienced?” Dunn asked, just as the sedation was starting to take effect.

“Yes, they have both done this many thousands of times, it’s standard procedure,” Vercich replied.

The technicians were two fats, one black as night (Shaniqua) and one dot-Indian (Nimrata). Nobody knew how they had managed to complete any sort of training courses while keeping up their routine of inactivity and constant caloric intake. But it didn’t matter to Shane anymore, he was out like a light, sleeping in the chair.

It took Doctor Vercich one hour to saw into Shane’s skull and plug in the brain-machine interface. He gave the signal to Shaniqua, who smacked her lips as she clicked through the download/upload protocol like a trained baboon, sending sixty-nine gigabytes of Woke buzzwords and other Woke stuff into Shane Dunn’s head via the robot mechanism Vercich had described to Shane earlier.

As Shane reclined in the baby-blue operation chair, his green-gray eyes flickered.

“It’s time, Nimrata. Go!” announced Vercich.

Nimrata’s job was to wake the newly-Woke. Nimrata lugged her gnarly elephant ass toward Shane and leaned toward his face, whooping out a well-known traditional Indian song, “Liṅga yōni gudā stana bakavāsa bakavāsa bakavāsa liṅga yōni gudā stana hara jagaha bakavāsa…”

Nimrata’s shrill voice startled Shane and his eyes went wide. His eyes flickered again, just for a second, and then seemed to focus; he looked as if he was staring at a frolicking puppy rather than a beastly female with an atrociously bad voice, not to mention her breath which smelled of curry and dirty diapers. Vercich watched Shane carefully, trying to see if the operation had been able to remove Shane’s natural sense of discernment and overpower his healthy disgust reflex. Vercich smiled, thinking that it had.

“What a beautiful song! The lyrics just flow off your wonderful diverse tongue, you bring us such cultural enrichment… the enrichment only a goddess can bring!” exclaimed Shane. “May I take your wonderful-diverse-self out for a Columbian coffee and a Mexican taco? For dessert we can have a Ruba-Khan, a brain delicacy from the Congo. These things will show our appreciation for the great cultures of the world, through their food. Through their food.”

“I can’t,” said Nimrata, staring at her garish fake nails.

Shane smiled, “Well, maybe some other time, you lovely enricher of diverse things!”

Nimrata didn’t respond.

“Success!” said Doctor Vercich. “Shane, you are speaking Woke!”

“Pfft. Success is a holdover from the White patriarchal structures of oppression. It doesn’t adequately express respect for trans or black contributions, of which there are SOOO many,” scoffed Shane Dunn. “Can’t we just say that the procedure is done?”

“It is done,” agreed Doctor Vercich, smiling and nodding.

Shane got out of the chair. Before he exited the room, he kneeled in front of the hulking Shaniqua and her ten pounds of hair extensions. He stayed there for a few seconds, lowering his head as he knelt in a deep display of black ally solidarity and humble servitude. “I hope to be an ally to you, my big and beautiful Nubian queen Shaniqua.”

Shane left without another word and soon enough he was walking out of the building. As he strolled down the sidewalk, Shane Dunn did not contemplate for one single second that he was Woke. He just was.


It didn’t take long for Shane Dunn to put his new found Woke-ness to work.
Before that happened, though, he picked up a coffee at his usual spot; then, he sat in the corner scrolling through the LinkedIn job postings. He had only a vague remembrance of being fired from MegaCap Holdings.

The black lives matter mob had gathered in the street to chimp out over a fresh police shooting of a grimy black hood-rat. It didn’t matter that the guy who got shot was a hardened criminal with an IQ of eighty-two. He had been arrested forty-nine times for everything ranging from armed robbery to passing bad checks. He was shot in the aftermath of a strong-armed car-jacking.
None of that mattered to the howling group of half-retarded illiterates who gathered out in the street to raise hell about the shooting of the would-be carjacker. These people were the fringes of society, the permanent underclass, the attack dogs for the modern Amerikwan regime. They were wholly incapable of being part of a functioning, decent society. The dysfunction was genetically based, so the problem was a never-ending cycle: their offspring would have the exact same deficiency. More than anything, it was sad and disappointing that there were people with these wretched characteristics and there was nothing that could be done about it. But no matter the cause, whenever there was a corporate media sanctioned opportunity to de-construct and destroy the things that they could never build or maintain, they did it.


