Thank you to Sir @redpilledredneckdad for this prompt.
Please note this story has some racist undertones. Reader discretion is advised.
“It’s an embarrassment, we are a disgusting embarrassment to this country,” Tyrone furiously spat. “Every time we take one step forward in this state, I swear we take at least five steps back.”
His assistant offered some remarks over the phone, agreeing with him.
“I understand it’s been banned before but that was over ten years ago!” Tyrone fought back. The news was painted all over the city: the state had repealed its bill forbidding the Confederate flag from flying over the state capital. Instantly, the stars and bars proudly went up the pole, and not only at the capital. As Tyrone drove throughout the city, he swore the flags were popping up one by one like weeds. “We live in a different culture now, one run by a narcissistic pedophile!”
His assistant agreed, only infuriating Tyrone further. He had to do something.
“I’ll sue them!” Tyrone exclaimed, pulling into the parking lot. “I’ll sue them all!”
“I’ve got the money, I’ve got the funds.” Tyrone moved a hand over his head, the sweat clinging to his tight coils. “My donors will support me. Heck, I have over one million followers that could chip in too.”
Tyrone had spent his whole life fighting against the system. From an early age he understood that America was built around a caste structure, one that put white people on top and all others on the bottom. At first, as a confused elementary student he was led to believe this meant he was to hate white people, but as he grew older, he learned to channel that hate towards specific groups. Bigots, billionaires, politicians (in most cases, just Republicans). He became a fiery activist in his adult years, growing in popularity due to his unapologetic takes to fight back.
Whether it meant supporting his people or eventually those in foreign countries, Tyrone found himself on the front for rights. He had helped create laws, he had helped feed starving children. Tyrone was an activist, and he was not going to let his home state fall back into its “traditional” ways.
“Look, we can talk about this tomorrow. I’ve just gotten to the hotel and after this disaster of a day, I need a glass of whiskey and a long night’s sleep.”
His assistant agreed and ended the phone call. With an agitated sigh, Tyrone grabbed his things and made his way to the hotel’s front entrance. It was no resort–after all, being an activist was no six-figure job–but it was enough to get Tyrone through the night. He would take a bath, relax, and cool down. If Tyrone was going to fight his entire state, his home, he would need to be in his best health, mental included.
“Room 413.” The young attendant handed Tyrone an access card and returned his ID. Tyrone reviewed the latter for a moment. The man in the picture did not look 38. Perhaps a decade older at least. It was obvious Tyrone had spent his life fighting the impossible. Weathered skin, wrinkles. The color and life in his eyes remained, but what else?
Shaking his head, Tyrone thanked the attendant and approached the elevator. Moments later he arrived at his door. A small white room was hidden, holding only a bed and a cheap wooden wardrobe. Instantly, Tyrone began to undress. It was not late, but the exhaustion was catching up to him quickly. First the blue tie, then the tailored tux. The polished oxfords came off one by one. Clunk, clunk. Dress shirt unbuttoned and belt removed, slacks to the floor. In the end, Tyrone was left in a puddle of his own making, only clothed by the holey boxers hidden slightly underneath his pudgy belly. He decided to discard those too, opting to sleep naked.
Usually cleanly, Tyrone approached the closet to hang up his ensemble but was surprised to find a shoe box resting on the first shelf. It was nothing fancy, in fact Tyrone recognized the athletic branding, and by the look of the red fabric poking through the lid, it was full. Politely, Tyrone pushed the shoebox aside and laid his clothes out, putting the dirty pieces in a pile and tomorrow’s set onto hangers. By the time he finished, he found himself wobbling backwards. His aching mind was begging him to rest, and Tyrone obeyed.
When Tyrone awoke, it took him a moment to mentally process where he was. Tangled gray comforter, empty bathroom, blank walls. As the hotel reestablished itself, so too did the events of the day prior. Tyrone’s blood slowly began to boil, but he knew his first actions had to be civil. He was an activist, not a terrorist. First shower, then breakfast, then rampage.
Tyrone got out of the bed with a grunt, his large frame stumbling into the bathroom. After a thorough piss, he went to turn on the shower before realizing there were no towels on the rack. Tyrone proceeded to check the sink cabinet and found none. He then searched for a phone to call room service and once again was left empty-handed.
Confused, he made his way to the cabinet, even though he remembered seeing nothing but the shoebox inside the day before. He opened the wooden doors to reveal he was correct: nothing but the shoebox.
“Wait…” Tyrone blinked. “my clothes!”
The outfit he had worn mere hours ago had disappeared completely. So to had the set he had meticulously laid out before crashing into bed. A bit panicked, Tyrone raced around the room, searching for any of his belongings. His bag, his wallet, his laptop. Even his smartphone was gone. Nothing was in the sheets or underneath the bed and the room was small enough to confirm that there was nowhere else to look.
“No, no, no!” Tyrone began to panic. What was he supposed to do? Go down to the front desk and say that he was robbed while naked? What if someone got a picture of him? He could be ruined!
Tyrone’s eyes scanned the room once more, the shoebox stared at him from the cabinet. The shoebox! Tyrone rushed to the cabinet, hoping for a miracle. He dumped out the shoebox's contents.
