Camp Kill Yourself

Chapter 1: Welcome Counselors

An aerial view of the camp would show you an endless expanse of thick forest, and a massive, murky lake. At the northern most tip of the shoreline, a somewhat dilapidated and dingy brown clubhouse building stood two-stories high, with a second-floor balcony that had looked oddly precarious for over a decade now. No one dared to stand there, even if the view of the lake was lovely. That balcony also provided a perfect view of the large fire pit below – where they roasted marshmallows, performed sing-alongs, and told stories to scare the crap out of the campers – and the required flag pole that hadn't had an actual flag for as long as anyone could remember.

Right now there were no annoying, pimply campers scurrying about, as it would still be another week before any of their teenaged, hormonal bodies arrived. Instead, the counselors were being subjected to their annual summer kick-off, wherein they were supposed to learn about CPR and emergency medical care, besides all the other myriad topics necessary in caring for a bunch of brats, including, of course, how to handle a canoe without drowning. Instead, with two of their own in charge, the group of ten was working very hard at hardly working, sitting on the lip of the red-brick fire-pit and staring out at the muddy lake.

"Gray skies at night, sailor's delight. Gray skies in morning, sailors take warning," their not-quite esteemed leader, Chris, snorted. He stood with his long, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his green Camp Ebenezer tee untucked and hanging loosely over his black basketball shorts. Those were against dress code, but as he was currently the big cheese, it didn't much matter. Although, truth be told, he got off on control and breaking the rules. Which probably meant that whomever hired him was stupid, but for now, he wasn't going to question it. Plus, he got a cool whistle on a string to wear which, you know, made him hot shit – or not.

Beside him, the little cheese was Spencer, one of his best friends and the counselor with the second-most seniority. He was short and skinny, adorned in black jeans and the necessary camp tee. His brown hair was admittedly a bit disheveled at the moment, and he had more than a smattering of facial hair adorning his jaw. His hazel eyes glanced around the group wearily, as he already doubted that any of his friends were going to respect his authority.

Seated and picking at her nails, Jenna – whom they all called Blue, for her passionate dedication to her favorite color – sighed. "Do gray skies in morning mean that counselors are boring? Because sitting here staring at the two of you stare at the lake is not exactly a good time." As if to drive the point of her own words home, she turned her head back toward the water and her brunette ponytail bobbed. "It's still wet!"

"Like you when I get my fingers in you," quipped TJ with a snort. He being, of course, the true pervert of the group. No one had yet figured out how, year after year, he'd been able to get hired as a counselor for teenagers, especially when he himself acted like a three-year-old. He was skinny and short like Spencer, but unlike his friend, TJ thought that his shit never stunk. Some of the girls found him to be a bit of a predatory nuisance, while, by and large, the dudes seemed to enjoy his dirty humor. Whatever the case, he was perpetually oblivious.

Scrappy little Wednesday stood up at this, shoving a finger harshly into the short man's chest. "Fuck off, you pig!" She was the youngest of the crew, at only seventeen, but nothing ever stopped her or slowed her down. In fact, many of the group believed that, if the shit hit the fan, it would be petite little Wednesday who walked out of the inferno unscathed. 

She was ballsy and spirited, and for this, TJ vastly disliked the little Tasmanian she-devil. He sneered at her, shoving her finger from his body. "Fuck off, you little cuntrag!"