Queer Fat Niggers ™ weren’t fat or Queer or Black, they were a duo of Transgender womyn who hailed from the wealthiest hostels of Long Island.

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QFN’s hook was butterscotch-plaid bellbottoms and waist-long,  candy-colored wigs. QFN were blitzed on stage by relentless strobe lights: that was their act. Purportedly, no one over 19 could bear to watch it. QFN are recognized as trailblazers in the exaggerated-breast-size  (EBS) movement of topless trans  liberation.

This informational monologue is dedicated to Larry.

QFN were known for one very catchy and groundbreaking original song and a short set of popular covers.

The covers QFN performed were instrumental jingles of popular brands and sitcom theme songs. QFN sang the syllables of the melodies of the jingles with do’s and nah’s and buh’s.

QFN’s  version of the theme song to the Marlboro Man commercials was widely and enthusiastically  shared on T3k/T8k  and aPocaL. QFN’s interpretation of the I Dream of Jeannie theme song was initially removed from social media for copyright violations but posthumously allowed and eventually drafted as the show’s official theme song in tribute to the martyred band.

QFN affected Cher poses on stage, one wrist limp and the other hand on a hip,  while 5 o’clock shadows were chicly visible through  pancake in the spotlight and their mammoth breasts undulated.

QFN were praised for the clarity of their politics.

QFN’s original single Ukraine, I-Craine was posthumously hyped by Dazed, Pitchfork, the BBC and Brooklyn Vegan and was now being used as the new theme for the  longest-running geopolitical game show on CNN, hosted by the fortified holo of Alex Trebek ™ which remains licensed to dozens of programs in the Conceptual EU.

QFN were driving out of Texas after a successful promotional lipsync, having opened for the fortified holo of Young Patti Smith at a speakeasy, when,  at approximately 11:37 pm on a Wednesday night, a missile launched from a racist drone, said to have been following the QFN van all the way from the speakeasy parking lot,  blew the van spinning and burning, upside down,  on the highway’s shoulder. Annotated smell-plus Sensurround  footage of the attack went double-viral.

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QFN were killed by a cowardly act of coordinated aggression, along with their Mexican driver and an unidentified tour manager and the unidentified tour manager’s vegan comfort dog Larry.

Larry had been a Labradoodle.

Larry got his own life-sized mobile statue sometimes overlooking the Strawberry Fields memorial in Central Park of Newer York. The memorial is a popular  Global vegan attraction when Larry’s statue is in town.

The historical assassination of QFN triggered  the conflagration of the Civil War of the Conceptual United States on the unforgettable date of January 27th, 2027, is how it is often put.

The Civil War of 2027 was also known as The Sequel is usually added.

20 dead, 47 injured.


Expatriate playwright Mason Dell was rushing to finish his one-woman informational monologue  Queer Fat Niggers in the Afterlife / or Clarity  in time for the five year anniversary of the end of North America’s then-most recent civil war. The civil war which had been fought vociferously for three deafening months, re-drawing the static map of the Continental United States into the contingent map of the Conceptual United States, which means that the incorporated entity went Global after threatening to do so for centuries.

Mason mouthed the word ouch.

One of the states of that formerly geographical and static union (Rhode Island)  was now  located on the networked islands formerly known as Haiti after the tragic,  sex-based contagion that cleared it of human inhabitants.

Illinois, Nebraska and Ohio were now provisional entities of a porously Global France, by temporary treaty with the IMF, and the Western half of North America was now titled, intimidatingly,  Greater Sovereign Californialand.

Mason was still flush from creating a bioplay from his informational monologue about the first PostAnimal lawsuit filed against the totality of People as plaintifs. PostAnimal had successfully sued Humanity to legally and bindingly change the term “ai” to “PostAnimal” in the historic court case of 2031.

Mason moved his foot and mouthed the word ouch.

Everybody in ’32 had a rudimentary biocapable PC with a pin-screen. Magnesium, Phosphorous, Carbon, and so forth, cartridges loaded into slots in a floor-standing unit behind or under the desk.

Mason had a brand new pin screen with hollow pixel-center needles each finer than a micron. Mason couldn’t access pharmaceuticals via his pin screen due to the six-week ban, four and a half of which remained.

