Clark

         Clark hunched over his school-desk, nervously doodling with his number two pencil. He stopped only to gnaw on the eraser. He wore a black hoody, blue-jeans, and white skateboarding shoes. His backpack was deceptively placid, next to his chair legs. The classroom seemed miles away. The teachers words fell to the floor before they could reach Clark. He was contemplating but, certain. He trudged back to reality and the classroom. He peered at Rebecca.
         He loathed the stuck-up bitch. The school was filled with hood-rat-skanks like her. He felt the rage boiling up his body. I'll take care of that fucking smirk, he thought. A dick would certainly straighten her out. Or a gun. The two were ridiculously similar to Clark. Identical, in fact. He gritted his teeth. You'll file them down to the gums, they'll love that when you go to prison. His mother's sadistic tone taunted him. "Shut up!" He whispered.
         "Excuse me?" Said Miss Thomas.
         Mind your fucking business, he thought. But he did not say anything. He just sent her a look that said (what the fuck do you want?). She returned to her lecture. Two guys-Jocks-in the back of class were mumbling about what a weirdo Clark was.
         He hated the steroid-bunny-fuckers as much as the stuck-up bitches. They were assholes. He could not understand why the girls did whatever they wanted. It didn't matter anymore though. He would take care of those bunny-fuckers soon, as well. Those assholes need a good dicking. Dicks forced assholes straight didn't they?
         They would all be sorry. Sorry they ever fucked with Clark. Sorry for every time they shanked his pants down for the girls to make a spectacle of his short-comings. Sorry for the ass-kickings. Sorry for the time they held him down for Big Bill to rub his ass on Clark's face. Sorry for tormenting him day after day. For making fun of him. Laughing at him. Those stuck-up bitches wouldn't fuck him. He was not adequate enough. He could not help the size of what god gave him. They didn't have to make fun of him for it. The teachers would be sorry for letting it happen. Nobody was blameless.
         This was his way of redeeming himself. He would--for once in his life--have power. Control over a human life was the ultimate authority. He would be able to take their lives as easily as God had rendered it. They would regret it sincerely. They would beg him to keep their lives, as he had for their acceptance. There will be nothing they can do. He would let them brew in their self-loathing and rue for as long as possible. He hadn't noticed he was gnawing furiously on his pencil.
         Rebecca flashed him with a disgusted demeanor. He could not wait any longer. It was a look he had endured on numerous occasions. Anytime a girl showed him that little repulsed glare, he desired to stab their tits with a steak-knife. He would play it out in his mind. The liquid from silicone titties would seep onto their blouses and their expression would adjust to despair. Fear was his tuning knob. He would transform all of their faces to sorrow.
         Clark stood.
         "Please sit down until class is over." The teacher said in a smug-smart-assed-tone.
         He jerked the pistol from his backpack. He could hear alarmed desks sliding all around the room. He pointed his gun at Rebecca's head and fired. It was fast. Her head exploded. Blood and brains splattered the wall, in a way that made Clark think of a food fight. The kids were stunned in horror. Clark grinned and pointed his dick towards the steroid-bunny-fuckers at the back of the classroom...