A KKK member wakes up in a world where whites are the minority .

Flynt sat in the darkened saloon, watching the fluid-like reflections of jukebox lights on the lacquered bar undulate to the music. He did n't move at all. His finger did not tap his obsolete wedding band against his scotch glass, his knee did not bounce nervously -nothing. The only movement he permitted himself was to lift drink to lips and back down again and even that was rigid and stiff. He dared not flinch, he thought. 
 
 Everything seemed normal when he walked in. Just another day in the bottle; waking at four in the afternoon, not shaving, and grabbing loose, crumpled bills from the cheap dinette table he drank at when he was n't in the mood for the bar. But then he saw the new bartender. 
 
 He did n't want to say anything, no one else seemed to mind, but when had his favorite bar began hiring blacks? He'd decided to talk to Milt when he came in. The two were old friends, after all, and shared many a gripe session about black people. It was n't Milt who had gotten Flynt into the KKK, but he was n't surprised to see him at the meetings. He'd never do this. 
 
 Flynt had turned to look at the fellow beside him at the bar, planning to make an expression of dissatisfaction and see the reaction. But he was black too. Flynt's spine stiffened. 
 
 His eyes scanned the room. 
 
 Some black guys playing pool. Two black men laughing with a black girl at the jukebox. A black barback wiping up beer. *Everyone was black. * 
 
 *Did I go to the wrong bar? Maybe I drank the wrong drink, * he thought. But as more black people walked in the door, he stiffened and sat there, unmoving, hoping Milt would come over and declare it a prank. 
 
 That was half an hour ago. 
 
 He'd been declining another drink ever since, sipping gingerly on what little remained of his first. He tried not to move -like an animal holding fearfully still in the shadows, hoping a predator will not strike. *I have to get out of here*, he concluded, noting that Milt may never show up. He certainly was n't going to stay here. 
 
 Sowly at first, he rose to his feet and instinctively tossed a single onto the bartop. The bartender smiled and thanked him, but he was too nervous to reply and met his gaze with fearful guilt, like a boy who'd just been caught stealing. His hands fumbled into his coat pockets and his pace increased the nearer he got to the door. As he reached for the handle, the door opened towards him and the hard metal door smacked his hand sharply. The man entering, seeing what had happened, apologized at once. 
 
 `` Oh, hey, I did n't see you there. Are you alright,'' the older man asked, pulling grey gloves from his still-chilly hands. 
 
 `` It's fine, it's ok,'' Flynt blustered, trying to simply escape. 
 
 As he walked out of the bar, into the frigid, winter air, the man called after him. `` Happy holidays, man!'' Flynt let the door close behind him, muttering, `` yeah, merry fuckin' christmas.'' He turned to shoot a scornful glare at the bar, resolving never to return, when he saw one more black man -this one staring at him in horror. 
 
 The man's eyes were wide with terror, searching his with a palpable desperation. Flynt, struck to his soul, walked zombie-like towards the door, watching the black man walk just as slowly towards him. As Flynt moved, so did the black man; a simple reflection in the glass of the bar's door. He raised his hand slowly to face and screamed.
