It is happening again. Our city centers are being invaded by the black teens. They arrive with a sinister purpose. They intend to harm us. Groups of black teens are spilling across our peaceful towns and monuments like shadows cast by the falling star of prophecy.
The black teens are not like us. They arrive on buses from faraway places that may not even exist. They communicate in the old language. They wear their hats in a vexing manner.
The black teens crave violence like a thirsty man craves the milk of an ox. They covet our golden scapulars. They have escaped from their warrens. They have fled their sectors. They bare their teeth at our daughters. They mock the righteousness of our constables.
Arrhythmic pump-up music issues from the cracked windows of cars with forsaken wheels. The black teens are flexing and posing their muscles. They are making their hands into fists. They are opening drinks while shopping at the grocery store and returning them to the shelves without paying.
At night, we bar our doors and cower in our beds. The black teens rule the streets. They are tireless. They smash up bottles and spray symbols on our favorite walls. They beat their hands on the hoods of passing cars and score showy dunks on superior technical basketball players.
Where do the black teens come from? What catacombs hide their lairs? Do they have a parent? A conjuror? A clutch of eggs? Or are they made, as the cloud and the gyre, by primordial forces set into motion at the moment the old gods created this existence?
The hearts of the black teens are unknowable to good men, but we do know that they envy our plenty. The black teens come from a lackadaisical place and have little respect for toil. They believe all things come fast and easy and so, when they do not, they become frustrated and swing their fists. More and more often, those fists collide with us.
Now is the bad time. The Helter Skelter time. The black teens call it a game, but it is deadly serious. They approach us in broad daylight and, with a single blow, knock out the unsuspecting. Sometimes they record this on their video phones and celebrate it as our culture once celebrated beautiful things like Credence Clearwater Revival and the film version of Popeye.
The black teens are here and we must face the reality that years of midnight basketball has produced strains with incredible tolerance to nighttime hoops.
The black teens are unavailable to fight our wars. They have grown arrogant in the belief that they might become our king. They doubt the wisdom of our juries and the prudence of our drug laws. The black teens have a chip on their shoulder.
We have lived in fear of these black teens for far too long. It is time we unite, as a people, as upstanding citizens, and oppose all black teens before they become too powerful. We do not condone violence, but we must be prepared to defend ourselves from violence. It's time for us to reclaim our heritage.
At all costs, using any methods, the black teens must be stopped. We're forming a club to oppose them. We're welding armor onto our cars and casting bullets in silver. We are training our dogs to bark when they detect a black teen approaching.
With enough willpower, with the might of our arms and the force of our culture, we can send the black teens back to the hell that spawned them. We can clear out every Pep Boys and Supercuts. We can use flamethrowers to burn them out of every juice bar from here to the airport.
The Knockout Game is cancelled. You can put black teens on the endangered species list. We're done being oppressed by them.
The official rules for the Knockout Game are available for download from Zack's Facebook Page.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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