Shane Dunn, stupefied by Doctor Vercich’s Woke re-wiring of his brain, ambled out of his coffee shop and joined the b-l-m group that was just up the street.

“Hello, ma’am,” said Shane, addressing a heavy-set black female of about thirty.

“I am happy to join you on this march against oppression and repression. What your people have gone through has been terrible! You were pulled out of a paradise in Africa and sold into slavery! And now you are subject to all sorts of micro-aggressions. No amount of affirmative action can make up for that! We need reparations!”

The female, holding a sign that said ‘Black is Buetifull’, stared at Shane with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “What da fuck is you be talkin’ about, nigga?”

Shane was surprised at the response, and desperate to ingratiate himself with this black female.

“The oppression, the fight for equity! I’m an ally! I’m an ally!”

“Tyrone, I be havin’ some White mow-fucka sayin’ stuff to me n’ sheeeit,” said the female. “I ain’t be havin’ no idea what he’s talkin’ about n’ sheeeit,” said the woman, addressing another member of the b-l-m gathering.

“Ayooo, nigga watchoo talkin’ bout n’ sheeeit?”

“I’m here to help fight against the oppression of your people! All the way from slavery to micro-aggressions!”

“Who you callin’ a slave, nigga?”

“Please don’t use that word!” Shane begged. “It is a sign of oppression and of the history of supremacy! It is insulting to your people!

“Nigga, please!” grunted Tyrone.

“No! No! I’m fighting against slavery! I’m fighting for you!”

“Man, fuck you nigga! Talkin’ ‘bout slavery n’ sheeit. I ain’t no slave.”

“I’m fighting against slavery!” screamed Shane Dunn, hysterical, trying to get through to his ally Tyrone.

Shane Dunn’s Woke-ness had removed his understanding of self-preservation and, what’s more, it eliminated his ability to recognize and acknowledge the low intelligence levels of Tyrone and the female. Now that he was Woke, he had become unable to conceive of any thoughts about the blacks unless they were platitudes programmed into his brain by the neurotransmitter and the downloaded Woke dogma. He overestimated his words and had no corrective mechanism that could account for his naïve enthusiasm for the blacks . ‘Diversity is our strength,’ he told himself. ‘Diversity is our strength.’ While he was reciting that slogan to himself, Woke Shane didn’t realize that Tyrone was circling around to his left to try to get a punch in on Shane for his reference to ‘slavery,’ which Tyrone didn’t understand beyond the word itself.

Luckily for Shane, before Tyrone finished lining up to throw the punch, the angry would-be assailant was distracted by an old Asian man hobbling along on the sidewalk. The man wore old-fashioned spectacles and used an aluminum walker. In a flash, Tyrone abandoned his apparent plan to ambush Shane and took off in the direction of the old Asian, looking to beat the shit out of him and steal the old man’s wallet. Physically, the old Asian – a Chinese – was no match for Tyrone and, sure enough, a few minutes later Tyrone had the man’s money, one hundred and seventy dollars, and both of his bank cards, one a debit card from Chase and one a credit card issued by American Express. Tyrone emptied the contents of the Asian’s wallet into his own pocket, tossing it aside when he was done. Shane, in his Woke stupor, didn’t notice any of that and continued to walk along with the b-l-m march, shouting and chanting enthusiastically with the group.

“We are black! We are the pack! Give us reparations or we’ll attack!” shouted the group, over and over.

A couple hours went by like this. Tyrone and the heavy-set black female never re-focused their attention on Shane Dunn. The b-l-m group kept milling around, doing not much of anything. It seemed as if they were waiting for nightfall so they could engage in some looting, arson and ambush.


