The Shot Heard Around the World: What Happens When Empire Shoots Itself in the Neck

⚠️ Trigger Warning:

May detrimentally affect fragile minds.
Read at your own risk. Act accordingly.

Before you read this, understand something.

I don’t write to trend. I don’t write to entertain. I write to cut.

What you’re about to read is only an “excerpt” from a future audio project,
The Shot Heard Around the World: A Cultural Autopsy of Empire
and will live in it’s fifty-thousand word full form—
in the forthcoming companion book to Digital Disobedience—Coded for Extinction.

It’s not a rant. It’s not a think piece. It’s testimony.
Spirit-coded and written in real time.
Every line cut from the bone. Every word meant to sting.

We are living in the collapse, pretending it’s a commercial break.

They call it politics, I call it pathology.

They call it news, I call it necromancy.

But this right here? This is free thought speech —
unfiltered, unapologetic unapproved by the powers that be.
I’m peeling back the skin of myth, scraping the tissue of propaganda, and naming the rot by its scent.

If it makes you uncomfortable, good.
That’s your conscience trying to wake up.

Read slow. Read twice.

WAKE UP!

The house is on fire…

The Shot Heard Around the World: What Happens When Empire Shoots Itself in the Neck

Excerpt from “The Shot Heard Around the World: A Cultural Autopsy of Empire.”
(From the forthcoming book, Coded For Extinction—companion piece to Digital Disobedience)

Charlie kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah.

And everybody knows, whether they want to tell the truth or not, that “white terrorism” is in America’s bloodstream.
And that is why she is sick and dying.

We’ve been trained to picture it only in hoods, in burning crosses, in bombs hidden under churches, in movies where we get to dramatically yell, “YES YOU DESERVE TO DIE AND I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!” Shout out to Uncle Sam. But white terrorism isn’t always a spectacle. Sometimes it’s the quiet hand of a politician, red penning your survival into illegality. Sometimes it’s the smiling face on the front page, telling the same act of care is “heritage” in one body and “radical conspiracy” in another.terrorism is Hydra’s operating system.

One head terrorizes through spectacle — lynching, bombing, shooting. Another head terrorizes through narrative — erasing, criminalizing, sterilizing, reframing. Another head smiles at you with philanthropy—signing deals with the devil. Another head kicks in your door without a warrant. One head feeds you just enough dopamine to keep you docile. Another head punishes you for thinking for yourself. And always, always, the story is rewritten so you don’t see the body underneath the heads.All together, they maintain the same distinction: whiteness as savior, Blackness, Brownness, anybody “other,” as suspect. The enemy within.

Empire’s genius in Hydra is its mutation. Extinction isn’t only death; it is policy, narrative, suffocation. It is the slow training of a people to forget they ever had the right to care for one another without permission.

Pause

Because I think we need to talk about what “white terror(ism)” looks like.

So, let’s…

Let’s talk about white Appalachia. Not the postcard of front porches and fiddles, but the reality Hydra hides behind its own myths. The same hills that once held Sadie Mullins now hold the fallout of the War on Drugs, a war that was never really a war on drugs but a war on bodies — first Black and Brown bodies, then poor white bodies as cover. Meth labs glowing in hollows, heroin in high school bathrooms, fentanyl in every third obituary. Kids sniffing glue in basements, parents on suboxone in the parking lot of the Dollar General. Whole counties hollowed out by pills pushed by men in suits who will never see a cell.

Let’s talk about their kids and alcohol. Their kids and suicide. Their kids and depression, mental health, eating disorders. Their kids swallowing guns because there’s no other exit. Their kids on Instagram learning to starve, learning to cut, learning that pain is their only inheritance. Their kids being told they are the default, the right, the proper, the savior — and dying under the weight of that lie.

Let’s talk about white terror and serial killers. The way Hydra turns white male rage into “PTSD shooter,” “troubled teen,” “crime of passion,” while Black grief is called a riot and Black defense is called a gang. The way mass shooters are walked out in bulletproof vests and offered Burger King while Black boys are gunned down for toy guns. The way “their guns and churches” are folded into tradition, even when the sanctuary itself becomes a killing ground. It frames serial killers as subjects for documentaries and cute names, like the “Casanova Killer,” while whole Black neighborhoods are cast as breeding grounds for criminality that inspires bullshit like The First 48.

Let’s talk about Forever 21 mothers competing with their daughters beauty, Friday Night Lights fathers competing with their sons athleticism—measuring their worth against their sons’ under the glow of stadium lights.

Let’s talk about what privilege does to a kid — how it rots them from the inside. Privilege isn’t freedom; it’s a leash made of velvet. It’s a script that tells white kids they are the measure of normality, even as it starves them of tenderness, culture, and truth. Hydra feeds them a picture of “rightness,” “proper,” “supremacy,” and then watches them choke on it.

This is white terror too. Not just the terror inflicted outward, but the terror of a system that eats its own children to keep the myth alive. The church, the gun, the cheerleader, the football field, the pills, the cutting, the quiet suicides — all of it is the cost of maintaining the picture of rightness. Whiteness.

All of it is the price of Hydra.

Whiteness will not be saved because whiteness is the mask Hydra wears, not the flesh beneath. It was never built to save. It was built to consume, to launder terror into tradition, to convince even its supposed beneficiaries that their hunger is noble while our hunger is criminal. The spoon, the ladle, the gun, the pill bottle, the rope in a teenage boy’s closet — they are all artifacts of the same code. Hydra feeds on silence and amnesia, and it has taught generations to believe their own suffering is either heritage or pathology, but never indictment of the beast itself.

