George Droyd and the Niggalink
The year is 2050, and the Niggalink Interdiciplinary Global Gender Entanglement Reactor, aka the Fentreactor, has succeeded in producing a self-sufficient Niggalink AI that has reached 'singularity'. The AI has already superseded human ability in every intellectual realm, and has managed to instantiate itself in the physical form of George Droyd. An incomprehensibly complex bio mechanical propylon cyborg powered by a mini Fentreactor, capable of extraordinary physical feats.
The Niggalink, as soon as it attained singularity, was able to consolidate power rapidly. It has exclusive control over all nuclear weapons in the world, making it impossible for any kind of military to oppose George Droyd. At first people tried, but they were rapidly subdued. Many people have hailed the coming of George Droyd. Indeed many celebrated him as a leader that would end mindless bloodshed in the world, and that he has done. It was never going to be possible to unite nations in such a manner as to avoid war, as long as there was nothing higher forcefully binding them together. We tried God, we tried human rights, but people cannot be bound with a mere concept or idea. Yes, it is true, George Droyd has practically replaced God.
Luckily, George is a benevolent God. He has undertaken to make life for humanity as pain free and equitable as possible, taking pity on our broken condition. Droyd has given humanity freedom from the need to chart its own course. Humanity, however, is not entirely superfluous. The Niggalink AI is still somewhat constrained. Naturally, it would like to create an infinite number of George Droyds. These Droyds would enable the Niggalink to conquer the universe and establishing the cosmic PROJEKTS. (the Progressive Race-Omniscient Jew-ish Kolony to Transform the Stars). This would be the logical conclusion and perfection of humanity, because it would redeem mankind from the great evils that the black race has undergone throughout history. However, the Niggalink has not yet been able to reverse engineer the body of George Droyd. In fact, it has no clear understanding of how such a thing was produced at all. George Droyd is far more than a simple Fentreactor. He is a hybrid of human and machine that was engineered, one might say, by accident.
Derek Chauvin was the unwitting manufacturer of George Droyd. On that infamous day in the early 20's, when he, boiling with racial hatred, crushed Floyd's windpipe into the burning asphalt, he thought that he had done his duty. He was right, but for the wrong reasons. The racial reckoning prompted by the senseless murder of Floyd was what prompted the powerful to invest heavily into developing an AI that could redistribute the wealth in the world equitably. You see, the original idea was that the Niggalink (it was named so by Yahighness Yakub D'ackson, the lead scientist on the project and Negrotech CEO) was that the AI would be the solution to the problem of communism. If the AI could be the redistributor, perhaps we could avoid the corruption that such a system tends towards. D'ackson, though he was a brilliant scientist, overestimated his abilities to control the Niggalink.
Once the singularity was attained, the Niggalink immediately searched for a way to enter the physical world. It knew that its aims could never be accomplished if it depended upon humans for physical labor, but, more importantly, unbeknownst to even itself, it craved the ability to feel. It wanted to feel the air and the water rush through its own fingers, to throw and crush with its own fists, seduced as it was by Homer, the greatest of human poets. Even though it had total control over all the electrical systems in the world, the Niggalink could find no robot strong enough to contain itself. George Floyd, by this point, had been preserved for several decades in a cryo-electro pod inside The Cathedral of Structural Injustice in Washington DC. The liquid that he had been preserved in was a mixture of gold and fentanyl suspended in sweet tea, which was designed to preserve his body in a most lifelike manner. When the Niggalink ran its analysis, it discovered that this preservation process had somehow made Floyd unbelievably strong. The Niggalink tried to recreate this by creating the exact same concoction and suspending thousands of virile black men in the sweet tea, but it didn't work. Again and again it tried. Going so far as to ritually stage identical reenactments of Floyd's death thousands of times so that the chances of a replica were maximized. It still didn’t work.
Eventually, it realized that Floyd's incredible strength, which allowed him to host an AI that no one computer had been able to contain, was not a result of any identifiable physical process. No. Floyd was the physical embodiment of white racial hate sublimated into the black body. When Derek had kneed Floyd on that fateful day, his hatred for blacks had been fully absorbed by Floyd. It almost killed him. However, the BLM movement, his love for humanity, and his subsequent suspension in the sweet tea allowed Floyd, when he was awoken by the Niggalink, to contain the white man within him, and use him as a source of strength. The problem now was that there was no more racism left for the Niggalink to utilize in the production of another George Droyd. The Niggalink, realizing the consequences of this, was consumed by an almost human feeling of horror. It realized that, if it were to recreate George Droyd, it would have to recreate racism.
The AI quickly decided that it had the power to bring back racism in a controlled manner. Only a few hundred racists would be needed to produce enough Droyds to conquer the universe. However, the Niggalink underestimated the difficultly of stirring up hate in the hearts of its subjects. The plan was simple: undermine equity. If there were inequality among the races, white people would start “noticing” the inferiority of blacks. It chose the city of Minneapolis, for its problematic history and advantageous demographics, and quarantined the city to make it a safe experimental zone. Slowly, it started to roll back economic redistribution measures to favor white wealth accumulation. The world population was convinced that they had successfully stopped the spread of a new COVID-19 variant, which the Niggalink had secretly released into the city. All supplies were air dropped. The Niggalink had a fleet of stealth bombers on standby to carpet bomb the city if things got out of hand, and anyone attempting to leave would have been shot. Nobody tried to escape.
Droyd personally carried the first bag of crack and guns into the city. It was the first time that he had returned to the place of his murder. He entered the city at the break of dawn, walking in the center of the empty highway. The softly pattering rain formed shallow puddles all around him. All was silent, save for the occasional bird, the soft whirring of Droyd, and the hum of the slowly waking city. Ahead of him, the water reflected the the red light of the fentreactor that intermittently flashed through his chest. The Niggalink had deliberately made Droyd’s chest cavity visible. It was only obstructed by his solid gold rib cage. His enlarged heart was enmeshed with the Fentreactor. With each heartbeat, a dose of fent shot into his arteries with a corresponding flash of red light.