Meanwhile, Jess Waters, the bartender from Johnny’s Train Wreck was killing time in her tiny apartment.

Jess was a rarity: a woman living in America who wasn’t fat, wasn’t Woke, had a good sense of humor and a reasonably good perspective on things in general. In fact, she had a better perspective than most of the feminized nu-males who lived in America (including Shane Dunn). What’s more, Jess wasn’t a used up slut-rag. She had one ‘serious’ boyfriend (as the expression goes) but they had split up after dating for a little over a year and she had been single in the months that had followed. She didn’t go on Tinder to get run through by ten, twenty, fifty or a hundred guys. Instead, she just went about her business and tried to figure out how to carve out a decent future for herself and, hopefully, find a good husband.

Jess had volunteered for yet another shift at work that evening, because she was trying to save up some money to be able to move out of the country once and for all. The Woke, degenerate Amerikwan regime occupying the country after subverting and controlling its institutions, one after another, had made life disgusting and intolerable for most heritage Americans. Or, she thought, at a minimum, she would at least get out of New York and head to a place that had not yet been as infected with Woke politics and flooded with third world people. She was done with all of that and the societal maladies that came with the dramatic decline. Jess had a car – a Jeep, even though it was cliché – but she walked to work since it was close by; she would need to leave in about an hour to be at the Train Wreck on time for her shift.


While Jess relaxed, Shane Dunn was still in the mix with the gaggle of black lives matter fuck-ups and retards. He walked East with the rest of the group, chanting, shucking and jiving… all of it. He happened to look up and he saw a billboard containing an advertisement for corporate estrogen, marketed toward males who wanted to mimic females in appearance. Caitlyn Jenner was on the billboard, holding up a dosage of the hormone for the advertisement.

“Stunning and Brave! So beautiful! You are the epitome of womanhood!” Shane said, addressing the image of Jenner directly in a loud voice.

The corporate tranny billboard was a temporary distraction. After the outburst, Woke Shane quickly re-focused on the point of the march, black plight. Oppression of the blacks. Repression of the blacks. Unequal outcomes. Time sped up for Shane as the uploaded Woke material flooded his brain, still oozing here and there, attacking his synapses with nonsense and degenerate Woke ideology. He was in a Woke daze and he verbalized the black lives matter and anti-White ADL creeds that Doctor Vercich and his team had uploaded into his mind.

He spewed their tropes out as fast as he could: “Deconstruct Whiteness; smash the heteronormative patriarchy, down with the nuclear family, black is beautiful, White supremacy, White fragility, reparations, we waz kangz!”

Another forty-five minutes went by like this until Shane Dunn, for worse, caught the attention of a b-l-m marcher named Jamal. Jamal wore a ratty tank top and may have been a down-low nigga since he wore his jeans half-way off his ass.

“Ayo, what you be talkin’ bout cracka?” Jamal asked, high-pitched.

“Sir, these are the messages of the group, we are overcoming the oppression that has been launched at us since sixteen-nineteen. I am an ally. I respect the black man and I will kneel if you like. Can I interest you in a foot wash?” replied Shane with a warm smile. “I am here for the struggle.”

“Nigga, please. Don’t come around here with no White boy shit! We be lootin’ n’ sheeeit.”

“It’s not White boy shit, my friend. It’s all right from the mission statement. I want to make sure black lives are viewed as mattering. Once they matter, then everyone will matter. To matter, we have to have equality. Everyone has equal gifts, you know.”

“Man, fuck dat sheeit. We doin’ nigga shit up in hee-ah!” yelled Jamal.

The last thing that Shane Dunn noticed before he was pack-attacked by Jamal’s friends (from behind) was that the march had just arrived in front of his favorite bar, Johnny’s Train Wreck. But seconds later, Shane was bloody and unconscious, after Lil’ Kweezy, Ta’Reek, Laquisha and Shawkwonda punched and kicked the shit out of him.

“Dis be fo’ slavery!” yelled Laquisha as Shane blacked out from the pounding.
Jamal joined in on the attack after Shane was down on the ground, like a grubby hyena joining in with its mates.


