Mr. Nancy: His Grand Entrance | American Gods

Anansi? You want him? Fine. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time a man got f**ked. Now how is that for a story? Because that’s the story of
black people in America. S**t, you all don’t know
you black yet. You think you just people. Let me be the first to tell you
that you are all black. The moment these Dutch
motherf**kers set foot here and decided
they white and you get to be black and that’s
the nice name they call you. Let me paint a picture of what’s waiting for you
on the shore. You arrive in America, land of opportunity, milk and
honey and guess what? You all get to be slaves. Split up, sold off and worked
to death. The lucky ones get Sunday off to sleep and f**k and make more
slaves and all for what? For cotton? Indigo? For a f**king purple shirt? The only good news is the tobacco
your grandkids are gonna farm for free is gonna give a s**t load of these
white motherf**kers cancer. And I ain’t even started yet. A hundred years later you’re f**ked. A hundred years after that f**ked. A hundred years after you get free
you still getting f**ked out a job and shot at by police. You see what I’m saying? This guy gets it. I like him. He’s getting angry. Angry is good. Angry… gets s**t done. You shed tears for Compe Anansi. And here he is telling you… You are staring down the barrel of 300 years of subjugation, racist bulls**t and heart disease. He is telling you there isn’t one goddam reason you shouldn’t go up there right now and slit the throats of every last one of these Dutch
motherf**kers and set fire to this ship. You already dead assh**e. At least die a sacrifice for
something worthwhile. Let the motherf**ker burn. Let it all. Burn.

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