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"And peace and harmony reigned in New Orleans forevermore."

Oh boy

Today on the New Orleans Cooking Channel, we will discuss the proper techniques to cooking hatred and wasting your time.

"Next time on Treme..."

If only we'd put this much effort into finding a job

I'm sure they're all just on early Christmas vacation.

and this time next year it will still be there

When I return this hat, it will smell like smoked oppression

This thread has already gone full racist.

It was a muggy December day in New Orleans, overly hot for the season, but not uncommon to the locals. The air hung heavy and damp as Rhy'quell finished mugging his third tourist of the day. A fine haul of 43 dollars, an iPhone and some jewelry had been well worth beating the middle aged New York native about the face with his pistol.

He left her whimpering in the alley as he grabbed the front of his sagging pants and walked away. He overheard the sounds of the local news through an open window. Apparently the city council had voted to remove the Confederate statues in the city, to a raucous applause from the assembled natives. Rhy'quell mused on how the city was finally doing something to combat the terrible problems of New Orleans, and rounded the corner with a golden smile flashing across his lips.

He stood in the looming shadow. The sun no longer reflected across his grill. He raised his gaze slowly across the grey-green boots. The trunks of metal legs. The oxidized overcoat.

His brown eyes beheld a bronze beard a foot above his head. Metal eyes met his gaze, empty and unfeeling, silently judging him. His own grew wide with confusion and fear, followed by anger. His gun came up perpendicular to the sidewalk and his mouth formed into a sneer as he grabbed his crotch with one hand and fired his pistol into the obstacle in his path, each report accompanied by curse from his lips.

The bullets tore through the figure, punching neat holes through the first layer of metal skin and rattling around as they struck the other side, their velocity not enough to carry them through.

The mouth never moved. The eyes never blinked. Rhy'quell's sneer turned to a trembling of lips as the golem swung its sword in a terrible arc. The blade made thick, wet sound as it sliced through his neck in a font of blood. His dreadlocks fanned out in all directions as his head rolled into the gutter, like dice in a back alley game.

The General stood sentinel straight, the red gore dripping from his saber. Seems he had his work cut out for him. But after all, it was they that had wanted him to come down...