Fear the Nobodies: Part Twelve

>You know, this is kinda peaceful

>The sun is starting to rise above the bluffs, tracing their outline in a pinkish glow

>Right then, you wish you could draw like Sam – he has the innate talent to do a scene like this justice

>The world looks like a photograph, or a still frame out of a movie

>That’s what this feels like, actually

>A movie

>All the teenage drama, the razor’s edge

>The angst

>The delusions of childhood and preconceived notions of how the world worked you’ve shattered in one weekend

>All the footsteps ahead, and the anxiety to come…

>A fine sheen of silver spreads across reality, like a light snowstorm might deposits a sheet of snow on your car overnight

>The world becomes fiction to you, as you watch the sun rise from the driver’s seat of your car

>And you’re having trouble returning to Earth; breaking off the page you’re stuck on

>You can hardly believe any of it

>Maybe your childhood therapist was right

>You don’t have to feel one way or another about anything

>You’re grateful for this singular moment, sitting in your car with your friends, sipping coffee and watching the sun just barely crest above the hills

>How often take moments in like this with these thre- four

>Four now

>The four of you aligned on a singular goal, drunk on the idea that this is the prime of your youth, and it’s worth doing something with

>All too often weekends with the boys consist of underage drinking, vidya, complaining about school, family, life, drunk, stumble, pass out, wake up underage drinking some more-

>You get it

>All those little mantras about stopping to smell the roses and other zen bullshit?

>You swear, at this very moment, you’d frame every last misquoted Buddhist proverb in teak

>You’d bottle the essence of life’s roses, only to set it free if it meant you could pass this feeling on

>The rustbuckt hums and shudders

>The heater – set to face-meltingly hot – fills in the peaceful silence

>You squint as you look out through your slightly fogged windows at the back of Ranchview High school

>The darkness of the night sky all but evaporates in real-time

>The fattened moon slips behind the western mountains, so close you’re trying not to brace for an impact that will never come

>The moon DEFINITELY should not be full

>Its been full since…

>…Friday

>You bring your window down, just a little

>It’s cold outside, a slight breeze whistling in the air

>To you – and you’d bet to Sam especially – the world is rich with the scents of autumn

>Allspice and clove on the spiced wind

>Fresh-carved pumpkin, bright and sweet in the air

>Rich, earthen tones of coffee and cinnamon

>To Sam – squinting and wrinkling his nose in the passenger seat as he scents the air – you hope it smells like the Halloween he was never allowed to have

>Besides, he’s got sensory abilities that make your senses seem blind by comparison

>It’s not easy to admit, but you’ve become used to his presence, and part of you is always curious about what’s going on in his head

>What he hears, sees, smells

>You’re about to speak up and ask Sam what his experience is like – an innocent learning moment between two cooperative, sentient people – when Alex’s slack stoner voice breaks the silence like a gunshot

>“Sammy boy!” He barks, jostling Sam’s seat by the headrest

>Sam squeaks in fright, and, not wearing his seat belt in a parked car, Sam’s head glances off the roof

>Mike chuckles loudly in the back seat

>You’re about to drive this parked car into the dense outer brick wall of your high school, hopefully killing you and Sam instantly and Alex and Mike slowly

>Sam – puffing with effort – climbs back into his seat

>“Is that the morning janitor coming in?” Alex leans his body over Sam, who dare not look up for unknown reasons

>Alex’s skinny index finger follows something chugging into the parking lot, like an over-sized boat might snore into a marina

>A white van, wearing a skirt of rust, its frame encrusted with…

>…gem stones?