When Shane Dunn came-to, Jess Waters and a man that Shane didn’t recognize were hovering over him, tending to his wounds with a cold compress on his eye and neck. He didn’t know where he was.

“Listen closely, Shane,” said Jess. “You’re only going to get one chance at this. If we can’t fix you, I’m just sending you back out there and you can do whatever Woke shit you want. So follow Brendan’s instructions.”

“I think I’ve got it dialed in,” said the man, as he looked down at Shane and typed on his laptop. “Shane, I’m going to need you to stay still in a second. We’ve got to get that fucking Woke shit out of your head. I’m almost ready to go. Jess, go ahead and give him some Jameson. I want to slow everything down for him.”
Jess walked out of the room, which Shane still hadn’t figured out was a private back-room at Johnny’s Train Wreck. A few minutes later, she came back with three-quarters-a-glass of whiskey. Shane, who was still in a fair amount of pain from the pack-beating, gulped half of it down.

“Why in the hell did you do that Woke deal, Shane?” she asked in an accusatory, frustrated tone.

“Not yet, Jess,” said Brendan. “We need him to be relaxed. You can yell at him later.”

Shane looked as if he was about to respond to Jess, but he ended up not saying anything. Instead, he finished the whiskey.

“I’ve got the link established. We’re connected, ready for deletion and upload. I’m just trying to figure out what to replace the Woke filth with. Any thoughts?”

“Can’t you just delete it?” Jess asked.

“Well, yeah, but I can’t guarantee that it won’t create a vacuum. We don’t know what’s been overriden.”

“You mean he’ll just have a blank head?” Jess said, looking as if she couldn’t contain a laugh but managing to do so at the last second.

“Maybe. They filled him up with a lot of serious garbage. I’ve got the download log pulled up here. ADL shit and b-l-m trash. What a disaster!”

“What about the Classics?”

“Well, yeah, but we can’t have him speaking Greek or Shakespearean English, can we? It’s not a bad idea but it won’t work.”

Jess laughed.

“It’s a real problem, Jess. We can’t just replace the Woke shit with anything. It’s going to be most or all of what he knows until he can be deprogrammed and re-gain life experience surrounded by some decent people.”

“What… what are you guys talking about,” stammered Shane.

“You remember that stupid deal you called me about?” sneered Jess. “You went Woke for six thousand?”

Shane went silent. He had a vague remembrance of Dr. Vercich’s sickening smile; he remembered calling Jess to discuss something, but couldn’t remember exactly what it was. It rang a bell, but he couldn’t place it, not all the way.

“I… I don’t— everything is so racist, sexist, and phobic… the oppression and there is no equality.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Nevermind,” said Jess.

“We can’t just upload the classics or Nietzsche or some damn forum. He’ll be a mess.”

“What about Heartiste?”

“Maybe some of the old stuff, but it’s not balanced.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Jess.

“I don’t know,” replied Brendan.

“BAP? My Posting Career? Unz?” asked Jess.

“We can’t have him talk like BAP writes. That’s a no. And we can’t just have him yelling ‘NIGGER!’ like the posting forums. Too much crazy shit on MPC and he won’t know how to filter it. There has to be something…” replied Brendan, shaking his head.

“What about Solzhenitsyn or Dostoevsky or Havel or something like that? If it’s a good translation he won’t speak that weird and he won’t be Woke.”

“I’ll figure something out,” replied Brendan.

“Well, do it fast.”

Brendan clicked his keys for about ten minutes straight.

“Okay, Shane. Lay back, we’re gonna get you fixed up. Say bye to Woke-faggot Shane.”

Shane did as Brendan instructed; Brendan pressed the button on his mouse.

Shane’s eyes flickered and then closed, he went into a deep sleep.


