Post by KT ♥ on Oct 11, 2009 16:17:54 GMT -5
Look, Daddy! Fireworks!
He was gonna get them; he was gonna get ALL OF THEM. All the pipey little (hot mess) scrawny babes, all the bystanders, all the people who heard but didn't really listen, all the miserable FUCKS that had ever laid a violent hand on him.
They were all DEAD.
F-U-C-K-I-N-G (dead)...
He had his plans, had everything written out in the palette of his mind. He knew where It was gonna happen and he knew when It was going to be. They'd be sorry they'd ever fucked with the Hassle Boy. They'd try to crawl right back up between Mommy's legs, the only pussy any of them had ever seen. He'd show them just how safe their idea of "safety" was; he'd give them a show.
SETTHEMTOBURNBABYBURNBABYBURNBABYBURN
So he went to the library, checked out a few books, innocent books, little itty bitty books. Children's stories. Told the librarian they were for his little sister. He checked them out, walked out smirking. he was an only child. He didn't have a sister. At least not in his book. Speaking of inside books... He opened Jack and the Magic Beanstalk and pulled out a battered title. Blast Works.
Look, Daddy! Fireworks!
When he got home, his grammie-mother-dearest asked him where he'd been, wanted to know why he'd gone to the library. Wes put on his best smile, the kind that could've made the girlies swoon and strangle them in the midst of their climax. "Just some reading material. Stuff for school." He didn't lie. He meant every word. Every fucking word and a drop of arsenic. Grammie believed him, blew him a goodnight kiss when he turned to go upstairs to his bedroom.
"Love you", was what he said while mounting the steps. He'd never loved anyone. No one (himself) but his bitch and his bombs.
His bombs.
Daddy, Daddy, looklooklook, FIREWORKS!
He hadn't been doing them long; only a few years, upon entering middle school at least. No one knew the exploding mailboxes had been him, not the Rich Fuck Hassle Boy, or the church pantry (hahaa what pantry now?) the year before. He'd gotten better with experience; he'd learned to build 'em well and do 'em quick. But this one was different. This one would be BETTER and BIGGER and would BLOW 'EM ALL SKY HIGH. It would take time, it would take him time....
Wes could be patient.
His schedule began to runrunrunrunrun, a disk on repeat. Rise, school, home, room. Rise, school, home, room. Rise school home room. Rise school home room. Riseschoolhomeroom. Riseschoolhomeroom over and over and over again. During this clockwork life, he was happy. Or they thought he was. He smiled, the laughed, he got a new admirer or two. None of them knew and they wallowed in their ignorance. None of them though he was mad and they were quite wrong for thinking so. Mad, mad (crazy) Wes. He didn't show it. He wouldn't show it. Not until it was time. And that bitch came 'round.
January 22nd. A month before his fifteenth birthday. He mysteriously became ill. Cold, clammy, unable to walk, unable to speak. Grammie went and called a doctor. Wes climbed out the window with a box.
Daddy, the fireworks!!
He marched to school along the back roads to avoid being seen. His trek took an hour or so, purposely prolonged but painfully slow. He'd snuck out at approximately 2 o'clock. He arrived at the parking lot at three. He had half an hour. He set to work.
Bus 77. Wasn't that rich.
Deed done, he retreated back into the forest, picking out his seat. It would be the greatest musical ever made, the best game every played. The anxiety was immense, his fists flexed and clenched, and his breath came ragged. The opening scene sounded, the dismissal bell, and the actors and actresses flooded out onto the stage. He knew some of their names, but mostly knew faces. Emery Hatchgoff, Lucy Bygon, Charlene Hetherford, Emily Davis (hot mess bitch), and Andre Sommers -- the one who'd started the fire.
Wes felt no pity as he watched his classmates load the bus. Felt no shame for flinching as the buses revved their engines. Felt no hesitance as he fishered out the detonator. Felt such bliss as he flicked the switch.
AND BOOM.
Look, Daddy! Fire works!
He was gonna get them; he was gonna get ALL OF THEM. All the pipey little (hot mess) scrawny babes, all the bystanders, all the people who heard but didn't really listen, all the miserable FUCKS that had ever laid a violent hand on him.
They were all DEAD.
F-U-C-K-I-N-G (dead)...
He had his plans, had everything written out in the palette of his mind. He knew where It was gonna happen and he knew when It was going to be. They'd be sorry they'd ever fucked with the Hassle Boy. They'd try to crawl right back up between Mommy's legs, the only pussy any of them had ever seen. He'd show them just how safe their idea of "safety" was; he'd give them a show.
SETTHEMTOBURNBABYBURNBABYBURNBABYBURN
So he went to the library, checked out a few books, innocent books, little itty bitty books. Children's stories. Told the librarian they were for his little sister. He checked them out, walked out smirking. he was an only child. He didn't have a sister. At least not in his book. Speaking of inside books... He opened Jack and the Magic Beanstalk and pulled out a battered title. Blast Works.
Look, Daddy! Fireworks!
When he got home, his grammie-mother-dearest asked him where he'd been, wanted to know why he'd gone to the library. Wes put on his best smile, the kind that could've made the girlies swoon and strangle them in the midst of their climax. "Just some reading material. Stuff for school." He didn't lie. He meant every word. Every fucking word and a drop of arsenic. Grammie believed him, blew him a goodnight kiss when he turned to go upstairs to his bedroom.
"Love you", was what he said while mounting the steps. He'd never loved anyone. No one (himself) but his bitch and his bombs.
His bombs.
Daddy, Daddy, looklooklook, FIREWORKS!
He hadn't been doing them long; only a few years, upon entering middle school at least. No one knew the exploding mailboxes had been him, not the Rich Fuck Hassle Boy, or the church pantry (hahaa what pantry now?) the year before. He'd gotten better with experience; he'd learned to build 'em well and do 'em quick. But this one was different. This one would be BETTER and BIGGER and would BLOW 'EM ALL SKY HIGH. It would take time, it would take him time....
Wes could be patient.
His schedule began to runrunrunrunrun, a disk on repeat. Rise, school, home, room. Rise, school, home, room. Rise school home room. Rise school home room. Riseschoolhomeroom. Riseschoolhomeroom over and over and over again. During this clockwork life, he was happy. Or they thought he was. He smiled, the laughed, he got a new admirer or two. None of them knew and they wallowed in their ignorance. None of them though he was mad and they were quite wrong for thinking so. Mad, mad (crazy) Wes. He didn't show it. He wouldn't show it. Not until it was time. And that bitch came 'round.
January 22nd. A month before his fifteenth birthday. He mysteriously became ill. Cold, clammy, unable to walk, unable to speak. Grammie went and called a doctor. Wes climbed out the window with a box.
Daddy, the fireworks!!
He marched to school along the back roads to avoid being seen. His trek took an hour or so, purposely prolonged but painfully slow. He'd snuck out at approximately 2 o'clock. He arrived at the parking lot at three. He had half an hour. He set to work.
Bus 77. Wasn't that rich.
Deed done, he retreated back into the forest, picking out his seat. It would be the greatest musical ever made, the best game every played. The anxiety was immense, his fists flexed and clenched, and his breath came ragged. The opening scene sounded, the dismissal bell, and the actors and actresses flooded out onto the stage. He knew some of their names, but mostly knew faces. Emery Hatchgoff, Lucy Bygon, Charlene Hetherford, Emily Davis (hot mess bitch), and Andre Sommers -- the one who'd started the fire.
Wes felt no pity as he watched his classmates load the bus. Felt no shame for flinching as the buses revved their engines. Felt no hesitance as he fishered out the detonator. Felt such bliss as he flicked the switch.
AND BOOM.
Look, Daddy! Fire works!