As Cleve huddles in his bunker, dwelling on human weakness, he again turns to the Negro Champion as his just punishment, his salvation:
I fear being as weak as Whitey. Look at that flabby pathetic creature. I seek the strength of solitude. Just me and my weights and my glorious distance from corruption.
How pathetic, that Whitey enslaved such a virile, strong, potent race as the Negros. How I despise them for it. How I dream, long for the Negros to do the same to Whitey.
Ah, but the dumb Negros never can, unless we help them. Shall we fuck the mind, dissolve the intellect? What is being smart, except a form of control? Ah yes - the path to glory of the negros - sports. The raging physicality and passion is perfect for them.
And Whitey - now will sit in his box and control the world from afar. He will let the Negro out to play.
But how will justice happen? How will Whitey pay for his crimes? Ah yes, GUILT… that most powerful of tools… what will whitey give, what weakness will whitey accept… what means will whitey pursue to absolve such a dreadful guilt?
Perhaps - his women? Ah yes, woman, that most treasured of prizes, the only true form of wealth.
Rape Them, Black Master. Oh, not the women… you strong powerful virile men, take them tenderly, show them a power and a love that Whitey can never give. Rape the Men, rape their shreds of remaining self-respect. Rape their hopes, rape their futures. Leave them with nothing, because that is what they deserve.
All hail the Negro Champion!