(All characters sexually active in this story are at or above the age of eighteen. All characters are purely fictional. Check out my profile!)
I like to think of myself as a master of exploitation. Others will call me a bitch, a whore, or just plain evil. But my interference in the affairs of others is minimal; its victims further extend the problems I cause. Many solutions present themselves, but are neither explored nor realized. I feel no sympathy, and remain far from empathy. I only feel joy for every second of misery they experience. And the best part will always be the transition period; when they realize that the fun I gave them is becoming a great misfortune, and in some cases, a disaster.
Ch. 01 - The High School Disaster
I am Kim Lazenby, currently twenty-six years old, located in California. Recently, to avoid issues with the Internal Revenue Service, I have been hired as a secretary. However, for what I consider to be my full time job, over the past eight years I have been self-employed as a social assassin.
The term is perhaps a tad extreme; I do not kill people, I kill their personalities and their social lives. If they are strong-willed, they will not become a victim. If they succumb, they must start their lives anew. What I do is not actually illegal, but the source of funds is always questionable. The IRS is not after me, I've just learned to be cautious.
Since my senior year at James K. Polk High School, I've been working to take down people who have been causing more problems than they should. Morally, there is always a better answer than what I do. Unfortunately for them, I don't care. I've never cared. Through my own experience, I have been desensitized beyond selflessness. I can feel joy, but only for myself. And I'm happy that way.
My first exploit was for the last of the "popular" kids, the stereotypes and emotional pariahs of teenage social circles. The only emotions they seem to be able to experience are anger, jealousy, and arousal. Their lack of care is far different from mine. They mindlessly hurt, lackadaisically and without consideration. I plan my moves, and deliberately do damage.
It was spring, 2005. Most of the people in the senior class had already turned eighteen, save a few kids who skipped a year and the ones who were just born a few days before the cut off date for kindergarten applications. I was experiencing a humdrum, solitary life.
I woke up between 6:00 and 6:30, depending on how late I had stayed up the night before. My alarm was always set for 6:00, but sometimes I just ignored it for a few more minutes of sleep. When I did decide to wake up, I would just walk to my closet and throw on the first things I saw, much like the average male. But like most girls, I had taken a shower the night before, so it wasn't necessary in the morning. After dressing, I lost track of what I did. Sometimes I would see a book lying around and start reading, other times I would pick up my guitar and start strumming. No matter what, I always lost track of time, and ended up leaving at least five minutes past 7:00.
Arriving at the parking lot, I parked in my usual spot, only distinguishable from the others by the uneven separating lines. There I was sit in my car, listening to whatever CD I had in the radio. I was a rocker.
At 7:20 the first bell would ring and I would go to class, straight from my car. Every day, I started out with Chemistry, then proceeded to my first English class, Sci Fi, and then went off to Government class (but the first semester was Economy). After "Nutrition Break" I would fall asleep in Differential Calculus, and then wake up again for AP English Literature, and enjoy a Caesar salad in my car for lunch. I ate all of it, but always wondered what they did the chicken that made so "not chicken" as I thought back then. When the bell rang yet again, I walked as slowly as I could to French 4, and after the painstakingly bland daily lecture on "eeeeuuuuuuuugggggghhhhh" and "aaauuunnnnnnggghhh" (no offense to the French, but I think the language is ludicrous), I would finish the day off with going to Mr. Kalman's World History class, in which I was his Teacher's Assistant.
When school ended, I would wait for about ten minutes for the major traffic jam of the parking lot to clear up, and make my exit from Polk High to return to my solitary cave and complete my homework. More often than not, I would spend hours on math homework because I didn't listen in class. My mother would bring dinner up to my room, as my family had grown less intimate as the years rolled on. Sometimes, if my music was off, I could hear her praising me over the phone as a studious young girl, but,"...not much of a looker."
No matter how much time I had to spend on homework, I would always finish it, and thoroughly too. Except for French homework, I would just gloss over that. But regardless, I was a hard worker. I kept to myself, enjoyed my music, and looked forward to the day when I could live comfortably, self-sustained, and not be bothered by anyone. I just didn't know how to accomplish it. There was no passion I had. I did love music, but there was no way in hell I was going to pursue it as a profession. Then came my first client, a vengeful teenager by the name of Lyle Drummond.
Lyle was the rich boy in town, the cock of the block, and the least liked senior in school. Perhaps it was his ego that made social issues such a major conflict for his mind, but whatever the cause, he could not stand the constant rejection of the people he deemed worthy of his time. I never noticed it; I had no connections of experiences with other students that school year. The extent of my conversational involvement with others was class projects. As fate would have it, that's how I ended up getting hired as Lyle's social assassin.
It was government class; the very beginning of March when I first heard about his troubles. Every month, we would all switch seats for whatever reason, and this time around, fate put Lyle and me very close. He was actually behind me, and sat next to some girl whose name I don't remember while I had the fortune of sitting next to no one. Although Lyle's neighbor for March was unpopular, she wasn't hated like him. But naturally, she was a good listener, willing to hear Lyle spout his teenage angst on a daily basis.
"All I do is give and give but they just don't care, you know? It pisses me off. I like them and they have no reason to dislike me. I could do a lot for them if they would just let me hang out with them."
I would listen to that every day. About a week and a half into March, the girl asked a question. "Who are they?" That was the first time any of it actually piqued my interest. I did want to know which ones he had formed his delusions over. Human psychology has always interested me, so a real application caused my ears to perk up. There were six. Garry Middleton, Pam Schoen, Fred Gris, Sarah Chula, Olive Pentar, and Ted Daley. The seed had been planted in my mind, albeit subconsciously, and without thinking about it I start to perk up my ears for word about them in all my other classes.