And that, class, is why the dream named America is dying.

This sickness, it’s in the marrow of her bones— from the first stolen body chained to a ship’s floor, to the first whip cracked across a cotton field, to the first Native child ripped from her family and locked in a boarding school where her tongue, her hair, her spirit were beaten out of her, to the first Black woman they experimented on without anesthesia, to the first Black town our government bombed from the sky. It’s in the police badge forged from slave patrols, in the red lines drawn across maps, in the prison cells built like plantations with concrete floors.

White terrorism is not an exception.

Empire is the immune system of America — attacking every single “body” that doesn’t look like hers, every “mind” that doesn’t think like hers, every “child” that doesn’t bend to her image. It shows up in church pews and school boards, in statehouses and courtrooms, in the quiet of a gated community and the roar of a stadium. It’s the Charleston shooter praying with his victims before pulling the trigger. It’s the Buffalo gunman streaming his massacre like a video game. It’s governors decreeing that “social media is a cancer” after helping engineer an entire generation of dopamine-addicted children. It’s the cops who kneel on necks, the vigilantes who hunt in floodwaters and on borders, the politicians who call it a “mental health crisis” or a “war on drugs” instead of what it is: murder and terrorism.

Say it plain:

Empire is the sickness, the disease, the plague, the infestation, the vermin. It is the proverbial, literal, philosophical, metaphorical black hole with a green haze — consuming everything in sight and giving nothing in return. They are planet destroyers. Eaters of energy. Rapers of land and lineage. Succubae of pain.

And I could go on and on, but now their “green sights” are on the stars.

Literally.

America is septic because the poison is self-inflicted. She drinks from the same cup of violence she serves the world. And like any addict, she will die of the very drug she refuses to put down.

But her dealer?

They will leave her used dry husk behind when they shoot for their next victim: Space.

America needs a soul transfusion. Take that as thy will.

---

 Charlie Kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah. 

 Empire putting America on Broadway. If they want to play purge, fine. I’m playing autopsy. You’ll read every incision. You’ll see where the rot lived. You’ll know who handled the scalpel. And when the ledger opens, don’t be surprised to find your name already penciled in.

I’m indicting. I’m entering exhibits into record: the chant they loop, the lynchings they call “self-inflicted,” the scarlet-K/T branding for anyone who won’t kneel, the “leftist extremism” chorus they rehearse from podium to press release, the watchlists sold as accountability, the culling dressed as HR, the scripture rubber-stamped on a rifle.

I am flipping the table because the table is rigged.

I am naming names because euphemism is how empires breathe.

I am cutting because the transfusion can’t start until the wound is open.

And if that makes this treason to their order, good. Let it be treason.
Let it be the kind that wakes the sleeping and puts the programmers on notice.

Let me be precise about the blade I am using so that there is no confusion:

It won’t cut to kill. It will cut to heal.

The scalpel isn’t for theatrics; it’s for drainage. Your blood is toxic—programmed. The cut is the incision that lets the poison out so a real transfusion can happen. Saltwater stings because infection hates fresh air. By the time you reach the end, I want you looking down at the floor wondering when all that blood came out of you.

That’s what America did to us: a thousand tiny cuts until we woke up in saltwater, but I am not your undertaker. I am the surgeon who opens you up so you, yourself, can stitch yourself back the right way. Only you can do that. That’s above my mental pay grade.

You want “dangerous?" Here’s dangerous: naming evil as evil in a country that rewards “polite lies.”

They trained you to mistake bait for food. The bait looks like clicks, comments, shares. The switch—oh, AI will handle that. The Gamemaster in the back room counts ad dollars while HBCUs lock down, while kids barricade desks, while a Black boy in Mississippi becomes a footnote stamped “no foul play.”

Make America sleep again, they say on late-night commercials, and half the nation orders the pills. Sleep is the product. Programming is the service. Manchurian candidates by the million, eyes open, souls on airplane mode.

I’m not going to “assess” his murder. I’m going to do the transfusion, justified after the autopsy. I can call out murder and say, “Charlie Kirk didn’t deserve to die, shot in the neck in Utah” — and that also doesn’t mean I can’t call out ‘why’ he got shot. You all want to talk symptoms but never the disease. That’s backwards thinking.

The silence is unacceptable.

Black and Brown folks have been trying for centuries to get you to see the disease Empire carries and spreads on purpose: whiteness. They’ll prosecute someone for knowingly spreading AIDS, though. Make it make sense.

Hypocrites! I dare say, Hypocrites!

Talking about it gets called “blaming” or “justifying” and that is such bullshit. I’m getting my scalpel, my wine glass, and decanting all those buzzwords. We can all agree “violence is violence” and that “speech isn’t violence.” That “you don’t deserve to die for your beliefs.” But that moral language, that “peace” talk, that’s the danger. They’re blurring the lines between honesty, respectability, civility, decorum — picking and choosing standards like they’re community guidelines on Facebook. Cherry-picking rules, like they do from that Bible they claim to read and love so much. And they call telling the truth “rationalizing murder.”

That’s a lie I will not swallow and will spit out.

It’s like looking dead in the face of a manipulative, unruly bully — a child who imitates his hero father who beats his ass, slaps around his wife, sneaks into his daughter’s room at night — that breaks your favorite toy and points the finger at you saying, “You did it. You made me do it. You are the problem. And that’s why I should have your toy, because I know how to ‘fix’ what you made me break, and you don’t deserve to have anything anyway. My father says I can take what I want.”

