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But that wasn't the case. If anything, college was worse. People thought you were creepy and weird and ignored you. When you presented your work to your English workshops, they didn't appreciate the nuances of anal rape and Guns N' Roses lyrics, yet showered the people who wrote about how their grandmother's house smelled with adoration. Your teacher even referred you to psychological counseling. Cunt.
And the girls at your school are whores. They'll fuck nearly any guy that asks them and brag about it in the cafeteria. But not you. They won't give an nice, quiet, shy guy like you the time of day. They're more interested in some rich idiot who smokes pot all day and basically wastes their parents' money while your family struggles to make tuition each year on the profits of their dry cleaning business.
And there is nothing to look forward to after college. You see now that this is a microcosm of how the world works and you want to see that world in flames.
Over the past months, you saved up enough money to buy a Glock 19 and a .22 Walther, as well as some high capacity magazines you had to get off eBay since they're rare and have only been legal since the assault rifle ban expired a few years ago. After filing off the serial numbers and buying enough ammunition to take out a small army, you are set to go.
However, the night before in a dream a moment of doubt touches you. Perhaps you should give the world one last chance to redeem itself in your eyes. There is a girl who lives in your dorm who you are in love with. Perhaps if she can see the desperation in your eyes and find a way to love you back, you will spare the school from your rage.
You sit up and your stomach growls. You had spent so much time and effort crafting your manifesto last night that you forgot to eat dinner. There is a Tupperware sitting on your desk filled with some rice, kimchee, and dog meat that your mother gave to you to eat. Maybe you should eat first. After all, you have a long day ahead of you...
Go visit the girl and see if she will fall in love with you?
Eat something before you get started?
Still groggy, you get out of bed and pick up the Tupperware sitting on your desk, as well as some cheap wooden chopsticks that were left over after some takeout Chinese. Still in your pajamas, you pick at the bowl. You're not really hungry, you just want the growling in your stomach to go away.
You swallow a few chunks of dog meat that has gone slimy and rancid from having sat out un-refrigerated all night. It sure doesn't taste nearly as good as when mom is able to find a fresh stray mutt and pop it into the pot overnight. This is kind of a crappy last meal, you think as you stuff the last, room temperature bite of kimchee into your mouth and toss the container away.
You spend the next hour getting dressed in your black shirt, khaki vest and baseball cap. Then you sit on the bed and start loading bullets into your magazines. Each one fits into the top of the magazine with a satisfying click. You stuff them into the pockets of your vest as you finish loading them.
However, the growling in your stomach hasn't gone away. In fact, it's gotten worse. The growling has graduated to a full on stomachache by the time your dressed. When your done loading fourteen magazines, it has turned into nausea. Fuck it, you figure you can soldier through.
When you stand up from the bed, a big ball of gas groans audibly in your stomach and you double over. You suddenly need to take a crap really bad, and I mean really bad. Your butthole is twitching just trying to keep the flood of shit from filling your shorts.
You stumble out of your dorm room and head towards the communal toilets. There's one guy from your floor already in there, busy flossing in front of the sink. You pay him no mind as you burst into a stall and fumble around trying to pull your pants down. You get them down and plant your ass on the seat just in time before a geyser of liquid shit erupts from your colon with a juicy fart. The smell is horrible and triggers your already weak stomach to send vomit flying out your esophagus, splattering the door to the stall.
"Dude, you okay?" the other guy in the bathroom asks.
You don't answer. Another burst of diarrhea floods out of your ass, as well as more vomit. The floor looks like a soup of stomach acid, half digested dog meat and kimchee. It's getting all over your shoes.
The guy who was flossing knocks gently on the door. "Seriously, brah...you alright in there? Do I need to call an ambulance?"
"Fuck off you fucking rich kid!" you scream, cords of mucus dangling from your mouth.
"Christ dude, I just wanted to help..." the guy says. You hear him pick up his stuff and the snapping of his flip-flops as he leaves the bathroom. Now you are left alone to puke a shit in peace.
The geyser of shit has now turned into a trickle. There's nothing left in your stomach to vomit up, but that doesn't keep dry heaves from crushing your chest. You start feeling cold; extremely cold. Chills go up your spine and you shake. Everything is getting fuzzier, fainter. You're going unconscious. The last thing you feel as you fall forward off the toilet is your head slamming against the vomit-covered door of the toilet stall.