By the end of the month, when Spring had begun, I had collected a verified pool of information about each of them.
Garry Middleton, 18 as of that January, was a pitcher on Polk High's baseball team. Not the best pitcher, and not in the starting lineup, but the most popular player on the varsity team by far. He was notorious for meddling with the JV team as "initiation" for anyone planning on trying out for varsity the following year. As for the ones who didn't intend to, it was just hazing. He would do things like fill their mitts with superglue and cover their cleats in chewed gum, never taking into account that someone might want revenge on him. Any word about his personal life had to do with his close relationship with his car.
Pamela Schoen, 18 as of that March, was probably the least aggressive of the group, but that's not to say she wasn't vicious and scathing. Where the others used actions, she only used words. Pam was an unconfirmed homophobe, often taunting people as "faggots" for simple actions such as carrying a roller backpack. She was incredibly concerned with her personal appearance, and anyone she considered to have a large circle of friends had the power to make her insecure only by saying, "Your hair is looking a little frizzy." Her response would be something along the lines of, "Fuck you, I don't need to be perfect." The next day she would come to school with straightened hair, and it would stay that way for some time. She was also single, but word was that she was holding out for someone, as she frequently had opportunities to enter into a relationship.
Fred Gris, 18 as of the previous December, was the theater king. I suppose since the 80's, theater has declined as a "gay" activity for men, so it never really bothered Pam. Often busy with rehearsal or a performance, Fred wasn't always around for the group's antics, but was always welcome when he had time. From the perspective of the athletes and the passivists (the inactive students with no extracurricular activities), he was a talented dramatic genius. From the perspective of the other theater kids, however, he was quite a diva. Fred had a need to prove everyone wrong, or at least be the most correct person in the room. Thus, he is also academically advanced. Unfortunately for my purposes (in causing social damage, not for my personal interest), the last thing on his mind was dating.
Sarah Chula, 19 because of being held back a year, was a shameless whore. Known as the least angry of the six, she would start up rumors about herself, and on occasion, prove them to be true. One such rumor was that she had gone streaking across the baseball field at another school. When students at that school denied it, she proceeded to actually commit the act, masked of course. When approached by the administration, she coolly responded, "I never know how these rumors start." The attention she got from the horny boys did not faze her like it would other girls, especially Pam. But if anyone made a move, Sarah would lay down swift vengeance. Sarah had recently broken up with Ricky Lutin in February, which caused the others to jettison him from their clique.
Olive Pentar, 18 the day before spring break began, stereotypically enough, was a cheerleader. Against the current of the stereotype, however, she was in a long and serious relationship with Ted Daley, a mechanic whiz kid. Olive had a tendency to argue with everyone, especially her boyfriend. But at the end of the day, she would always forgive him. Everyone else never found themselves to be so lucky. She never spent any time defending her case, only attacking the other. So oftentimes, she would win arguments by yelling louder rather than being smarter or correct. Men learned long ago not to flirt with her at risk of genital defenestration. I couldn't find any information about her passions or her positive side.
Ted Daley, also 19 from being held back, and like many teenagers, had an inexplicable love for cars. But unlike most, he actually built a car piece by piece with the help of his father and uncle, and to my knowledge still drives it to this day. Later, you'll know why that surprises me. It seemed that there was nothing else he was interested in, save Olive. He had an ego much different from his friends. His generous thoughts of himself were based on delusion rather than insecurity. Whenever Olive had a bad day, he thought she could take solace in knowing she got to drive away in a handmade car with him. No matter how many arguments involved his obsession with automobiles, he would never understand that she truly did hate it. His view of the world was stagnant. Therefore, his attitude toward others reeked of violence.
The information I had gathered didn't actually have worth to me until one fateful conversation I had with Lyle when the girl he sat with wasn't at school one day. Even though I didn't like his whiny disposition, there was one thing he said that struck a nerve. After about ten minutes of the usual complaints, he said it.
"They had a party last night, and of course I wasn't invited. I showed up anyway though because it's not like they have a right to tell me what I can and can't do. They were playing some shitty Eminem song, like Encore or whatever, so I changed it to Runnin' With the Devil because it's a good party song, you know? I thought that everyone loved Van Halen, but I guess I was wrong because they turned it off."
My personality had never reacted so strongly to something that could so easily be brushed off, but something just changed in me when he said this. It kept repeating in my head, "they turned it off." Physically, I didn't budge. But inside, I was boiling. It shouldn't have bothered me. They have the right to listen to whatever music they want, and comparatively to a lot of rap music, I didn't think Eminem was all bad. Even so, it clawed at my soul with relentless vigor, landing a few scratches until at last I burst.
"If you can't join 'em, beat the shit out of them," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"They won't accept you, they've made that clear. So before we graduate, I will ruin them for you."
He took a moment to register what I said. Being the rich money-buys-everything type, he asked, "How much?"
**********
Phase One
Spring Break had begun. Naturally, there would be plenty of parties to hold everyone over until the summer began. As a gimmick to add to their popularity, the PG-SOFT group (their name for themselves) planned one party every night at each of their respective homes, leaving the Monday and Thursday as a cool down period, and Sunday as a period of rest and detox before school started up again. As part of it, each party would go in order of the group name, Pam, then Garry, Sarah, Olive, Fred, and finally Ted. The parties would be quite large, so my presence wouldn't be noticeable until I made it that way, and after that I'm sure it wouldn't make a difference because my name isn't Lyle Drummond. The first party was Friday night, as Pam's house.