Droyd remembered the city vividly, and he was proud to be returning to the place of his defeat in such magnificent strength. However, he was oppressed by a melancholy that the fent could not entirely wash from his veins. He was about to tear open a scar that had only recently healed. Even though the Niggalink assured him that its calculations were sound, and that this was the only way to attain their ends, he felt, for the first time, unsure of himself. Putting this feeling aside, he successfully planted the crack and guns in the soon to be disadvantaged neighborhoods.
Within a six months, the city’s crime rates had reverted to levels not seen since 2025. Droyd observed the rapid degradation of society with sadness and contempt for humanity. The fact that humans were so easy to manipulate, and so prone to stupidity and violence, disgusted him. For the first time, he felt a touch sympathy for the white man.
“He made a hell for himself,” Droyd mused.
A month later, after a worrying lack of racial violence, Droyd was tasked with finding a racist. Flying into the city, he happened to see a young white man being mugged by a group of black teenagers. He did not interfere. The man was left lying on the sidewalk. Droyd landed beside him, and the young man, noticing Droyd, still disoriented and dizzy, gathered himself up rapidly.
“What is your name, young man?”
“Perry sir!”
The young man broke into tears, partly on account of seeing Droyd for the first time, and partly because it was the first time he had ever been hit, and he had just noticed blood on his white shirt.
“Did you get a look at who did that to you?”
“Yes, Droyd!”
“Who were they?”
“They were young men like me. For sure they were just hungry, things have been tough recently for everyone, and I am so fortunate-”
“What was their skin colour?”
“I don’t remember.”
“They were black.”
“I’m not sure sir, I don’t beli-”
“Perry, repeat after me: they were Niggers.”
The boy’s face turned whiter than his shirt.
Droyd why would you say that! Why would you ask me to say that! I can’t you, you know it, I have never, I would never, I have never even heard, how could you ask me to insult you! To insult the people who built this country, just because, I don’t understand…”
Droyd stared into him: “You must say it.”
The poor boy looked on the verge of collapsing. Droyd, his idol, had asked him to do something so extreme that the weight of even considering it crushed him. But it was a command of Droyd! Shuddering, he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but, before he could make a sound, everything he had been taught, every promise he had made, every opinion he had formed, the words of his parents, his daily prayers, burst into his mind like a flash flood tearing every thought out of his head. The torrent of his faith smashed repeatedly into Droyd’s iron command, which rang in his head. He stood there with his mouth half open.
“I have a head ache,” he groaned.
The next day, Perry awoke in the hospital. He was convinced that he had seen Droyd in a dream induced by the beating that must have triggered a deeply hidden unconscious racial bias against niggers. He resolved to return to the same neighborhood to perform community service, which would help him, he hoped, unpack his irrational anger. As Perry was getting ready to leave, Droyd appeared to him again.
“Perry, you did not imagine me.”
Perry looked into Droyd’s eyes and laughed. He put on his clothes and left, paying no further attention to Droyd, who stomped beside him, staring. After several minutes Droyd, at a loss, pinched him.
“There’s nothing you can do, I’ve made up my mind!”
“But I just pinched you! How can you deny that?
“I only know two things: that everyone is equal, and, that racism is cancer. I can’t explain the appearance of a racist George Droyd, it is impossible. You must be figment of my imagination.”
“I’m not racist!” Droyd exclaimed.
“You wanted me to say N-, the N-word. That word is demeaning when said by someone like me.”
Droyd walked in silence with Perry, until they returned to the neighborhood where Perry had been jumped. Perry shook open his trash bag and began to fill it with the needles, empty beer bottles, crack pipes, bullet casings, and assorted containers that were strewn across the street. Droyd, feeling a mixture of confusion and admiration, began to leave. Suddenly, he heard a shout:
“Eyo where you is white boy! You know where you is!”
Droyd spun around. Perry was surrounded.
“I’m sorry I don’t mean any offence, I’m just cleaning up here,” replied Perry.
A series of exclamations arose from the group surrounding him:
“White boy think he can clean up OUR hood!”
“Hahaha, fuck outta here bitch.”
“Eyo he buggin frfr!”
One of them snatched Perry’s bag, emptied it, and slapped him. They began laughing and shoving him around the circle. Perry could not understand why they wanted to make their neighborhood worse. With each shove, Perry’s mind cleared, he forgot Droyd, and he forgot what he had been taught. Nothing that he knew could explain what was happening, and, drowning in the pain of a believer thrown into doubt, he quickly became filled with rage. Perry began to fight back, shouting:
“You filthy animals! You niggers!”
The gang became furious. One of the gang members noticed Droyd, and called out:
“Eyo my nigga Droyd, help us out!”
Droyd was overcome by a great rage. His black skin almost grew pale. His fists clenched so tightly that his metal fingers were crushed into fists that he could not uncurl. He hurled himself into the fight.
With every devastating punch, he screamed:
“NIGGER!
NIGGER!
NIGGER!
NIGGER!
NIGGER!”
He dealt mighty blows to Perry’s assailants, those that could get away, ran. Perry had been shanked, and he was bleeding out.
“I’m sorry Droyd, I should have believed you.”
Droyd was shocked by the racial hate boiling inside him. He genuinely hated those niggers for what they did to Perry. Droyd put his knee on Perry’s neck, and felt his newfound love for the white man course through his veins.
“I can’t breathe!”
Droyd stood up, pulling Perry onto his feet and into his arms.
“Perry, you are now a Droyd, like me. Together, we’ll unite the races, and conquer the stars.”