Mason had cool new vintage oxblood calfskin loafers and a satin cape he was not quite daring enough to wear in public.

Mason had a new favorite fantasy that Kyndri informed Mason that Kyndri wished to be called the anagram Lana. But only by Mason.

Mason Dell had gout, a condition he had been surprised to learn could afflict a slender man in the 21st century.  Like others,  Mason had typically associated gout with foie  gras-wolfing 17th century French Kings or porky 18th century English burghers.

Literacy was back.

Romance was back though not quite yet in the hetfuck sense.

The gout was as a punishment, in the form of an ambush,  for Mason’s dietary choices.  Mason’s left foot was shoeless and propped on a stool under the table upon which he typed on a refurbished portable Brother manual typewriter. Mason’s left foot was shoeless but not sockless because Mason did not, under any circumstances,  want his mistress to see the tophus on the surface of his left foot between the big toe and its hapless neighbor.

Mason was planning on planking Kyndri with his socks on, pretending the socks were a joke. The tophus was an expanding blister filling inexorably with mysteriously creamy evil fluid.

Why now?

The screen over the fish tank was showing at that moment the webcam image of what was initially referred to, with military blandness, as Mars Town Alpha. Mason divided his attention between the mound of the tophus under the fabric of the sock and the screen. Sudden movements across the screen called his attention away from the mound of the tophus under the teal-blue sock and the monologue he was writing.

It was racist to call the 54 PostAnimals who had settled the Martian North Pole,  after assembling 1,200 more PostAnimals of all sizes,  “robots,”  although nobody was forbidden from using the word “robot,” as frowned upon as it was and as open to litigation as one may have been when using it.

Free Speech is said to be liberating…

Mason watched the screen for a solid minute with an indecipherable expression.

Every few seconds a PostAnimal moved across the foreground of the webcam image with uncannily inhuman nonchalance in the homicidal environment of Mars. A year after arriving,  the PostAnimals had renamed the colony 27.6, with no explanation.

Mason had first noticed the tophus on his left foot, with mild alarm,  when it was the reasonable size of an ordinary blister but now, the next day, the tophus was the mounded-size of half a walnut’s shell. The pain in that foot was going from bad to worse. Mason had been banned from using pharmaceuticals for six weeks  after serially abusing a clinical  emetic to stay thin the whole month that pork was available in Berlin.

Mason’s gouty foot throbbed and jolted with internal lightning strikes incinerating his toe-bones and blackening the glowing nerve-wires in his foot. Or so he felt. This is torture is what Mason couldn’t help thinking.

Mason was trying to be a trooper. He was wearing a fez.

He typed a word or two and winced.


Mason was writing the monologue Queer Fat Niggers in the Afterlife for Kyndri, a biological female passing for an EBS Trans for purposes of career advancement.

Part of Kyndri’s daily make-up routine was mascara applied to her jawline to simulate a 5 o’clock shadow. The trick was to flick the applicator from the near-distance for a dotting effect then lightly pad the matrix of flicked black dots into the pre-applied colloid of pearlescent foundation.

22-year-old Kyndri’s  mammoth breast implants were militantly never-covered yet highlighted by artificial tan-lines. Artificial tan-lines were trending as toplessness was trending.


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Kyndri  wore a strap-on to simulate a crotch bulge in her fashionable mink shorts and her matching mink cowboy hat smelled strongly of Marlboros.

Marlboros had released a popular aftershave and perfume. A cloudy fluid in a vintage bottle. Marlboros Smoke.

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Some might find it racist to discuss the fact that Kyndri was what had once been called an Octoroon. Kyndri herself was unfamiliar with the word. Kyndri somewhat dishonestly referred to herself as an EBS  TWOC (Trans Woman of Color)  for purposes of career advancement.

The word ” racist”  was officially redefined in the 2031 edition of Webster’s injectable dictionary as an aggregation of previous definitions of “racist,” “sexist,” “speciesist,” “lookist,” and “weightist”.

It was not racist to call Kyndri a TWOC. It was simply somewhat largely untrue.

Using the word “identity” was racist. The acceptable word for “identity” was “narrative”.

Rape, body-shaming and fraud were actionably racist activities.

Mason mouthed the word ouch.

Complicating Kyndri’s racial narrative was the fact that the one eighth of Kyndri that was legally Black was diluted by the other fact that this Black maternal grandmother’s mother had hailed from Bangladesh, a region of the planet that was poorer than ever. This made Kyndri’s maternal grandmother two kinds of Black.

Kyndri resembled a tall Mexican with pumpkin-sized breasts.

Kyndri’s back hurt all the time despite her meta-beta-blocking suppositories.

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Kyndri had been living in Berlin for about a year when she met long-term resident Mason.

Kyndri was as literate and intellectual as any pretty girl had been in generations.

A new day was dawning.

Mason admired Kyndri’s poetry, which wasn’t confessionally solipsistic blather, as had been standard for generations. Kyndri’s poetry was allusive and learned and imagistically baroque.

Several of Kyndri’s injectable chapbooks went viral on aPocaL

Mason had memorized the poem that Kyndri had written that made him so hot for her, though he had clue none what most of it meant. Maybe poetry couldn’t make anyone cry anymore but it could certainly make one beat off.

the enemy attacks becoming

friends in the

algorithmicist sense of

the word.  to cripple with

chipper handshakes all promising

pianists like you and brew

the newborns’ burning

hospital coffee with mass

grave Earth to taste 

worse than pizza in Germany, no topping

ruled out: peon shit,  blackened fingers, tin

teeth, prof’s gout. no stopping

the friendliest

rapes, the most generous


knouts.  “Unfortunately,” writes out  Tom


Lux in the forward to Bill Knott’s selected

poems, 1960-2014,  “he also wrote

in one poem that he couldn’t see

the difference between

several prominent American poets and

‘aviators dropping a bomb on

Vietnamese women and

children.’  This

was egregiously rude, of course, and

flat-out dumb, not to

mention self-destructive, and

added more to the controversy of early

Bill Knott,” but

didn’t Knott just

mean they all (and you) just work

for the same damn





Germany had yet to go Global, regarding the configuration of its traditional map, though the official language of the territory corresponding to that map was no longer the German language.

Politicians obsolete.

Mason glanced at the ruddy webcam screen over the fish tank. There was a two minute lag in action.

Mason had been on the writing staff of a popular Global sitcom Kyndri had loved as a girl in the 7th grade.  The sitcom was  based on archival footage of the 6 o’clock news,  from North America’s Television broadcasting network,  NBC,  during the peak of the Vietnam War.

Mason felt jarred when the terrifyingly expressionless,  spider-like multi-eyed polished aluminum “face” of a PostAnimal stared directly into the Webcam for a solid half a minute as though it were studying Mason. Mason  reminded himself that this had already happened, on Mars, two minutes ago. The possibly surly, spiderly, nosy possible glare was already a phantom of the super-recent past.

Mason typed out two whole sentences and erased the second sentence and looked at the screen over the fish tank again.

He imagined that the person in the shower he could hear pattering in shifting patterns down the hall was a PostAnimal.

More and more popular sitcoms were Global.  This meant that the sitcoms  weren’t created in any particular place, by any particular people.

Heterosexual Cockblocking sitcoms were trending. There was something deeply funny, to the greater populace, supposedly, about heterosexuals being foiled in the attempt to indulge in screwing. The word “screwing” was back in fashion but not regarding penises depositing semen in vulvae. All the trendy technological sex developments (like replaceable  latex anuses)  were Homo.

Feeling straight was still like being a buggy whip.

Mason hadn’t slept with a biological woman in thirty years. He wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Mason limped to put his vintage whistling kettle on the boil to anticipatorily commemorate the third imminent copulation between Mason Dell and the actress Kyndri.

Mason knew with a shrug that  he wouldn’t last a minute. Queers were lasting for hours. They had pills, creams, chips to facilitate copulatory marathons of genital triumph.  It was more or less a vintage formality, the whole hetfuck thing, yet the ache for it in Mason remained like that of a soon-to-be phantom limb throbbing erect in super-imposition on the dangle of the real life thing.

He could hear the patter of his vintage low-pressure shower running.

Tea might help. Tea was the only affordable vintage drink left.

Mason relished mouthing the syllables rishi rooibos as another exotic signpost of the wonderful past as he contemplated the haunch-like black curves of the kettle. Mason relished mouthing cream of the crop.


Mason sat at his desk and rolled the sock off his left foot grimacing and gawped  at the size of the opalescent tophus which glittered with sentient pain.

How the cream of the crop developed “ai” into a genuine self-directed intelligence was the breakthrough of the so-called “narcissistic” or “inner-directed” circuit. The second step was putting thousands, millions, billions of these circuits in direct competition in a sorting system that selected the “dominant” circuits, destroyed the bottom 90%, and so forth. Perhaps it was both the only way to create intelligence and a mistake.

We are all now just waiting-and-seeing.

Mason had approached the first strange agony-tingle of his left foot’s gout with a wait-and-see policy.

The opalescent tophus had doubled in size in less than an hour and the foot itself continued to swell. The tophus  was no longer the size of a thing that could fit comfortably in Mason’s, or anyone’s, trouser pocket. In Mason’s trouser pocket the tophus would have bulged like a vintage conch shell from a vintage aquarium museum.

Mason winced at every smouldering blast of his left foot’s internal lightning.

There were black market pills favored  by underground Body Integrity Identity Disorder fetish resistance radicals (who scampered, gimbaled, limped and skittered in the night) that could reputedly simulate targeted leprosy with ideal results. The targeted extremity turned black and papery and fell off in a week, supposedly. Nothing you couldn’t handle with a crutch, a broom, a dustpan and  some acrobatic dexterity. Though non-necessary self-amputation was just about the most illegal thing you could do,  short of fomenting discord in the populace as a celebrity, the penalty for which was intermediate-to-strong torture and being the butt of everyone’s jokes.

It was universally agreed that giving people the job to torture people, and not others, was the hallmark of civilization.

Mason mouthed the word ouch.

Free Speech was enjoying a renaissance.

Mason mouthed the word ouch.

Mason mouthed cream of the crop.


A New Frankness was in the air as was a New Literacy. Writers could again expect fees for highbrow productions after decades of loss. Writers risked charges of fomenting discord in the general populace for their highbrow productions again after decades of safety.

This is a highbrow production.

There were no more death penalties or prisons. They just came to your domicile in hazmat suits and tortured the fuck out of you for unspecified periods of time, provided sterile dressings and sealed off your domicile for days or weeks as you recovered. The “unspecified periods of time” was a canny feature of the torture.

Even the most powerful people on Earth, supposedly, along with everyone else, supposedly, submitted themselves to the supposedly Perfect Judicial Vagaries of PostAnimal.

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Mason had heard conspiratorial whispers about a thing called a Mephisto Pass.

Mason could only dream of being rich enough, or cream of the crop enough,  to score one.

“People must think I suck your imaginary dick,” chortled Mason,  loudly, in an unconvincing (to Mason) effort to downplay his own growing pain and horror. The monstrous white tophus was estranging Mason from his left foot even as the intensely throbbing agony of it welded him inexorably to it.

Mason took a very long  drag on his Pall Mall while staring at the tophus.

Vintage nicotine-rich cigarettes were back in style.

People were less picky about what they ate. They ate crap but they didn’t over-eat it. The world was losing weight.

If Mason found himself resorting to an actual hospital he knew he probably wouldn’t be coming back. Not as Mason Dell, at any rate.

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The vintage whistling kettle whistled startlingly and Mason looked sharply to his right.

Kyndri emerged from Mason’s fashionably antiquated shower towelling her mammoth breasts with a vivid red chamois. To stare at Kyndri’s undulating mammoth breasts would have been considered racist so Mason locked his eyes on Kyndri’s with an unwavering intensity that, before recently, Kyndri would have interpreted  as racist.

“Say again?” said Kyndri, wiggling a finger in an ear.

Mason turned to face her.

Mason mouthed the word ouch.

Kyndri screamed a piercing scream like a woman whose betrothed has been cruelly revealed as a monster.

(Acting exercise. No,  she hadn’t seen the tophus yet).

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