Shane woke up in at Jess’ apartment. In fact, he was in her bed. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxers with the rest of his clothes stacked on a chair with his shoes sitting below them. He had no recollection of how he got there, and he couldn’t remember much of anything at all. He did remember his name. He had a strong sense that he had been a prisoner for a long time and that he had only recently been freed. But the narrative was all partial, it wasn’t a complete story. Not long after he sat up in bed, Jess came into the bedroom. Thankfully, he recalled her face. He was happy to see her and he sat up in bed as she approached.

“You’re up,” she said with a warm smile.

“That I am. How long was I out?”

“Sixteen hours. Brendan gave you a pretty good mix of stuff, he told me you would be out for a while as it all sorted itself out in your head.”

“We’re… in your apartment?”

“We are. I couldn’t just dump you off at your place. I mean, come on.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty groggy. I appreciate you being here for me.”

“It’s no problem, Shane.”

“What’s… the plan?”

“I saved quite a bit of money, Shane. Like I told you before you pulled that stupid stunt. I did it to get out of this hellhole. I’m thinking Wyoming or Utah. Or maybe Texas.”

“Oh, I just meant in terms of getting some coffee or food or something… Ha!”

“Oh, look at you. Now you’re giving me shit for being too serious. The guy who panicked and went Woke because of some corporate job.”

“Well, not really. But I could use some caffeine, that is pretty much all I know right now.”

“You’ve been through a lot. I can make you a coffee here. But don’t get used to it… I mean, maybe you can but we’ll just have to see. I’m not promising anything more than a few days of help.”

“I— I can’t remember any of it, Jess. I can’t remember what happened.”

“After Brendan did the upload, he disabled the device in your head. So no-one can fuck with you again, not easily at least. We just have to go with what you have now. But don’t worry, Brendan knows his shit. He’s a famous programmer. So I’m sure he took care of you. He said that as time goes by, the upload should matter less and you’ll start to get your bearings with your own original thoughts. But he started you off with some good stuff. You should be bearable to be around as long as we keep the pozz out of your environment for a month or two. We have to give you time to build up your disgust reflex again. If you see or hear Woke shit, you need to be able to reject it on your own like any normal, strong man.”


“Yeah, liberal filth. You can’t watch any Hollywood shit or any Amerikwan corporate media for a few months. You can look at the internet a little bit, but only on sites that I approve. Old books are fine. Some old movies too. A few accounts on Gab. Some Unz, maybe even a little Anglin – but only in small doses at first. I don’t want you to know how bad things really are all at once. That can be demoralizing. If you don’t follow MY playbook, I’m out… by myself. I’m paying for this for now – Brendan didn’t charge me anything but I’ll take care of your food and stuff until you are better – but I’m not going to tolerate a cuck. It’s gross.”

“I’ll do what you say,” said Shane, with a helpless look on his face.

“You can have that attitude for now, but you need to step up. That’s not going to fly for long. You’re the man. I’m the woman. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“Why did you help me?” asked Shane. “You could have just left me for dead.”

“I just… saw something in you, underneath it all, I mean. It’s called the benefit of the doubt. You were a sad cuck but you didn’t know any better. I’ve seen you at that bar for a few years now. I could tell you lost your way a little at a time. But I saw flashes. I think there’s a man in there somewhere. A real man.”

Shane was silent for five seconds.

“How did Brendan know about all this… Woke stuff?”

“He got canceled years ago. He knows all about it.”

“What for?” Shane asked.

“Brendan… donated some money to try to prevent homosexual weddings.”

“Homosexual what?”

“Oh yeah, that was a big thing a few years ago. Gay weddings. Then they moved to pushing trannies.”


“Forget it, man. I don’t want to talk about that. But you can ask Brendan about it sometime. He’s a good friend, he’ll be around. Anyway, he doesn’t have anything against gay people, that shit is whatever and it’s not going away, but the whole agenda – all the rainbow bullshit and the anal propaganda aimed at kids, it just didn’t sit with him. He said, ‘No way… not on my watch.’ He acted to defend his beliefs and he got attacked for it by the Wokes. So he had some sympathy for your situation. He knows what the mob of shitlibs do to people who stand up to them. And he knows it can be scary if you’re not independently wealthy. He has money, though, so it wasn’t as hard on him as it can be on others.”