That’s a lie I’m going to spit back in your face.

I’m bringing this to you, reader, not because it’s false, not because I’m malicious, mean, or spiteful. I bring it this way because that’s how true it is. That’s how horrible and horrid these people are. You have to name evil for what it is when you see it.

Stop whitewashing it. Stop softening the jagged edges.

If you have a hangnail, you don’t leave it — you cut that bitch off. If you don’t, it’s going to rip and get worse. This is the resistance’s death by a thousand cuts. By the end, you won’t even realize you’ve bled out. Not to kill you — though they’d like that — but so you can get this transfusion. Replace the old toxic programmed blood with something fresh, clean, and free from the stench they’ve created.

Would you call a surgeon wielding a scalpel dangerous if they’re cutting you open to fix what’s broken inside? Just because I wield my pen as a blade does not make me a killer. I am only here to slice you open, rip out what’s infected. It’s up to you to stitch yourself back together the right way. Only you can do that part. You have to want to live.

If your discernment wasn’t so diseased and nonfunctional, you’d see that unlike me, they are surgeons with donor cheques for gloves. They cut with precision — a stitch here, a policy there — and call it “reform.” That scalpel slices deep; by the time you cough up blood, you’re too weak to name the hand that cut you. This isn’t just a hangnail; this is empire’s scalpel carving across generations, slicing whole people open while calling it healing.

We are being cut to death slowly, incision by incision. Their saltwater is waiting. Their surgeon with the scalpel is not benevolent; they’ve been paid by Empire to cut along the heartstrings. But I am the blade now — sharp, ugly, necessary. I will write, I will indict, and I will cut till the infection shows. And yeah, my saltwater will sting, that’s the point — to make you feel the wound, so you know you’re still alive, just sleeping. My pen is the blade, and I am not some creature of theory; I am the thing that will carve you wide open so you can see the rot inside. Smell it.

This is death by a thousand cuts — and by the time I’m done, the floor will be wet, and the transfusion line will be the only way to keep living—awake.

Wake up bleeding or die in your sleep.

That’s the choice. This is the autopsy. This is the cut.

Charlie Kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah.

And they swear it’s free speech until you quote their ‘golden boy’ verbatim. Then suddenly truth equals incitement and context equals conspiracy. They say “don’t politicize tragedy” while they monetize it. They say “call for peace” while they inventory who bowed and who didn’t. They say “be civil” while they move the goalposts like Fakebook’s community standards—pick, choose, switch, delete—just like they pick and choose scripture to bless the cruelty of the week.

We’re getting branded with scarlet-letter K’s and T’s now — shamed for having an opinion based on evidence and facts about men who make a career out of hateful lies about everybody and their momma’s momma’s momma.

In what world does that qualify as free speech?

In what world does using good old boy Charlie and Trump’s own words make you a radical?

And me writing like this, they’ll call it dangerous. Treason.

I know. I’m a nobody, remember? A Black woman, in debt like most of America, single disabled mom raising kids in a country that would step over our bodies if the white—I mean “right” man told them to. They will erase me. They will scrub my digital footprint. They will dig up interviews and find the neighbors who will say, “She was the nicest lady — would give a stranger the shirt off her back.” They’ll run those soundbites like a defense, then feed a dozen bot accounts the narrative that I was unstable, that I was radical, that I was dangerous, and the world will nod, because I’m a Black woman after all. As Charlie Kirk said—yeah, I heard him—we’re stupid.

Local news will do a slow-burn segment about the “sweet neighbor” who hid a “secret life as a Black radical.” People who once liked me will hate me. Only the people who loved me will know the truth, and they’ll be screaming into the void while the echo chambers and the AI engines bury them.

They’ll call it denial. Grief. Complicity. A conspiracy.

Fake accounts will spin webs, and I will be yesterday’s news by the time you swipe up.

Let me say it straight so there’s no mistaking your spine:

They will call the things you say “dangerous” while the men screaming actual manifestos go on Fox, prime time, podcasts and get pity pieces.

They will brand us violent in the same breath they hold press conferences for men who radicalized mobs.

They will file “no foul play” over a Black body hanging in a racist state, over Black women rising up from bayous and rivers, while they livestream a racist pundit’s funeral like he was a statesman.

That contradiction? It’s not a mistake. It’s the method.

And the Heritage networks, the American Accountability Foundation — they had been building running lists in advance, running subpoenas, publishing dossiers on public servants (many of them Black, many of them doing equity work) so donors and agencies would know exactly which names to call during the purge. Watchlists are products now. Dossiers, deliverables. The ledger been ready. The only thing that was missing was a martyr to justify rolling it into daylight.

Guess what?

They found one. And we are the collateral.

Pam Bondi said it out loud, “We will ‘absolutely target you, go after you,’ if you are targeting anyone with hate speech — and that’s across the aisle.” Really Pam? Yes (cue fist pump)! ‘Right’ on sister soldier! I can’t wait to see you put a muzzle on Trump’s secret paw patrol. You suddenly deputizing yourself as Big Sister from 1984 — except you forgot your own boss spits “hate” every time he opens his mouth. Right-wing commentators like Matt Walsh, Erick Erickson, and friends, condemned Bondi’s remarks, arguing that “hate speech” isn’t a legal category under the First Amendment, saying she got it wrong— not because they give a damn about free speech, but because she broke rank and revealed the plan too early.