>Yep, even the CLEARLY fake license plate is adorned in what appear to be crystals and gems

>The van drags a tail of black smoke behind it

>Sam sits up and leans over the dash a bit, a tired sigh whispering out of him

>The bunny nods, concern on his face

>“Y-Yeah. That’s h-her…”

>Four clunky little sedans zip into the lot as well, drawing Sam’s attention

>“B-But those… I d-d-don’t know about…”

>You squint hard and wipe down your windshield a little

>The lanky, suit-and-tie figure of Mr. Bolm steps out of the smallest, shittiest car you’ve seen

>He smooths back his fading crop of hair

>“Fuck, this just got a little bit harder,” you say on impulse

>Mike, impatient, chirps up

>“I’m gonna freeze my sperm count to absolute zero in this fucking car, Sam. Go get the janitor to let you in,” he says

“How are you cold!?” You say in disbelief

>Four dudes in a car, heater on full blast (no homo stuff)

>You’re gonna pass out from heat

>The hateful, bright-eyed look you get from Mike in the rear-view mirror is all the answer you need

>Fuck though, you need to some more air

“C’mon, Mike’s right. Go talk to the morning janitor, Sam.”

>The bunny looks hesitant, a long sweep of brown hair partially covering his honey-brown eyes

>“You’re going to send your boyfriend out there, all alone, in the cold, to confront someone, and you won’t even give him your coat?” Alex remarks – not even to mock you, more that exhaustion has removed his ability to filter his thoughts

>You ALMOST say that your coat is way too big for Sam, and that’s why he’s going alone, but instead, you just throw your coat at the bunny in response, a feverish blush brightening your pale face

“You’re gonna get… c-cold if you wear just a hood-”

>You stammer and pivot to rage when you hear Mike yet again snickering behind you

“Sam, go!” you say, rushing the bunny out the door, baptizing him into the frosted morning

>Sam takes a little budging, but you find your raised voice is enough

>He flashes a look of utter confusion, his eyes pleading with you

>No mercy

>You reach over his small form and pop open the door

“C’mon dude. This is your role in the group,” you say without thinking

>“Role in the GROUP?” Mike parrots in disbelief behind you

>Before you can respond, Sam stumbles out the passenger side door

>Wearing your jacket over his old hoodie, Sam absolutely bolts from your car door over to the idling white van

>You three humans stare in awe as a malnourished rabbit – nearly half your own height – crosses the frozen park in a a gallop

>“Do you think any of us could beat him in a race?” Alex remarks, watching Sam become a smudge in the distance

“Not a chance,” you reply

>“I’d kick his ass in a foot race,” Mike says

>Be Sam

>Sometimes known as ‘Thumper,’ which you know is a totally derogatory slur, but you can’t help but feel you deserve to have that name hung around your neck

>Like all rabbits, you, Saman- SAM, are a gutless wonder

>A coward

>So you try to focus on what you can control

>Like your heartbeat, kicking itself against your ribs from the sprint

>But now for the confrontation with someone who… well…

>Let’s just say she’s living in a different reality

>Stella – a STOUT north American badger – hoists herself out of the bedazzled white van, its weight shifting as her boots make contact with the pavement

>In a snap, the badger cranks her head to the right – as if anticipating an attack

>Oh shit

>You dive behind her van with a pulse of your powerful haunches

>“Attention federal agencies that are UNLAWFULLY gang-stalking me, I NOW INVOKE MY FIFTH AMMENDMENT RIGHTS AND REQUEST A LAWYER!” She screeches

>Stella then spins left, body facing the spot you once occupied

>Back to the right

>Silence, save for the echo

>What the fuck

>“Alone… for now…” Stella grumbles, lowering her claws to her side

>The badger stalks towards a maintenance access door, her stout badger-tail trailing behind her stocky body

“N-Now!” You say in a rushed whisper

>As quietly as you can, you close the distance between you and the badger, her back turned to you

>Your fragile little heart hammers against your ribs as you hear Stella fighting with her keys

>“Too many of these things, damn it. Is it it the emerald one?”