A wave of memories came back to Shane. Not all of it, just bits and pieces. He remembered his old job and a little bit of the Twitter fiasco. He remembered the tweet that he liked and the attacks that followed.

“My job!” he exclaimed.

“They did you a favor,” Jess said, flatly. “That place sucks.”

“Wait! I can see that now… maybe Brendan really did fix me?”

“He just gave you a foundation. Some old Russians, some old Germans, a little bit of the classics and then some American dissidents. It’s a good stew. We just have to see how it takes. It’s up to you to build on it and get back on your feet. The hard part is still to come.”

Shane smiled. Suddenly, a fresh wave of fatigue overtook him. He rolled over and went back to sleep.


It was only two weeks later that Jess had packed up her car, the run down old Jeep mentioned earlier. She hadn’t told Shane, but she had rented a cabin in Wyoming. She planned to tend bar out there until she figured out a long term plan. The time with Shane had been bearable, but he had slept a ton. Brendan told Jess that might happen, since the upload was real material, not pointless crap like the prior download of filth, so his mind was working overtime to process all the information and that led to fatigue.

Jess had just let Shane relax, but she didn’t have a sense of whether she wanted to invite him with her. If he was a man, she was interested. If he was a pussy or a cuck – or if there was residual Woke-ness – she wasn’t interested.

After she had packed her belongings, she walked up to Shane. Without saying anything, she held up her phone and played a video of Jonathan Greenblatt going on a nasty two minute diatribe attacking White people. He used all the typical Woke buzzwords, the bullshit about ‘privilege’ and ‘fragility’ and ‘supremacy’ and ‘oppression’ and on and on.

Shane watched the video. When it was over, Jess simply looked at Shane.

“My God, what a vile goblin! We need to make sure filth like that is not shown to impressionable White children. What a disgusting, foul piece of shit!” exclaimed Shane. “We should look into putting that guy down. What a fucking creep!”

Jess smiled. She played another video. This one was a heavy-set black female named Stacey Abrams. Again, Jess did not say anything as the video played; it was a rant about how black people are important to the American ‘democracy’ and that black people could not be expected to present identification in order to vote. Like Greenblatt’s rant, the video contained vague attacks on White people in general, using the familiar buzzwords. It was apparent from the video that the fat woman was of cartoonishly low intelligence.

“My God. What a horrible woman. We need to separate from that bullshit. If Whites are so bad and oppressive, let’s save that beast and her friends from having to deal with us!”

Jess smiled again. Shane realized that she was testing him; she was making sure he was not an impotent cuck and that he rejected the anti-White stench of Greenblatt and Abrams before continuing to entertain the possibility of a future with him.

“Hey, so I’m moving to Wyoming.”

“You are?”

“You wanna come?”

“With you?”

“No, dummy. By yourself.”

“How do I know you really want me to go?”

“Because I just asked you, Shane.”

“Yeah but what if you’re just saying that?”

“What are you asking? Have you ever known me not to be straight with you?”

“Well, that’s the problem. It wasn’t long ago that you were calling me a pussy.”

Jess hesitated.

“Yeah, but—”

“Are you surprised that I remembered?”

“No, I mean… I would hope you would. If you didn’t remember that it means that you have no pride. And that you could backslide into… into how you were.”

“And how was I?”

“You were being a pussy. That’s why I told you that. And I told you not to do the Woke thing.”

“You did say that.”

“So you’re worried that I am asking you to go with me but I secretly don’t want you to?”


“I want you to or I would just leave.”

“How do I know that it’s real?”

“Well, remember how you were?”

“I was lost.”

“And I held out my hand. I didn’t have to and I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think it could be good for me too. I’m not a charity.”


“No but, Shane. Don’t.”




“I’m telling you I want you. Don’t kill it. Do it or don’t but don’t strangle it.”

“Alright, Jess. Let’s go. Let’s go to Wyoming.”

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