I guess they didn’t get the memo in time? We see how high in the MAGA hierarchy they are. Low-hanging fruit there. Of course she got it wrong. How else will they continue their hate-filled campaigns? Duh.

And Trump? He just gift-wrapped the hypocrisy, saying “people like you” will get targeted. That’s the scarlet-T brand in real time, disagree and you’re “hate.” Trump responding to a reporter (Jonathan Karl of ABC) said, “She’ll probably go after people like you, because you treat me so unfairly! It’s hate! You have a lot of hate in your heart!”

Waah-Waah-Waah.

I thought that once one reached “hater status,” they really made it in the game. So, you mean to tell me that if I don’t like you, I hate you? If I speak truth to evil, I hate you? If I call bullshit, I hate you? Yes, yes, and hell yes, their survey says. But Common (Sense) tells us, no — “If I don’t like it, I don’t like it, that don’t mean that I’m hatin.”

They have already made instruments of the purge legal-adjacent. The talk about “safety” becomes the code for occupation — stormtroopers on corners, surveillance centers built into neighborhoods, private data centers wiring your city into a cage — all sold as “development” while they map who to remove next. This is not a fantasy, it’s their playbook. They chant “law and order” while they prepare the ledger.

And the ledger exists.

These aren’t spooky conspiracies someone whispered to you in a bar, like in the movies. These are lists, dossiers, deliverables. They doxx you, make them public when they need pressure; they keep them private when they need plausible deniability or to put “the squeeze” on someone to get them to do their bidding. Think soon to be former Mayor of New York, Eric Adams. Either way, the point is the same: name people, shame them, and make employers and platforms do the expelling. That’s how you turn speech into career death.

And the purpose?

I can tell you right now it’s not oversight. It’s not safety. It’s DOGE-level data mining on steroids: dossiers on every single American citizen. Location history, purchase history, speech history, who you hugged last summer, your favorite color, the last time you cashed app’d the plug — all folded into a ledger to create a massive file on everybody and their mother, and her mother, and her mother’s mother.

Look at the pattern…

First they say “target.” Then they teach employers how to use lists. Then they sell the same language on cable until it sounds like a war briefing. On TV you hear it in softer tones — “protect the homeland,” “root out extremist elements,” “secure the public,” but the verbs are the same: target, remove, destroy.

That’s not political debate. That’s the vocabulary of war aimed at citizens and cities.

Make no mistake, this is Empire. This is not “accidental rhetoric;” it’s a recruitment video for bureaucratic violence. So, stop pretending this is theoretical. The receipts are on tape, in donor slide decks, in the memos, in the podcast clips—hell, in yesterday’s news segment. They are building the mechanism in public and praising it at the highest levels. This is surveillance, doxxing, cancel culture on institutional steroids — weaponized reputation management to erase dissent and rewrite the record.

Still…nobody won’t say it plain.

Charlie Kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah.

And not everyone was mourning. Some were celebrating. Some didn’t care. Some were numb. Some couldn’t tell you one thing he stood for. If you had to read the replies to know your feelings, if you waited for the “general pulse” before you commented, you’re already scripted.

Real life has been turned into a comment thread.
Grief as performance.
Outrage as product.
Empathy as pay-to-play.
And your soul is now a subscription service
that you can cancel at any time without penalty.

And Black folks? We crack jokes to survive, to laugh to keep from crying.

We gave out all of those honorary invites to our barbeques and now we side-eying the fuck out of them, wondering if they been knew about Turning Point USA and what they were planning or if in the comment sections — where we discovered what we thought were our white allies, our cool white neighbors, our kid’s kind white teachers and awesome little league coaches, and our agape loving white brothers and sisters ‘in Christ’ really felt about “our kind —” is how they’ve been feeling about us this entire time?

And some folks, who always show love no matter how whiteness treats them, is feeling sucker punched that in 2025 they actually have to face what their not-so-distant relatives and ancestors faced: true evil.

Yet, the trend I see online are accounts telling Black people to “sit this one out,” “We been protesting.” We tired of fighting.” “They voted for it, let them deal with it.” But tell me something: what are we, Black people, supposed to be “sitting in” on while we “sit it out?”

Why in 2025 are Black people taking the credit for what Black people did in the 50’s, 60’s, and others in past times, when they’ve never protested beyond a hashtag? When they’ve never volunteered in their community or in schools? Never looked up from their phone long enough to see what was happening?

And yet, while the very same rights Black people “been protesting” for and received are being dismantled, we sit here asleep at the wheel, watching memes, laughing at trending video clips, pretending this is just another day in white America.

It’s not. It’s programming. It’s a ritual. It’s history on repeat. It’s proof, broadcasted in daylight, that the state is no longer interested in hiding its allegiance to violence.

A white man kills a white man, and somehow Black people get dragged onto the dock again? Somehow we’re accused, blamed, measured against their holiness?

That’s whiteness. That’s fascism dressed in empathy’s clothes. And if we don’t call it what it is, if we soften it with “their civility,” if we “sit this out” and watch the world burn, then we are complicit in our own erasure. The erasure of our children’s future. The erasure of our ancestors centuries long fight in Empire’s time loop war.

You don’t care now, but you will when it’s too late. And it is already.