>Stella has a… thing… about gem stones

>So you remember the maintenance access keys are blue – sapphire

“I-It’s the sapphire c-c-colored one,” you say, innocently

>At the sound of your meek voice, the badger snaps her body around and presses her back defensively against the door she can’t open

>“WHO ARE YOU?! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?!” She snarls

>Her caws unfold, her body drops low, shoulders wide, into a fighting stance

>“CIA? KGB? WHOEVERY YOU ARE, I’VE WAITED FIFTY YEARS FOR YOU TO FINALLY MAKE YOUR MOV- Oh.”

>The wild look fades from her when she sees you, Sam Garlen, trembling before her

>She looks… disappointed?

>“Sam, what did I say about sneaking up on me? Don’t you remember the code?’

>Your head turns side-to-side

>Stella sighs

>“Boy, I nearly cut you into ribbons. I thought you were one of those scumbag collectors – always after my sacred crystal collection, you know. Always working with the highest levels of our government…”

>She squints at you, trailing into brief psychosis

>“You’re not one of them, right? And you haven’t been talking to anyone on any sacred crystal forums on the internet about me?”

“N-No?” You squeak, “I d-d-don’t have a co-computer at home.”

>The question still feels unanswered

>Oh god she might actually claw you this time

>You tune out the world and prepare for a death you knew was coming as your hands go to your ears

>Her expression softens as she clutches a pink crystal pendant hanging form her neck

>A few moments of restorative breathing from Stella, and a light smile graces her lips

>“Good. Good,” she says. “See, they’ve been trying to swindle me out of my crystals since the nineties. The CIA gives them oodles of cash to buy my collection, but… I won’t sell. I know what the glowies are up to – they’ve been harvesting sacred crystals since the fifties. When I went public with what they were doing, they scrambled my brains in ninety-six.”

“Umm, S-Stella? C-Can I h-have a-”

>Stella chuckles from atop her soapbox, clearly ignoring you

>“Dumb bastards don’t know about this rose quartz here – the one I wear around my neck. As long as I keep THIS ONE safe, the world is safe.”

>You really don’t know where to go from here. Stella appears seems more unhinged than usual, and that’s saying something

>She takes your silence as an opportunity to tell you about the mystical properties of the crystals she bought off the internet

>“You know, Rose Quartz carries calming properties and energies. It helps with my sweating. And these sugilite-amethyst earrings help ward off the negative spirits that so often trail in the shadows just outside my vision. But they’re there. I know it. I can feel their cold hands on my back whenever they think I’m not paying attention. But I’m always ready. Waiting. Watching.”

>She strokes her earrings a bit

>Indeed, there were two purple stones dangling from the pinks of her ears

>You came here to do something — something that matters. Not talk crystals with a psychotic badger

>Stella turns her back to you, but not without a second, wayward glance

>She hunches low over the door and begins fighting to get her keys in, almost as if she were suspicious

>She uses the sapphire-colored key

>You hold your breath and gum up what you’re going to say as Stella mutters curses and slurs that could sterilize the human boys in the car

>’Stella I lost my keys, may I have some more?’

>’Oh, I’m a clumsy idiot slut-for-brians. I lost my keys and I need to let my friends in to commit a crime. Would you please get me a spare copy of the master key?’

>None of those words come out

>Instead both you and Stella gasp as the doors to the lunchroom swing open

>A scene of utter janitorial chaos unfolds before you

>The lunchroom looks like a herd of raging bulls stormed through it

>Tables that weigh hundreds of pounds sit overturned and pushed back against the walls with no order or direction

>Banners of school pride – red and white – are torn in strips

>Like a meteor strike, the epicenter of the lunchroom disaster is clear, all the furniture of the room scattered about on its sides

>Stella leaps forward into the lunchroom, baring her fangs

>“SEE, SAM!?” The badger shrieks, spinning her wide body around in a pudgy, tacticool arc, /k/ommando style

>“Someone tipped off the FUCKING FEDS about the meteorite fragments I hid in the cafeteria…”

>You follow Stella inside as she briefly clears the lunchroom

>“Well, they’re not gonna find ANY of my stashes, Sam,” she declares. “You hear that, you deep state sons of bitches!? NEVER! Not Stella’s stash!”