“Shoes, socks, underwear…” Tyrone listed every item off. A baseball cap, sunglasses, a necklace. The clothes options were not ideal, but soon his hands latched onto something rectangular.
The screen lit up and Tyrone instantly dropped the device, stunned. The background was none other than the Confederate flag, teasing him. Was this some kind of sick prank? Did someone rob him and was forcing Tyrone to humiliate himself? Although he was not sure, the evidence began to stack up as Tyrone investigated the other items. The shoes, a pair of sneakers at least three sizes too big, would definitely not fit him. The socks were also too large and well pre-worn for that matter. The worst offender was the boxer briefs, proudly placing the cross of the bars right over the pouch.
Tyrone groaned. He knew he was innocent of any crime, he knew that he was in a horrible situation. But sadly, Tyrone also knew he had no other options. Someone was trying to frame him, destroy his name. He could not go out naked, that was obvious, but he could at least cover himself in a sheet or even the comforter for extra protection. Unfortunately though, Tyrone would have to wear what had been left for him.
Disgusted with himself, Tyrone slowly brought the boxer briefs up his legs, trying to ignore the fact that when he had first picked them up, he had found a few pubes and stains inside. Next were the socks, limply covering his feet and climbing up his calves. Trying to cheer himself up, Tyrone added the cap, sunglasses, and necklace. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but instead found himself looking into the mirror and finding his reflection humiliating. He could not do this, he could never do this.
Taking a seat on the bed, Tyrone reached for the waistband of the boxer briefs but was alarmed to find himself sporting a boner. Although physically lacking in some departments, Tyrone was very well-endowed, making the scene even more comical. He reached to remove the second skin but was jolted back by a violent shock.
Frozen, Tyrone kept his eyes trained on the boxer briefs, watching as his cock deflated. No, shrunk. It was still hard, pulsating with life, but it had dwindled, lessened before his very eyes. He could then feel his testicles too, pulling up slightly as they lost some of their weight.
“What the-” Tyrone started but stopped himself as he noticed a pinch of white creeping out of the boxer briefs. Shocked, Tyrone watched as it began to grow, crawling up to his belly button. With it came brown hairs. Their texture was not like his own–they were distinctly different.
“No…no no!” Tyrone called out, terrified as the whitening oil began to spill outward, gobbling up all the melanin in its path. The fat on his stomach melted away, the pale skin revealing a set of abdominals that in any other situation, would have made him happy. A brown treasure trail crept up and once past its destination, began to scatter itself lightly across Tyrone’s slimming chest. Stretch marks and wrinkles disappeared along with his color, drowned out by the white wave unsaturating his arms and hands. Thick, youthful muscles bloomed from the new ground, supported underneath by fluffy and musky pits.
The wave descended downwards too, spilling out onto the thighs and covering them in a thick layer of soft, chestnut fur. The color in Tyrone’s calves were then erased along with a few inches as he found his feet slightly lifted off the floor. Speaking of his feet, Tyrone was horrified to find his soles widening to fill out the remaining space within the socks. They began to emit a funk so pungent that it practically screamed privileged arrogance.
The melanin then slowly drained from his neck, crawling up past his softening chin. The signs of age were covered by pasty baby fat, his coils fluffed out into thick, thin brown curls. Every genealogical feature that indicated his past melted away, eaten by the milky features that now covered his body like a disease. The man before Tyrone was young, white, and undeniably cocky. He fit the outfit perfectly.
With the physical transformation complete, Tyrone believed his personal horror movie was over. However, he found himself corrected as a piercing arrow shot through his skull, obliterating his defenses. Instantly a new history began to corrupt Tyrone’s memories. Growing up on a farm in the rural South. Attending church every Sunday. Learning about the great Confederate states of America-
“Stop, stop!” Tyrone desperately cried, but it was no use. Learning about tradition, appreciating heritage. Understanding the hierarchy, discovering he was on top.
The rallies began to fill his head. No longer was he on the stage, no longer was he covered in the colors of multiculturalism and rights for all. Now, he found himself in the crowd, one of the sheep, doused in red. Saturated in hateful propaganda. Supporting what he now believed was right.
“Protect Women!” “Traditional Family Values!” “America First!”
“Please…” Tyrone mumbled, breaking down.
“White is Right!” “Make America Great Again!”
For a moment, Tyrone felt empty. The pain he felt disappeared, evaporating from existence. Then, the void refilled. Anger. Pride. Passion. Dominance. Greatness. It swirled inside of the new man. He felt renewed by his gifted privileges, and he was determined to protect them. No degenerates or faggots or libtards were going to stop him. Sure he dropped out of high school, but you did not need an education when you had the Lord on your side. And as long as Tyler was White and Right, he would always have the Lord on his side.
“Fuck bro, gotta update my feeds!” the 19-year-old exclaimed to no one in particular. Grabbing his phone beside him, he quickly typed in his password; 020861, the day the Confederacy was formed. Tyler then took a picture of his reflection, proudly displaying his perfect body and political outfit, before sending it out to the masses.
“So proud that the state did what’s RIGHT and put our heritage back on the pole!” the caption read. “Those LIBTARDS can cry all they want–we will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”
stormborns
janainaart
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
titsay
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
jacobvanloon
baratheonpilled
areudirty