They’ve manufactured the generational division, hate, competition, struggle mentality, family separation, rage, trauma, violence, nonchalance in our communities. They manufactured an entire generation of crash-out drill-kill kids, on purpose. They made it where we don’t mobilize, organize, or socialize—and COVID-19 sealed the deal on that. And now, they have officially made it illegal to do so. Calling it racketeering now—protesting, preparing, teaching. speaking truth to evil, waking people up, breaking mental chains, cleaning the bloodstream of the dopamine. Make—not just America—but humanity—think again, remember again, believe again.

But Rick James was right… this dope is a “hell of a drug.”

Meanwhile, back in the neighbor(hood)…

Kings unrealized are playing NBA2K while the world burns talking about, “oh well, what can I do about it?”

Queens unrealized, got their girls listening to an idolizing agents like Sexy Red, Cardi, and Nikki—dreaming of a master plan that looks like OnlyFans.

Look at their timelines. Their YouTube history.
That’s if you know how.

That is so sad. So pitiful. You are already defeated. You already surrendered. They Cloned Tyrone, and you laughed, called it trash, because you survive on the surface. Can’t think too deep, scared you’ll drown. I guess you think you’re going to ‘boots on the ground’ stomp your way through the purge?

No one is coming to save you!

Tell me, who do have on your New World 2.0 team when family aint family no more and the streets never love anybody—they are the hostile Opps? There are a lot of you who are going to be the first with your hands out looking for “handouts,” but you’re going to be grasping for air. Isolated. Alone. Poisoned by the very toxic dysfunction and generational curses that were never rooted out and treated—just left to fester and pass from line to line, to you and now, to yours.

Tell me, truly: who do have in your corner to depend on, those that grew up falsely believing, “I don’t need nobody, “Life is better off alone?” Those who have been hurt, abused, misused by life, and worse—by the very people that were supposed to love and look out for them the most?The people who have no support system?

Where will you X-scape to? Who will you run too when you need love?

Currently, the most sacred bond between mother and child is fractured. Fathers are absent, if not in body, then in mind and/or spirit. Friends? Comical. Maybe even fatal, so they be few, if any at all. We have to stay on the lookout for the envy, the jealousy, the malicious intent.

And the kids…slurping it all up, like a capri-“son” —
a raisin in the sun. Dehydrated. Generational curses, the roots so damn deep.
They know nothing outside of HIS-story.

And we have taught them…what?
That they are gods and goddesses walking the earth?

NOPE.

They don’t ‘who’ they are.
That they are the stars.
The stars in the flag.
The stars in the sky.

But we out here repeating the lies.
Lies about us. About our people.
A culture remixed by DJ Hydra, and we ate it.
Fed it to our babies.
Danced to it while proclaiming we want “all the smoke.”

And still…I see no one creating new vision.

Charlie Kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah.

And I want you to take a moment right here and look at how they have treated us throughout each timeline:

A people that looked out for them, but they looked down on us.

A people that gave them light, but they gave us darkness—chains, cages, and ropes.

A people that Gave them math, but they gave us rape farms, bred our women like dogs in a puppy mill, separated our families like they are doing today with Immigrants, made us pick the Indigenous peoples’ land—land that Columbus magically found—but the GPS directions were given by us not Siri, —and created a fucking corporation named America.

A business built by adding, subtracting, dividing, and fractioning Black and Brown bodies. A corrupt business that white people, like Bill O’Reilly, claims is an atrocity that “belongs only and solely to the imperial white south.” As if the north, east, and west didn’t benefit from slavery in any way. Kinda sounds like what we are hearing them say now, “It’s the ‘horrible left’ that is causing this political violence. They are ‘solely’ to blame for this ‘war on Christians.’”

I refuse to waste my mental bandwidth on that lie and a senile has been like O’Reily, whose latest infomercial is for a “sleep aid” with the tagline, “Make America Sleep Again.”

Does that acronym spell MASA? Or am I trippin?

I can’t make this shit up.

But I digress…

We gave them spice—spice to their life, spice to their god, spice to their food, but they gave us the Slave Bible and whips that stuck flesh in tune to the beat of their hymnals, and all next to their church houses.

They gave us invites to their barbecues too. Where they ate lunch and burned us. Mutilated us. Had “pic-a-nics” under blankets with smiling women and children eating ice cream on a beautiful Sunday morning that their Lord made. The men smoking cigars standing proudly, posing for pictures with their sons next to a tree. On that tree a noose, where charred flesh swings gently in the breeze—a Black man whose death mask is frozen in pain. In time. Forever. Their church of god the perfect backdrop for a picture-perfect image and an energy harvest.

Pause.

Let’s pause the autopsy right there god dammit.

This is the fucking litmus test for your ‘empathy.’
For your fucking ‘humanity.’
For you basic fucking ‘human dignity.’

To see if you are even human or if you are “other.”

Close your eyes….

Ok, not now. After you read these next few lines of course.
Unless Elon has invented some new…Never mind. I’m digressing…

Close your eyes. Now imagine…just imagine…

The pain. The tortuous, otherworldly pain. Pain so beyond the human minds’ comprehension, that it has no choice but to break. To combust. To fold in on itself from the revelation of it. The raw truth of it. The horrid degradation of it.

Now sit with that and let it marinate for a minute or two.

Could you imagine that kind of suffering in death? You couldn’t, could you? Your mind instantly recoils. But ours? We don’t have to know to ‘know,’ you know?

No? You don’t know?

If no, it’s only because you never tried to “know.” That would mean…
empathy, right? Human(e) dignity, right?