>She laughs maniacally, deeply pleased with whatever it is she’d done by wandering around the destroyed lunchroom

>The thought of where she might have hid something like a meteorite fragment makes you shudder

>“The faculty all think I’m insane for wanting to have armed custodial staff. Well now look at this! It must have taken at least 20 CIA operatives to turn the room over. And that’s with a freshly charged sunstone juicing them up!”

>She turns back to you with a serious expression

>“So are you going to help me clean this up or what? We’re not going to be able to keep our jobs if the principal sees this, and mamma’s got some sugar babies on the internet she has to feed.”

>Wait

>There’s no fucking way she got pregnant

>What the hell is a sugar baby?

“Y-Yes- I mean, n-no! Wait!” You stutter

>Stella impatiently taps her feet and jabs a claw towards the mess

>“C’mon, Sam. I’m your boss, remember? Your literal job description is doing this with me

>Your heart jumps in your chest

>You’re failing the mission!

>Anon is counting on you…

>So why can’t you look your boss in the eyes?

>Anything you can do to avoid her hateful gaze will help you prolong what little bit of courage you’ve been lent by your friends

“I… I uhhh – l-lost my k-k-key, and wanted to… open the rest of s-school up b-b-before the b-bell…?”

>Stella groans and swats her head a few times (a lot harder than she probably should)

>“Shit, Sam. You think I have 15 of these made and stashed around the school or something?”

>She leans in uncomfortably close. You can smell the coffee and old gin on her breath

>Your noses nearly touch, and everything in the world right now makes you want to recoil in terror (or vomit)

>“Do you think I have multiple keys stashed around just in case?”

>You shake your head rapidly, taking care not to whip her in the face with your ears

>She draws back, studying you as you choke down tears

>You open your mouth to issue an apology, but Stella merely nods and unclips a red key from her stuffed keyring and tosses it unceremoniously in the air at you

>“Here, just use my hallway key and unlock the classrooms. I’ve got extras hidd- errr, in my office. When you’re done, you bounce your butt over here and help me clean this mess up, got it?”

>You scramble for the key on the ground, which you managed to (unsurprisingly) not catch

“Y-Yes Ma’am,” you squeak, holding the key up like it could unlock the greatest treasures in this world

>“And be on the lookout for any deep state operatives roaming the halls. If you see any, use the spells I taught you.”

>You distinctly remember spending a few lunch periods practicing ‘evasive magic’ with Stella, using various crystals and philters of cleaning fluids she keeps in her office

>It of course felt like a waste of time, but who knows, with all of this going on, you might just have to cast a repelling wall of atomized bleach from a bottle

>Be Anon again

>You see Sam poke his head out of a side door in the gym, and give the go ahead to Alex to go grab flowers from the garden out front

“Boys, try to be stealthy about this,” you tell him with a breathy air of caution. “We need to do this whole thing with minimum suspicion, alright?”

>Alex salutes you and pulls his trademark yellow beanie tight against his head

>That Shaggy looking motherfucker

>“Remember when we stole Sam from his house? I am nothing but stealthy, bud. I don’t even think I have a social security number.”

>You almost correct him, because what you pulled was a RESCUE, not a theft

>Alex is already out the door, his lanky body striding across the parking lot, his hand on his head to keep his beanie from being torn away from him by the snapping wind

>You sigh and sink back against your seat. You can hear Mike’s anxious tapping on the window

>“So where are we going to get this Venus fly trap? I thought you said you knew where to get some.”

>Your eyes follow Mr. Bolm as he enters the school from the lunchroom door, where Sam went in

>All the feelings of shame and regret crop up in your belly like spoiled milk

>You may no longer be a coward, but you know that you were less-than-cool to Mr. Bolm on Monday

>And for what? All to put your anxiety somewhere else other than your caged heart?

