Big Trouble in Little Suburbia.

...It was almost too easy, which is a bit strange to say; feels almost scary, unreal; like it was only a dream. 

Jesus, I can’t believe I really just said that.  How cliché can I be?  But in a way that should be expected, right?  You accomplish something no one has ever done before and immediately you start looking for familiarity.  Clichés are often the easiest explanation, I guess.  

It may have felt like a dream, but I tell you, I have never been more conscious in my life. 

What began as an abstract idea, practically as a joke I would tell people just to gauge what kind of grotesque response I could evoke, has now become my reality.  It’s funny the way life works like that; you create something in your mind and verbalize it, depositing it into the atmosphere, the proverbial community think-space, and there it sits, growing, festering, manifesting a mind of its own.  The idea evolves into a plan; a plan of attack.  That’s when action must be taken, and that is exactly what I did.  I took action and set out to accomplish what I had been joking about for almost a year.


God, I love saying that; it makes what I did sound like a glorious feat, makes it sound like I overcame incredible odds and adversity to achieve my goal.  And I did.  I doubt many people--let alone a seventeen-year-old boy—could even theorize, contemplate, or most importantly execute with so much as a glimmer of the grace I practiced. 

I have done the unthinkable and the impossible, and I did it with my bare hands. 


*          *          *

Name: Ron Mesquit.

Age: Seventeen.

Occupation: Junior at Rally High School.


Kyle? Yeah, of course I know him; that kid’s a freaking weirdo.


He’s just, like a weird kid, you know?  I’m not trying to be a dick; I mean, look, everyone thinks he’s weird, all right?  He’s the type of kid who thinks its cool to draw dicks on his test papers or make a tinny in the middle of class and pretend he was going to light it up when the teacher turned her back.  He’s a D-wing kid.

D-wing kids are the kids who, you guessed it, spend their time in the D-wing of the first floor.  It’s the section for the shop class kids, the trailer kids, and the kids who take seven years to graduate.  I mean, come on, it's no surprise the Dean’s office is right there.  If they’re not serving in-school suspension, they’re usually perpetually sitting outside his door. 

Did I use that word right? Perpetually.  Vocab word of the day, you know?  Whatever.

Anyway, Kyle would sometimes make jokes in class, like if someone were to mispronounce something stupid or give a wrong answer he would mimic, you know, like a game show buzzer or something.  And, yeah, of course we would all laugh and the kid we were laughing at would turn red and feel dumb for a second, but that was really it.  Outside of that I barely paid attention to him.

A bully?  No, I wouldn’t say that exactly.  He is fairly intimidating, I guess—tall, thousand yard stare, wears baggy clothes.  I don’t know; maybe from a distance he looks tough, but, honestly, I would bet he has never been in an actual fight before, and I’m sure a lot of that has to do with his upbringing. 

Kyle might appear to be poor or something like that, but don’t be fooled, his parents have the biggest house in town; it’s like the house from Home Alone, it’s so big.  Kyle’s dad is an investment banker, I think, and his mom is an optometrist--I know because she’s my eye doctor.  To say Kyle’s family is well-off would be an understatement.

That being said, I know next to nothing about his home life.  I heard from a few people that Kyle’s parents are pretty strict, but then again, whose aren’t, you know?  Everyone thinks their parents are jerks if they don’t let them do whatever they want 24/7. 

Yeah...I saw something once.  I mean, call it whatever you want, but yeah I saw something. 

I was at track practice.  It was raining, so coach made us practice in the gym and run laps through the hallways and up and down the stairs.  I guess Kyle had detention or something and his dad was picking him up, or maybe his dad was called in to see a teacher about something or other, but regardless, I saw the two of them walking together.  I could hear them arguing; I don’t know what about, but his dad was pretty mad.  I saw…oh, man, I don’t want this to be like blown up or anything, you know, like, I’m not trying to make this seem bigger than it was, but I saw Kyle’s dad put his hands on him, like forcefully.  His dad pushed him to the ground.  But he picked him back up like a second later.  I’m sure it was an accident or, I don’t know, maybe his dad realized how many kids were in the hallway; witnesses, maybe?    

I don’t know if I would call that abuse or whatever, but that was definitely the moment I noticed something wasn’t right at home.         


*          *          *

That’s where things get a bit more complicated.  What do you want to hear?  That they were evil? Villainous? That I was a mere victim rebelling against their tyranny?

Sorry to disappoint you.   

The simple response is, why not?  But I guess most people have trouble living with ambiguity.  Mystery frightens most people,  Closure provides a certain level of comfort.  More like a false sense of security, if you ask me, but then again, I’m just a kid, right?  What do I know? 