Then you black out.
You don't know how long it's been when you regain consciousness (probably a couple of hours). You are now in a hospital bed. There is an IV drip in one arm. The other arm is cuffed to the gurney.
There is someone in the room with you. You look up as far as your neck will allow. You still feel sick as hell. "Where...where am I?"
The other person in the room speaks. "You're in the university clinic, Mr. Cho," he says. "It seems you came down with a bad case of food poisoning."
The man stands up. He isn't dressed in nurse scrubs. What is he doing here?
"I don't want to be insensitive to the spirit of multiculturalism on this campus, but there's a reason why people in this country don't eat dogs."
Bastard...you bastard...you scream in your mind.
"Now about all those bullets you seem to be carrying with you..."
This is the most important day of your life. You don't have time from breakfast. If anything, the growling in your stomach represents the pain in your soul and your disgust to the world. You are beyond the trivialities of such things like eating.
You jump out of bed and start putting your clothes on. It's already almost seven. If you want to catch the girl, you will have to hurry...
You have been in love with this girl for a month now. From the first time you saw her face at the cafeteria salad bar, you have been captivated. If anyone could bring you back from the brink, it would be her. You have been quietly following her for several weeks now, trying to see who she hung out with, where she went, what she seems to like.
Last week, she caught you following her (guess your not as slick as you think you are) and she told you to stop or else she'd call the police. Even though she looked upset, you figure that it's just because all the freshman girls at the school get indoctrinated with that Take Back the Night bullshit and that deep down, she's really flattered at your attentions. You pull back some, but still try to keep track of where she goes.
From your reconnaissance, you know that Monday mornings, she has US History to the Civil War at 8 o'clock and that she usually gets up around seven to shower and eat breakfast (she usually eats Froot Loops with 2%, a banana and orange juice in the morning). If you get to her room by seven, she should just be getting up.
You make your way to the fourth floor of the West Ambler Johnston and make your way towards room 4040. The dry-erase board on the door says "YER THE KEWLEST!" written on it in multiple colors with a smiley face. You knock on the door tentatively.
Listening through the door, you don't hear anything so you knock again. After the second time, you hear a groggy "Who is it?" from inside. You don't answer, you just knock again, lighter this time.
Finally, you hear footsteps and the bolt to the door slide back. It opens with a creak and the girl looks through it. She's wearing a Hokies t-shirt and gymshorts and looks like she just woke up. She groans a little when she sees you. "What do you want?"
You didn't know what you were going to say when you came over here. You don't know what you're going to say now. You mouth feels glued together. Finally, you manage to stammer, "Please...I need to talk to you."
The girls sighs. "Cho...I told you before. I don't want to talk to you."
"No, you have to talk to me," you plead. "I feel like I might...do something."
"Then go do something," she says. "I need to get ready for my first class. Goodbye."
She tries to shut the door, but you wedge your sneaker into the door before she can.
"Dammit!" she says. "Get your foot the fuck out of my door or I promise you, I'll call the police and get you arrested!" she sneers. "And god help you when my boyfriend finds out you're stalking me..."
Those words hit you like a lightning bolt. "You...you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes; I have a boyfriend. And I promise, when he finds out how you've been harrassing me, he's gonna beat you into sukiyaki you slant-eyed freak! Now leave me alone!"
You're stunned. You can't move. This whole time you've been following her and tracking her movements, you had no idea she had a boyfriend. The love of your life has been leading you on this whole time. You begin shaking as the flood of emotions hits you, and the deep despair suddenly begins to feel like uncontrollable rage. You want to kill this lying cunt...
Kick through the door and kill this bitch right now?
Go back to your room. You can't let this bitch interfere with your plans.
You are overcome with anger. You loved this girl, but she turned out to be a lying, cheating bitch like all the rest of them. And she's gonna die like all the rest of them too...
You put both of your hands against the door and shove forward. The door flies open and the corner hits her squarely in the nose, breaking it with a wet crunch. She falls backwards on the floor, stunned and you step inside. She tries to get up, but you straddle her and manage to get your hands around her neck. Blood from her broken nose mists your face and her mouth moves like a fish, gasping for air.
Behind you, her legs beat the floor desperately as her face turns blue. One of her hands claws at your face. She digs her nails deep and pulls with all her strength. Her thumbnail breaks off, but in the process takes a ribbon of skin from the cheek just under your eye. You're so consumed with rage you barely feel it.