>God, maybe deep down you still are a coward, one so absolute that no bullshit magic can fix

>Figures it’d be his classroom

>Figures it’d be him coming in early

>Figures that you fucked up yesterday

>FUKCUCKFKFK

>Figures you’ve got anger issues, too

>“I do know where to get some,” you summon a few fortifying breaths and unlock your door. “You just wait by the side door near the gym. I’m going in.”

>You step out into the cool dawn of fall, and even before you head for Mr. Bolm’s classroom, you wave to Alex, who does not wave back

>He dives down onto the dirt garden outside the lunch room, hands busy ripping any white flower out of the ground and stuffing them into his pockets

>Very stealthy

>Inside the school, through the huge windows outside each ‘pod’ of classrooms, you see a blur of Sam as he dashes around the school with boggling speed, unlocking every door he can reach

>He looks vaguely terrified, but to be fair, he always looks vaguely terrified

>Maybe just slightly more terrified than usual

>There’s no students here, so he has nothing to really worry about… kind of…

>You don’t try to flag Sam down, and instead, you march straight to Mr. Bolm’s room, hoping that he’s not there and that you can make this a quick grab-n-go

>You’re not entirely sure how long Mike has before he’s too far gone and is trying to drink you like a red slushee

>You enter in through the gym door and make your way to the science pods

>Is it you, or does this place floor need a good wax?

>It’s COVERED in dog fur

>When you arrive at Mr. Bolm’s room, you stop outside the door

>To your dismay he’s got the door wide-open, and you hear the sound of classic rock playing off a radio

>You pause, your back against the wall, heart thumping to the metronomic sounds of ‘Almost Cut My Hair’

>Someone in the room is humming along to the melody, their singing voice low

>The song fades out into the throaty voice of a radio broadcaster

>”And that was Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s nineteen-seventy chart-topper ‘Almost Cut My Hair’, a song about courage, and doing what it takes to move forward-“

>You rap twice on the door frame

>Mr. Bolm is hunched over his desk, a red pen spinning in his hand

>It comes to a curt stop when his eyes meet yours

>He looks up at you, his face hardening and his mouth setting into a hard, vaguely annoyed line

>“Mr. Anonymous. I didn’t expect you – or anyone – here so early. Usually this is my… ‘me time.’”

>His voice is devoid of any cheer

>There is a tired air to his syllables

“Hi Mr. Bolm,” you reply, stepping over the threshold, clenching your fists — the terror you’d normally feel just lurking beneath the surface tension of your skin

>You flick a glance around the room, scanning for what you came for

>The chairs are all set down, the hard, flat, black desks all clean and neat, and in the back of the room, on a ribbed metal rack, thriving under a clean, luminous grow lights, is a row of venus fly traps

>“Can I do something for you?” He caps his pen and bends backward stiffening his posture. There’s a small look of contempt played across his face

>You can’t say you don’t deserve it

>You have been, and always will be, a coward. Once this buff wears off, you’ll go back to being a sniveling weasel (no offense to weasels, obviously)

>And Sam will be hopeless, helpless, always

>People don’t change

>But you think, maybe, deep down, a seed of hope has taken root, because staring at Mr. Bolm, who so clearly is still mad at you, you can only see yourself issuing some kind of apology

>At least, that’s what you tell yourself

>So what do you say now, to get a hold of a freshman science project, for a dark ritual?

>Mr. Bolm is a man of science. He wouldn’t understand if you explained it to him

>You clear your throat under the studying eyes of Mr. Bolm, mind racing for an excuse to intrude upon what is likely his early-morning solitude

>You at last land on a good excuse

“I came by because… because I wanted to apologize.”

>He raises an eyebrow and uncrosses his arms

>“Apologize?”

“Yeah…” you scratch the back of your neck a bit, slowly making your way into the room, “I wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday. It was totally, totally uncalled for, and out of line.”