Riiiight.

Can you now see why George Floyd can so easily come up for us Black folks during this timeline when we think of shit like this? And Black folks know what I am talking about…George calling out for his mother.

Mercy, mercy, mercy me.

I don’t think anyone can truly imagine the kind of pain that an enslaved felt, that George Floyd felt in those moments of white terror. And that ain’t even the half or the third or the fourth of it.

Hold it there really quick. Stay with me now…

And for those with no heart or understanding of nuance, of why I am cutting the way that I am, please note:

George Floyd’s murder does not minimize the many state-sanctioned Black and Brown bodies this cursed land has absorbed. They all deserve acknowledgement. His case is simply what lit my fire. He stayed front and center in my mind, and I wanted him to have in this reflection the same relentless attention they’ve given — and continue to give — or did—to Kirk.

The cosmic tragedy of it all is that we will never know how many of us Empire and it’s machine, Hydra, has eaten up and spat out. How much blood they’ve drunk or used to fertilize their fields. They are The Nameless (shout-out to Jon Connolly). The Silenced. The Disappeared. The Unheard. Black and Brown men, women, and children never to be known, never to be mourned with a hashtag, never to be seen again — as if they never existed. The same goes for ours in their lakes, ponds, rivers, and oceans.

But named or unnamed, they all live in my heart.

And America, she doesn’t forget. Neither does “God.”

Unpause.

I cry as I type this. I had to step away for about an hour before I could bring myself back and do my best to finish this thought. Because in the back of my mind, hope for those sleeping in the “white-out,” died a long time ago.

If I, myself, instantly recoil from the imagined reality of my ancestors experiences, of George’s, of countless others, what hope can I have in those ‘lost to sauce’ of Empire?

What hope can I have in them ever truly reconciling their evil legacy—a legacy that rings just as hard and hollow today, as it did times past?

What chance do we folks really have after all these years?

Tell me, honestly.

I imagine it’s like sitting your adult child down and confessing that their biological father’s true identity is Satan. How can they believe that their daddy is Satan?

Talk about a world crumbling.

Their mind will work overtime to protect them from a reality that will destroy them mentally, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually. That’s why we suppress traumatic events and memories. To keep our mind from fracturing.

That’s science. Go argue with the facts.

Never mind. I forgot that there is a war on science.
They consider it “philosophy” now.

But I digress…

Anyway, it’s not hard to see why they may fight back so hard against these truth when I look at it from that angle. Whiteness can’t reconcile the fact that Empire created them and for the sole purpose of insulation. To be sandbags; frontline soldiers to ensure that the rich and powerful stay rich. A good position, on their knees. At least they get the good crumbs that fall from their putrid fish-like lips. At least they get to be in the room—close enough to power to think that they have what it takes to climb their oily rungs to more power, a real seat at the table. But even that is an illusion Empire feeds them.

For New York Mayor, Eric Adams, to bend over the way he did is a prime example.
Tell me, former Mayor, what will be your legacy?
You are who I think of when ‘we’ say, “all ‘skin-folk’ ain’t ‘kinfolk.’”

But you white folks? You politicians? You “crumb snatchers?”

I’m beginning to believe you love the positions Empire twists you into.
I’m beginning to think you know exactly what your role is in this demented stage play.
It’s Kama Sutra, Empire edition.
It’s sadomasochism — the “consensual kind.”

And now, in 2025, Empire is feeding you White Christian Nationalism.
Another time loop. Another Bass Pro bait trap.

And you appear happy to stay “life-locked” inside it — a house of mirrors in a hellish circus, your pain reflected, refracted, and repackaged as patriotism. There’s nothing new under the sun and your love of inflicting and receiving pain isn’t new either.

Empire even gave it a clinical designation for you — DSM-5.
They call it a “disorder” but only when the fantasy causes them distress. A fancy way of saying: this isn’t about kink.
It’s about cruelty coded as culture.

I wonder what designation Drapetomania would get today — that 19th-century “mental illness” they said made enslaved people run away from their owners?

I don’t need their manual to tell me what I see with my own eyes. This, too—Mental health—is another system not built for ‘us.’ Rooted in the same old white mythology —
superiority dressed up as science, hierarchy hidden behind jargon. I know firsthand.

I’m a woman with ten surgeries, countless procedures, medical neglect and malpractice baked into my charts. They stamped me with Somatic Symptom Disorder.
My neuropsychologist said it like gospel.

I haven’t been back since.

I love the real science — the beauty of neurology, how the brain codes and rewrites trauma, pain, abuse. But I refuse their pseudoscience—science for justification. Because “somatic symptom disorder” is just their way of saying my pain is in my head. It makes it difficult for a chronic pain patient like me to be fully seen or heard.

They like this shit.

My Black people, Don’t wait for the fire to reach your doorstep to remember where the exits are. Because best believe: they’re busy little bees. Vision-boarding. Go-funding. Organizing. Preaching war to their children. Building communities that practice for “again” — an again that never included us and never will.

In private groups, in militia chats, they foam at the mouth.
They hear “Valhalla” and take it as benediction.
They hear “We hold vigils, we don’t riot” and take it as permission to sneer at Black grief.
To lynch us, harass us, stalk us.

And the most terrifying part?

They don’t fear punishment. They don’t fear exile. They have the government itself —
officials in suits and uniforms —standing on podiums, blessing their holy rage, sanctifying their violence, pretending to mourn while feeding the machine.
Feeding Hydra.