In fact, you're so consumed with rage and choking the life out of this bitch that you don't hear the residence advisor who lives next door come in behind you.
"Jesus Christ! Get off her dude!" He grabs you from behind and tries to lift you off the girl, but you turn around and elbow him in the face, knocking him on his ass.
By taking your hand off her throat, this gives the girl enough time to punch you straight in the throat. Since she was close to unconsciousness, the blow isn't enough to crush your windpipe, but it does leave you gasping for air.
In the meantime, the RA you elbowed leaps back to his feet and tackles you, pushing you completely off the girl and laying flat on your back on the cold floor. You try punching him as he pins you to floor, but you can't get any momentum. Even worse, all the commotion has woken up everyone else on the floor, who are now peeking in the room to see what's happening.
"Calm down! My god, calm down! What's wrong with you?" the RA says and you spit in his face. He looks over to the girl. "What the fuck is going on here?"
The girl is coughing and has a trickle of blood leaking out of her mouth. "That fucking sicko tried to kill me!" she wheezes. "He's been following me around for weeks now!"
She starts crying and one of the other girls on her floor comes in to comfort her. The RA has his knee pinned against your chest and looks to some of the other residents standing in the doorway.
"Someone call campus security, right now please. Tell them we caught a guy attacking a student in her dorm room!"
"I KILL YOU!" you yell. "I KILL YOU ALL!"
"Fuckin' freak," one of the kids mutters as he goes off to make the call. You are more determined than ever to kill these bastards. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like you're gonna be able to do it today.
The girl slams the door against your sneaker, crushing your foot. You yelp and pull it out and you hear the bolt on the door slide home. You shudder with rage as you limp back to your dorm room. Over and over in your mind, you think about how she was cheating on you and realize there is nothing left to love in this world.
This world rejects you.
This world threw you away.
This world never gave you a chance.
This world's gonna have to pay...
You return to your room and grab your guns. Time to go a shootin'. At first, you planned on starting the shooting in the liberal arts classrooms; the same ones that didn't recognize the brilliance of your plays. But you think you should change the plan now. The girl who sent you tumbling down this dark rabbit hole of rage should be your first victim.
After tucking your guns into your ammo vest, you throw on a hat and march immediately back to room 4040. You knock on the door again, this time insistently. The timid boy who once came calling for love is gone forever now.
The door opens and the girl is standing there, this time in a sweatshirt and jeans like she's getting ready for class. She rolls her eyes when she sees you. "Dammit! I said leave me the fuck--"
Before she can finish her sentence, you pull the Walther out of your vest and aim it at her head. She suddenly goes cross-eyed looking at it is about to scream when you fire three shots into her face. She flops backwards onto the floor of her room, her face now nothing more than a smoking bloody crater where he nose used to be. You step into the room with the body, and though you're sure she was dead before she hit the floor, you fire one more bullet into her chest into her heart and between her two lovely breasts, the ones you once wanted to rest your head on and feel like everything would be okay.
"Remember, bitch. You broke my heart first," you whisper.
The resident advisor who lives in the room next door opens up the door to the room. "Hey! What's going on in here? You drop something" he says with genuine concern. The body, the blood, and smell of cordite in the air haven't registered. Before they can, you whip around and fire a shot which hits him right in the neck.
He collapses forward quietly. He tries to scream, but it comes out like a high-pitched whistle through the hole in his throat. Arterial blood squirts out in time with his dwindling heartbeat and he has both his hands clasped around his neck in a losing battle to keep all the blood in. You consider shooting him again to finish him off, but already been wounded mortally. Let him think about it for a second. Let him suffer like all the rest of them made you suffer.
You tuck the gun back into your vest and head back to your room. There's no one in the hallway since all these brats are too lazy to get up for early classes, so no one sees you. You lock the door behind you and wait. It's only seven twenty and classes don't start until eight, so it's pointless to go on your shooting spree now. You sit down on your bed and take a breather.
You see the manifesto you wrote sitting on your desk. For some reason, those four pages feel inadequate now. No one reads nowadays anyway. Perhaps you should spruce it up, add some videos and pictures so even the idiots will understand why you've unleashed this apocalypse on them.
Then again, perhaps you should leave. After all, you did just kill two people. If you spend too much time in your room, the authorities might search the building and you'll get caught before you can make everybody pay.