>You scoot towards the venus fly traps

>Your science teacher looks down at his papers for a moment and draws out a long sigh

>You take that as your chance to get as close as you can to the back of the room

>“You know – it’s alright. I’d like to think that you didn’t mean anything by the question. And to be fair, it was unprofessional of me to use you as an example, let alone expect an 18-year-old to know about love or the human mating process.”

>Ouch

>Swallow it down, Anon. You deserve this

>You put your back against the shelves and fold your hands behind your back

“Honestly, I’m just more frustrated with myself than I am with not knowing those things. I sometimes get nervous and say or do things that are really hurtful. It’s a really shitty behavior that I want to figure out.”

>You wrap your fingers around the base of a plant and give a light tug

>The stem writhes in pain beneath you

>Wait

>WRITHES?

>You suppress a yelp as you feel something nipping at your fingers

>Little teeth like a puppy — sharp as needles — pierce your skin

>You try your damndest not to look like you’re in pain while Mr. Bolm explains himself

>“That’s not uncommon, you know. And it’s good you’re aware of it so young. In that way, I’m glad we came to this understanding. I know that the details of my marriage are popular among students, but still, it doesn’t hurt any less.”

“Yep, glad we did!” You tug a little harder, trying to balance pain and subtly.

>Mr. Bolm is far enough to not be able to see the minutiae of your struggle

>The conversation lulls, and now both of you seem to wait for the other to speak

>Mr. Bolm makes the first move while you feel another row of teeth embed themselves in your finger

>“So, you’re a senior now. What schools have you applied to?”

>You clear your throat involuntarily

“I”m- I’m not… ummm…I haven’t really thought about it yet.”

>Mr. Bolm raises a bushy eyebrow

“I guess I don’t know if college is for me.”

>Fuck fuck fuck

>“You’re kidding me?” Mr. Bolm adjusts his posture, as he leans forward across his desk

>“A kid as smart as you… and you’re not going to college?”

>You tug harder but the roots of the venus fly traps seem to resist you

>“That’s a serious waste of talent. You’re a smart kid, Anon. Maybe the smartest in my class, at least. Just don’t tell the other students I told you that,” he adds with a chuckle

“I won’t S-SIR!” You barely hold down a squeal as the tiny mouth latches onto your finger again

>“So, what I’m saying is: Have some faith in yourself. I’m not trying to be an ‘adult passing down life-changing advice to a despondent teen’ here, but I mean it: give your future some consideration. A future outside this town, at least. There’s nothing in this town for anyone who’s young. Sure, you could get some minimum wage job — there’s nothing wrong with that of course — but there’s better ways to find fulfillment outside of this place, especially for someone like you. I don’t want to see you trapped here, rotting away. You ever been to the bad part of town? By the rail yards?”

“N-No sir! I mean, yes, I have, I think… twice now.”

>You slip your other arm behind you and try to do your best to look like you’re holding a respectful pose

>“You don’t want to end up there, Anonymous. I have a few students who come from there, and they’re… not doing well. But you’re doing spectacularly. Just a dream.”

>You clench the base of the plant, and with your other finger wrapped around the stem, you tug the fly trap free of its soil

>It comes up, along with the rest of the dirt in the cup, attached to the bottom of the plant by its robust root system

>The damn thing chomps down even harder, trying to defend itself

>It’s of little use, as it comes free, thrashing its bulbous head about like a fish on a line

>Mr. Bolm’s expression brightens a little

>If only he knew what you were doing

>“I mean that. You’re going to be alright, Anon. Maybe sometime this week you can come by and we can discuss scholarships?”