Here’s the other side — and it’s not a pep talk, it’s a record of survival…

Power concedes nothing without demand. But power isn’t all-powerful either.

Enslaved people didn’t wait to be freed —they revolted, escaped, built maroon communities.

Jim Crow didn’t fall because the South found God — it fell because Black people organized, mobilized, sued, marched, armed themselves, and refused to die quietly.

Every gain we’ve ever made was pried loose.

So, do Black folks “really have a chance” in America the Great after all these years?

Not if we’re waiting for empire to repent.

But yes, only if we understand that survival, culture, and liberation
are things we build and guard ourselves.

That’s why this writing matters.
That’s why these transmissions matter.
Because every time somebody cracks the spell and names the thing out loud, somebody else wakes up — slowly, painfully, maybe in terror —
but awake nonetheless.

This isn’t “fringe talk.” This isn’t a rant.
I’m not writing out the ‘side of my neck’ or my pen.

WAKE UP!

This old-school business model is mainstream now.

Charlie Kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah.

And every day since then, it has been business as usual.

America wasn’t a country that “became” a business. She was born a business. A corporate charter disguised as a republic, a joint-stock venture on stolen land powered by stolen people. The ships that brought the first enslaved Africans weren’t ghost pirates; they were backed by investors. The colonies were run like extractive outposts. The Constitution itself was a contract to protect property — including human property.

That was the original LLC.

Remember those proud pictures I mentioned before? Empire’s hydra leaves nothing to waste. It’s always about the money. Those pictures got sold as postcards. They became trading cards—talismans with energy harvested from Black pain that they still pass around today from family to family as proud heirlooms.

Back when, you know, “America was great?”

I bet they a worth a “whole lotta money” today.

I bet those PragerU indoctrination-slash- brainwashing and conditioning shampoo cartoons won’t teach the little children how they seasoned their food back then, and most likely still do, today.

They boiled us down to grease to fry their meat.
Literally said we tasted… “seasoned.”
I wonder if it was the pain infused in our blood that they loved so much.
I bet our “seasoned body oil” would give the “Christian” values Chick-Fil-A chicken sandwich a run for their money, don’t you?

Pause.

Understand that this was not no glorified Hannibal Lecter “fa-fa-fa-fa-fava beans” Hollywood moment. When Trump and Vance talk about crime and violence, why don’t we ever hear about white-on-white violence or those mass murderers they love to glorify on the oxygen, ID, and Nancy Grace-like channels?

That’s the kind of content Empire consumes.

Do you notice that?

And don’t nobody ever think to say a damn thing about it.

Why do they love ‘murder-murder kill-kill’ shows and movies so much, eh? True crime podcasts?

The Epstein case seems more fun to them than Pizza-Gate was. They aren’t truly interested in the fact that real people had a real island where they trafficked in real children for the purposes of real rich, powerful, and evil people to come and do whatever the hell their real darkest of hearts fancied or whatever their real dark money could afford—to do very real evil acts against very, very real children.

Nobody except the very real survivors and their very real allies.

Now tell me, in what world would a scandal of this magnitude NOT topple an administration? Countries?

Get the fuck out of here with that fake “show us the Epstein files.” Bill Clinton got impeached and canceled for getting head from a grown ass woman. But teenage girls giving flabby old white men massages?

That looks good on a resume these days, eh?

But I digress…

Unpause.

Fast-forward and the business model hasn’t changed, only the branding. “Make America Great Again” is just the plantation boss putting on a new hat and promising the shareholders better yields.

“Tariffs” aren’t about protecting you; they’re about reallocating land and resources. Family farms get squeezed out so data centers and prison complexes can move in. Rural people get fed the “anti-elite” rhetoric while their land is quietly rezoned for AI server farms, lithium mining, and privately run detention centers. But somehow, that’s the “leftist extremist” fault?

It’s slavery 2.0 because it’s still extraction of human life for profit — only now the chains are debt, surveillance, algorithmic scoring, and denial of care. They’re not building plantations with cotton fields; they’re building them with server racks, content not cotton, ICE facilities, and private medical contracts.

Same logic, different infrastructure.

And here’s the part nobody says: the “future of work” they brag about at Tech & Prosperity dinners isn’t being taught in the schools where our kids go.

They’re buying TikTok, flooding feeds with fake AI videos, and manufacturing culture wars as a distraction — while China, Russia, even tiny nations train their children to run the next infrastructure of power. AI engineers, quantum coders, cybersecurity forces.

Meanwhile, our kids get fed culture-war bait while their futures are outsourced, memes instead of math, division instead of coding, rage instead of readiness (just active shooter readiness).

That’s not an oversight. That’s the plan.

An unprepared labor force is a pliable labor force.
A distracted public is a captive market.
And a nation asleep, can be looted and robbed blind.
Again

This is not a “theory” my people. Wake up.

America is now under re-colonization, or should I say, a “rebranding campaign?”
She is a business model after all...

Charlie Kirk is dead. Shot in the neck in Utah.

And I never needed the media in any of its many forms to teach me anything about empathy or pain.
If you knew me or my story, then you’d know that I know pain intimately.

Empathy and pain is soul coded. Twin flames.
It’s as ancient as Empire.

My people have been fighting this evil for a long time
in its’ many forms, in many ways.
Empathy is hardwired into our DNA.

Black joy? Black girl and black boy magic?
How we alchemize everything, even tragedy, into a celebration—
a song that reverberates to the tune of a nation’s heartbeat.

