MURDA HONKY | The Last Honky: One White Man's Bloody Revenge in a Dystopian World ...

MURDA HONKY

By Bigotistaphobe Comics

Entry 1: The Forgotten Cell, Written in the Blood of My First Guard

They called me a Nazi, a right-wing devil, just 'cause my skin was white and thus my tattoos screamed rebellion—swastikas inked in a haze of youth, eagles and iron crosses from a time when I thought symbols meant strength. By 2050, the New World Order had flipped the script. AI governance ruled, a cold machine god enforcing "equity" that meant erasing whites like me. Peaking racism, they said, but it was genocide in slow motion. I was demonized, labeled, then tossed into a mental institution for life. Forgotten in a padded cell while the world outside replaced my kind with waves of non-whites, all under the banner of progress.

But I wasn't forgotten by my rage. One night, the power flickered—AI glitch or divine intervention?—and I broke free. Snatched a clown nose and squeaker horn from a nurse's desk on my way out. Why? 'Cause the world had turned me into a joke. Now I'd honk my way to revenge, a mad clown in an apocalyptic circus.

I went off-grid, deep into the wilds where the AI eyes couldn't see. Lived on roots, hunted with sharpened bones, my tattoos fading under scars from the elements. Survival was my first kill: the hunger that tried to claim me. But I endured, plotting.

Entry 2: The Border Skirmish, Inked in Migrant Blood

First blood: a pack of replacement migrants, non-whites flooding the old borders under NWO decree. They found my camp, thinking me easy prey—a lone white ghost. I donned the clown nose, honked the horn like a war cry. Laughed as I charged. Knife in hand, I gutted the leader, his screams echoing as I painted this page with his essence. The rest scattered, but I hunted them down, one by one, through the thorns. Their bodies fed the earth, a message: the last white man fights back.

Entry 3: The Cult Ambush, Scrawled in Zealot Gore

Deeper into the ruins, I stumbled on religious extremists—jihadists merged with NWO cults, praying to the AI as their messiah. They captured me, chanting about purifying the white devil. But I broke chains, honked my horn, and turned their altar into a slaughterhouse. Slashed throats of imams and fanatics, their blood warm on my quill. Survival meant adapting: I stole their robes for camouflage, their weapons for my arsenal. Fought like a demon, because that's what they made me.

Entry 4: The Elite Hunt, Penned in Politician Plasma

The global elites hid in bunkers, puppeteering the AI from shadows. I tracked a senator through the undercities, a fat non-white overlord feasting on the enslaved. Honk! Nose on, I stormed his lair. Judges flanked him, corrupt robes stained with innocence. I beheaded one with a stolen blade, used another's blood for this entry. Politicians begged, offering power. I laughed, honking, and ended them. But deeper: the underground pedophiles, farming kids for adrenochrome in hidden farms. I freed the children first, then massacred the monsters—elites sucking youth from veins. Their screams were symphony; their blood, my ink. One child whispered thanks before I sent them to safer shadows.

Entry 5: Army Assault, Etched in Soldier Sanguine

Armies came next—NWO legions, diverse hordes enforcing the peace. I ambushed patrols, honking my arrival like death's jester. Fought with improvised bombs from scavenged tech, rifles pried from dead hands. Survival in the trenches: ate their rations, wore their skins. Milestones mounted: a general's head on a pike, his blood scripting my triumphs. Against all odds, one man versus multitudes, my rage a wildfire.

Entry 6: The Antichrist Clash, Inscribed in Demonic Ichor

The end times brewed. The Antichrist rose, a NWO avatar fused with AI, summoning fallen angels—twisted beings of light and shadow. They ravaged the remnants, enforcing eternal slavery. But then He returned: Jesus Christ, blazing glory, calling warriors. I stood beside Him at Armageddon's field, clown nose defiant, horn honking amid the chaos. Fought the beast, slashing angelic horrors with holy fire in my veins. The Antichrist lunged; I pierced his heart, his ichor staining this page. Fallen ones fell like stars, and with Christ's nod, I finished the last of humanity—non-whites, elites, all crumbling in the fray. The world burned, ruins and rot.

Final Reflection: The Cycle's Close, Dipped in the Last Drop

Racism begat racism, a snake eating its tail. They used hate to justify erasing whites, spilling blood for "reparations." But in the near-extinction, my rage ignited—a grand fury in one forgotten man. I walked Earth slowly, methodically murdering the enslaved masses who thought white's end meant peace. Irony: the race demonized for slavery freed the world from tyranny's chains, the truest bondage. Now I stand alone on this husk, honking forever into the void, the last white man in a graveyard of hate.

“Darkness cannot drive out hate, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that. ” 

- Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.