>NOT IF YOU KEEP FUCKING TALKING TO ME

>Is what you want to say

>Now you just need to slip out of this room without showing him you just destroyed a science experiment

>You shuffle to the door, your hands behind your back

>His eyes follow you, expectantly

>Good

>Don’t look at the back of the room

>Don’t look at the science experiment you’ve just ruined

>You grunt as the plant again bites you

>“You doing okay there Anon?” Mr. Bolm asks, cautiously sizing you up

“Yep!” You say, “I’m actually just… Thinking about what you said. I need to give this college thing more thought. I guess I’m just stuck between a rock and a hard-”

>You definitely feel blood slipping between your fingers

“-A hard place. So to speak.”

>You are nearly to the door

>So close to freedom you can taste it

>And you know? This turned out okay. Things between you and Mr. Bolm seemed to have smoothed over

>You pause in the door, halfway out of the room

>You lock eyes with your teacher and nod

“Thank you, Mr. Bolm. You’re a great teacher,” you smile — and it’s a real, genuine one too

>He returns the gesture, the small twinkle of an educator’s satisfaction behind his eyes

>“HANDS OFF MY CRYSTALS, YOU DEEP STATE FUCKO!”

>You feel the sudden absence of the plant in your hands

>You spin as you see a thick paw swatting the plant from your grasp

>You watch in abject horror as the fly trap — spraying dirt across the floor as it travels — sails through the air and lands out of reach down the clean, clean hallways

>A very overweight and upset looking badger wearing a custodian’s uniform stares down at you, her fangs bared, a growl simmering in her chest

>“I bet you thought you were pretty smart didn’t you?” She barks

>She jabs you in the chest with her claw, but your eyes immediately flick to the flytrap a good distance down the empty hallways

>You swear you see something green in the plant%apos;s base — almost emerald green — covered by dirt

>Mr. Bolm rises in his chair

>“Stella? What are you doing?”

>Stella doesn’t hear Mr. Bolm

>“I should have figured they’d send a nobody! You’re the agent that’s been stealing from me, huh? I mean, you’re perfect! You look like a little kid!” She laughs, her lower jaw quivering with manic desire to nom on your neck flesh

>“Well, I got you now, you little bastard.”

>Mr. Bolm moves towards the door

>In a flick, Stell the door shut on him and jams a set of keys into the lock

>With one fluid motion, the bolt slides forward into place forever separating you from Mr. Bolm (or until he unlocks the door)

>“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Mr. Bolm tries to knob, but it returns with a locked click

>Stella’s meaty paws clap around your wrist

>You lurch forward, fighting against her near-Amazonian strength to no avail

>“I have been DREAMING of the day I find one of you deep state fucks in MY domain. You have no idea how deep this school’s holes are. How many hallways nobody’s ever been in. There are maintenance corridors even I don’t know anything about,” she says with sadistic joy. “And the traps I have laid? You’re FUCKED.”

>You stumble behind her as she tries to drag you

>“They’re never going to find your body, not after all the cleaning acids are done with it.”

>The fly trap writhes in agony on the waxed floors, surrounded by handfuls of packed dirt, a small greenish crystal gleaming in the white fluorescent lights in the epicenter of the toss

>Wow

>This badger actually buried a gem in a student’s science experiment

>You dig your feet in and strain hard against her force

“I’m not CIA! I’m a student you crazy cunt!”

>“Sure you are, bud. And I’m NOT a prophet. I know you sons of bitches have the rest of my crystals, and YOU are going to share with me exactly where they are!”

>Jesus fuck she’s strong

>And that’s not even to be speciest or anything

>You fall flat on your ass as this absolute unit of a woman drags you down the hall towards custodial oblivion

>The sound of plodding feet forces your attention

>Sam sprints around the corner, a ring of keys in-hand

>He comes to a screeching halt in front of the fly trap, staring down at it like it’s an alien creature

>Holy fuck

>What luck

“Sam!” You shout

>The rabbit looks up

>Your eyes lock

>“A-Anon?”

“SAM! GRAB THAT PLANT AND BRING IT TO ALEX!”

Oliver Hart

Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.

Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall