The Jake puts his freshly sharpened machete in his belt loop than begins to count the rounds of bullets he has. He has researched Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris extensively and he knows that his Tech 9 have a 50 mag.
I, on the other hand, am busy making a handy-dandy shiv out of a pen I stole from that one ginger with a big mouth that I teach.
Once I'm done sharpening and the emo is done counting, I realize that I am so fucking ready to kill Warren. No one can hold me back and anyone, and I mean anyone, that gets in my way is getting a bullet between their eyes.
"Jake, you codename is 'Falcon.'" I told him as we walked to my rundown car to put our shit in the trunk.
"The hell, John? Okay I guess." That weird-haired fuckface responded with enough angst to supply a My Chemical Romance Reunion Tour. (I'm sorry Jake I love you bro)
"Falcon, refer to me as 'slut,' not John."
Jake gets into the passenger seat briskly as I jam my thicc thighs and ass into the drivers side. I put my dusty but trusty cassette tape into the radio and the Spice Girls starts blasted through the car.
I reverse out of the driveway of my home in the predominantly white suburbs of Chandler, managing to hit every single trash bin on the curb in the process, and I floor the pedal to make it to my ex-lover, my ex-friend, and my ex-inspiration's house as quick as possible.
Warren, you're going down.
YOU ARE READING
50 Shades of Schrob
AléatoireThere was once two men, both in their mid-fifties, both 8th grade math teachers. They both seemed like complete assholes, but when they're together they're gay lovers. One day, though, their lives will spiral downwards due to a mistress. In the end...