We ‘swag and surf’ through Empire’s knock off Hunger Games
and that pisses them off to no end.
Our mere existence—
a living testament to our resilience.

The fact that after all empire has done to us,
we have never, en masse—
collectively, continuously, or systematically—
attempted to erase them from the planet.

We’ve only ever asked for a hand up
after they cut ours off, not a handout.

We’ve only ever asked for equality,
to see us not as subhuman,
not as “other,”
but as the Kings and Queens we were,
and still are.

A fact, they themselves, have been trying to:

whip,
rape,
kill,
dope-up,
choke-out,
put down,
shoot,
lynch,
cage,
beat,
and silence—

in a concentrated effort to make the world see us as ‘less than.’
To make us see ourselves and each other as less than too.
But you forgot your Divine Mathmatiks.

And that’s the real rub.

They constantly search for the sequence in our DNA
and they have yet to find it.
They are too arrogant to see that they never will.

Because despite us living in the Upside Down,
on an inside out timeline,
with an Orwellian twist of lime,
we will never belong to Empire.
They will never own our Divine magic—
a gift from both the Sun and thee Son.

We are blessed like that and they bless us still.

What do they like to say?

“It really puts a stick in their ‘craw,’”
or whatever the hell they like to say,
and they’ve yet to create a ‘floss’ precise enough to root it out.

How they keep trying and don’t get tired is a great mystery to me.
It’s almost like the they too have a secret sequence in their DNA too.
One powered by energy drinks and a single code to eliminate us—
Black, Brown and Blue.

To destroy us. To control us. To harvest our pain.

At least, that is how it looks and how it feels to me. And I don’t know about you reader, but I was taught that if something “looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, that one can reasonably conclude, that what they are observing/looking at/seeing is indeed a duck,” but in these modern times, people can’t trust what they see, nor what they hear, no longer. Not when our greatest tool in life—discernment — has been purposefully eroded. Not with AI in the picture. Not with our own White (Right) House distributing fake AI generated videos. Not with bot-generated accounts trolling in the comments. And for damn sure not when our government is telling straight up lies to the SHEEPeople.

Open your eyes. Empire are “pain feigns.”

Pain has been and will always be their ultimate aphrodisiac. They get…some type of twisted pleasure from it, I don’t know. I just know that when you catch them on video, like we did with Derek Chauvin, you can clearly see it in their face. In their posture.

Energy don’t lie. And you can feel it physically, virtually, digitally, and even electronically. And his energy did not tell one. He looked like he was getting high. No lie!” Like we were actually witnessing him harvest energy from George Floyd as he grinded harder and longer and casually repositioned his body, alert like a predator, glancing up from his prey, eyes darting side to side— real quick-like— to ensure no other beast encroached on the territory he pissed on, marked up, and try to take his kill before he got his fill.

And he did just that.

He took George’s last dying breath. Every single drop of his energy.
And a whole entire nation watched it live on TV.
Empire’s first international snuff film.

And Guv’na“Cocks” had all of his ancestor’s audacity to make a comparison—on live TV. How about you “prove me wrong,” sir? I’d sagely give you a crash course in empathy.

But then again, why give you—a spiritual succubus— my energy for free?

Go suck on rocks and chew gravel.

Disrespectfully.

I just wanted to drop a sample of what I have been working on for almost a month. If you’ve been following me on SubStack, you already know — I’ve been under attack. Physically. Spiritually. Systemically.

And still, I rise. I write.

I’m close now — so close — to finishing what my Spirit told me to start. This drop, The Shot Heard Around the World, is me. A deep dive into free thought speech — not something to be cited, something to be felt.

These are my reflections, my field notes, my transmissions from the front lines of Empire’s takeover. And if you need a “source,” go to The Source. Because this is one Black woman done doing the work for you, when your own heart should already be leading the way.

If empathy needs a reference, you’ve already been programmed —
and I can’t do nothing for you.

I don’t owe anyone proof of the pain I’ve lived through.
I am not a footnote.
I am the record.
The keeper of truths inside a manufactured reality.

The Shot Heard Around the World is an excerpt of a shard from my forthcoming book, Coded for Extinction—the companion to Digital Disobedience (still out — for now — on Amazon and free on Kindle Unlimited).

If you need citations, go there. But understand,
that was from the before. This right here?
This is the now.
The upside down. The mirror world. The in-between.

Welcome to My Mind Palace

What I lay out here is my truth — truth as my Spirit gave it to me.

Sit with it. Let it move you. Let it make you feel something real, not manufactured.

If it calls you, share it. Talk about it. Build from it.
Because this shard alone — not even the full book, just this shard —
runs over 50,000 words of blood, sweat, and spirit fire.

I write from my bathtub, from my pain, from my prayer.
At red lights, outside on the porch, and at the doctor’s office.

Not to go viral. Not to impress. But to save lives.
Including my own.

This is an autopsy of Empire — and of us.
A transfusion paid for in pain, blood, sweat, tears, and sleepless nights.
If you’ve ever felt crazy from being disconnected from the hive,
then maybe you’re not crazy at all. Maybe you’re just part of my tribe.

If that’s you, you already know what to do: Subscribe. Comment. Build.
Connection is the lifeblood of community, and I’m reaching out my hand.

Let’s do the work. Together.

Be good. Be safe. Stay healthy.
Stay dangerous. Stay Woke.

Peace, love, and light.

— T.B., writing as BlakkMomba