For starters, I know what it feels like to exterminate.  To take what once was and turn it into nothing.  I know what it feels like to end something, someone.  I’ve watched life drain, disappear, and I’ve absorbed that moment in my mind forever.  I’ve taken what was theirs and made it my own, stole their essence, digested their energy, and assimilated their soul.  That power now belongs to me, and with it I become greater than man. 

For me, that acquisition of power is the most definitive “why.”  Everything else is just mindless fodder and a pitiful excuse for a crime.


*          *          *

Name: Rebecca Dolan.

Age: Sixteen.

Occupation: Junior at Rally High School


Oh, of course I know Kyle.  Well, okay, maybe I don’t “know” him, exactly. We’ve never hung out or anything, but I wouldn’t be totally against the idea.    

I guess he is a bit anti-social.  I never see him at any of the football games, which is kinda weird because that’s like the one thing all the students rally behind.  Football is pretty big in this town, you know? 

Oh! I did see him once at one of the school plays.  Yeah, my little brother was in it; I think the show was Charlie Brown.  Kyle was in it too.  Well, not really “in” it.  He was on stage crew.  I remember he had to wear all black all the time; I guess it’s so like the props and stuff would seem like they are magically appearing and disappearing; it’s pretty silly.  Kyle was so tall;  I recognized him right away; even in the darkness I could see him lumbering on stage.  I don’t know why of all things he did stage crew, maybe it was just really easy for him, or maybe he was forced into it.  I don’t know.  In either case, I think it was his only extra-curricular.

We have a class together; only one: English.  He’s usually pretty attentive; quiet, but he seems like he knows the material.  Meanwhile,  I’m always lost.  I don’t understand poetry and would never read books like A Farewell to Arms, or Crime and Punishment if I wasn’t being forced to.  I am always finding myself distracted.

I don’t know if I would call it admiring, but I do watch him in class.  He’s cute, I guess; in like a weird kind of way.  He’s good looking, sure, and he has a sense of humor, you know every once in a while he’ll make a joke and the class will laugh. 

I like him, but like I said, I don’t think I secretly admire him or anything, I just sometimes let my eyes rest on him for a little while I daydream.  


*          *          *

Don’t tell me you’re actually curious.  That’s an unusual feeling, isn’t it?  Intrigue.  The internal war; on the surface you are disgusted, revolted, but on the inside you are clamoring for more horror, more juicy details.  You want it to get worse, go lower, dig deeper.  You don’t want to know the monster in the closet, under the bed, but you want to feel its pain, its destruction.  Like cage-diving, you want to witness the great white fear, so close you can reach out and touch it, but you desire safety, you require a divide between you and it.  The classic battle between Man and Beast. 

You want to know the truth?  Fine, I’ll give it to you straight. 

Friday night I walked into the garage and found a hammer—black with a red rubber handle.  My dad must’ve used it a thousand times.  I always used to watch him with envy; I wanted that hammer as my own. 

Now it’s all mine. 

I took that black hammer with the red rubber handle and I walked back into the house, upstairs to my parent’s bedroom.  It was 10:00 PM and they were getting ready for bed.  My dad was putting away freshly folded clothes, and my mom was in the master bathroom.

My dad’s back was turned.


One solid blow from the blunt end to the back of the head was enough to drop him to the floor.

Almost too easy, like I said.


Another blow to his head and his skull cracked as the hammer broke through and pulverized the meat inside. 

My mom had heard my dad fall.  She heard the crushing of his bones. 

I used the hammer to push open the bathroom door, smearing blood across the wood.  She stared at me, stunned, her back against the running sink, her bathrobe halfway undone.

“…Honey, please--”


Shut up Bitch.

The metal shattered her jaw, sending blood and teeth flying across the room, dancing on the tile and linoleum.  Mom fell with her face in the sink, the water rinsing the blood, washing away her life.

I raised the hammer once more over my head and with one determined swing it was all over.  They were dead and I was more alive than ever before.

...Now, there’s nothing left to do but celebrate, of course. 

And what more appropriate way than by hosting a party?  A killer house party.  A party for the end of the world, and everyone is invited.  All of the losers, the nerds, the geeks, the freaks, the worms, the queer, the underperforming, the overachieving, the jocks, the punks, the studs, the sluts.  All of those who forgot about me, negated me, wrote me off, left me for dead—even they will have an invitation.  All are deserving of this.  All will bask in my glory, my greatness. 

Tonight, I am king, and tomorrow I will be legend.