Sweet revenge

Killing Them One Puff at a Time

I exit out that same red door and walk the mile long journey to the gate. The rest are driven to school or work but I just simply walk to the bus terminal and wait for Bus B to arrive. I live in Upper Bucklebury near Byles Green and Broad lane with so many bushes and trees that practically buries every living thing in it site and swallows it whole. But the scenery is beautiful and the lakes are pristine. It's a beautiful place that holds a house full of hypocrites: a hero, a dear grandmother and the memories of a dead kind old fool. A beautiful place is this Upper Bucklebury that is hell in the form of a present, laced in ornaments of different colors with neatly shaped scripts of "Mary's Christmas" and "Let it snow", from Mother with love. A blend of ironical hypocrisy topped off with pickled plum. A poet might call it "A Christmas in Hell", but I am no poet so it's simply a "good place" with "bad people".
    The bus arrived on its usual Monday schedule and I hopped on with nothing else to lose but a lung and my virginity. Bus B had all the scum of society crammed into one large a can of sardines and I was always there among them. I took the risk everyday and at this point I should be dead from secondhand smoking, but thank God for those priests of avarice in B.A.T who saw it fit to reduce the bad in one puff to save money and make money. They are the true heroes, saving lives one puff at a time. All hail British American Tobacco.
    The bus swayed back and forth at each turn and I felt awfully suspicious hand grabbing my rear end. I looked around and saw men with the faces of predators like a convoluted scene from a horror movie.
Then I came to an astounding conclusion. They were all in it together. The driver and all these scar faced looking criminals. He swayed the bus, they grabbed the closest jewel; and they were good enough that I didn't see it until now. So I let him enjoy himself and repaid the favor when I left and grabbed the closest thing to his front.
    "We can't all have the fun, can we?" I said leaving him in pain.
I walked to the front and saw the bus driver, he was a baby-faced, stucky man who looked like he had a cat for every state in America. He looked as harmless as a priest on probation, he even had me fooled until I saw the tattoo of someone's rear on his arm with "Come and get it" written in ancient script. I was suddenly filled with admiration for this man. His operation was well planned, perfectly laid out and not easily caught. It was pretty damn beautiful. So I forfeited my share of whatever joy they receive in their daily dues, it was the least I could do. Next time I might just bring Mary, the virgin of all whores.
    There it was, a mile in view, the University of Greenwich. Serena was an alumni and Mary had two more years left. One might wonder how Bobo the clown and his sister got into the most prestigious school in England. Another might wonder where the branch in France got its large donation on the eve of these clowns admission. But wondering causes brain exhaustion and only fools would dare to say the truth. I however was born with a certain set of skills that considered me a genius to this dim minded populace and gave me freedom to roam whatever schoolyard I chose. So I chose this one, not for any noble reasons that Miss America would be happy to supply but for the sake of history, every anthropologists quirk. Besides that, I liked the location, right near the River Thames. It was a perfect blend of historical enthrallment and filth, the booze for every Brit.
    Everyday it is the same, nothing changes. She arrives in a black rolls royce limousine that puffs more smoke than a seasonal smoker in winter and drowns the entire population with Clive Christian, a fragrance she describes with the American cliche "it's to die for". As she walks all eyes turn, both male and female. She smiles and drinks the attention oblivious at the tears that streamed down their eyes. But I understand them. They are merely victims to her wine.
    No one knows that we are siblings and our last names are different so it is not a common inference. Her surname is Humpearth of the Humpearth corporation and mine is O'Shea from any dirt poor bar in Northern Ireland. Since the very day she could speak she had been chasing a dream, one that was the fifteenth heir to the throne. It was a man the family had eyes on for years and he was quite pretty too. James Adele Rummage III, son to one of the oldest noble families in Britain. His grandfather so happened to be the chairman of the school board. He too was an English major and she followed him around like a desperate pup.
    It was fun to watch, such nobility is inspirational.
"Melanie because of you we are late again," said my friend obviously flustered.
"Don't blame me for your mistakes dear"
"You and that filthy mouth of yours"
"That's rich coming from you, Elle"
She smiled and we ran to our class hand in hand. We are in the same department and she was just on my wavelength, something very rare. She can only be described in one word: eccentric.
    History is what made the world what is it hence it makes the world go round. So I studied history and it became the first step to my dream. World domination. Study their rise and their fall and you can understand where they went wrong and what you can do better. Hero and dear grandmother think I want their money, a common misconception, my dream isn't so shallow.