Wait until classes start so you have time to spruce up your suicide note with some multimedia?
Leave now in case the police sweep the dormitories.
It would be stupid to hang around here after killing two people. The police might already know who you are and be on the way to arrest you. You figure your manifesto, while it feels incomplete, is probably good enough to get the point across. Besides, maybe it would be good to leave a few question marks after this is all over. The question mark is your moniker after all.
You leave your room and take the stairs all the way to the basement, then leave through the service exit which you figure will be unguarded. As you move around the building, you are careful and look for police cars. Even though it's been about ten minutes since the shooting, you don't see any cops or hear any sirens. They must be slow to react to stuff like this. While you're sure you could handle a few campus cops, you also don't want to waste your bullets during a shoot out with them.
Convinced that the coast is clear, you start walking away from the dormitories at a brisk pace, but not too fast to raise attention. You cross over the drill field, heading towards the lecture buildings. You feel strangely relieved once you get there and feel like you might be able to blend in.
You get outside of Norris Hall and sigh. You still have about half an hour until the first classes begin. No sense in starting your rampage now with just the sparse crowds of early morning risers. There's an espresso cart outside the hall. Since you're still ravenously hungry, you figure you could get some coffee and a pastry to pass the time away. With time to kill, you figure you might as well get a last meal in.
You walk up to the cart. There's a girl with dreadlocks and a BUSH LIED PEOPLE DIED T-shirt busy setting up the flavored syrups. "What can I get you, sweetie?" she asks.
"I want a mocha and lemon scone," you say gruffly.
"Comin' right up!" she says perkily. You wait while she steams the milk and pours a couple of espresso shots into a cup of chocolate. In the meantime, she pulls out a lemon scone with a piece of wax paper and hands it to you, sets the cup on the ledge of the cart and says, "That'll be four dollars and fifty cents."
You check your pants and realize, in your rush to get going you forgot your wallet. "Um, I forgot my money."
The espresso girl frowns. "Well, if you want I can keep this here while you go and get some."
"I can't. I got something I gotta do soon. Can't you just let me have it? I'll pay you back, I promise," you say, knowing there's no chance of that happening.
"Sorry," she says. "The guy who owns this cart doesn't let me give out freebies. I wish I could help you out."
Your hands clench. You're starting to get angry. "Just giving the fucking mocha bitch!"
The espresso girl shakes her head. "What's your problem? That wasn't necessary. Why are you being so un-mellow? You need to go smoke some herb and chill out, patriarch..."
You're in no mood to argue with a hippy, especially when you've got guns. You pull them out of your vest and immediately open fire with both barrels blazing. The hippy espresso girl takes about seven rounds in the chest before she falls behind the cart.
Circling the cart so you can get a clear shot to finish her off. Both of her lungs are perforated, but she still manages to cough out, "D-dude. This is ill," before you unload the rest of your bullets into her head. Her matted hair is pretty much the only thing keeping chunks of her skull from splattering all over the pavement.
Both of your guns lock empty, but you notice an ominous hissing noise. Apparently, one of your bullets ricocheted off the sidewalk and punctured the natural gas cannister the espresso machine uses to heat the water. The hissing turns to a chug-chug sound as the pilot light sputters, then sets the pressurized gas alight, causing the espresso cart to explode in flame.
You are engulfed in the fireball, but for a moment, you don't think you're seriously injured (you are not aware of the broken piece of the steam wand jutting out of your shoulder and leaking your blood). However, your vest has caught on fire. You hear a loud pop and realize all your ammo magazines are in there. Oh shit...
You try pulling the vest off, but it's too late. The bullets are cooking off in a chain reaction now, blasting chunks of flesh off you. You dance around in front of Norris Hall like a string of Chinese New Year firecrackers.
By the time all fourteen of your magazines have exploded, you are dead, collapsed on the sidewalk a smoking bloody pulp that's barely distinguishable as human.
So much for your rampage, slope.
Dammit, this massacre is gonna be your masterwork! It will take more than four pages to explain yourself, especially since you don't plan on being around afterward. And to make an impression nowadays, you need to have video and pictures. The Columbine killers had movies and you don't want to be one-upped by some stupid white kids.
It's been about ten minutes since you shot that bitch in her room and you still haven't even heard sirens. Stupid campus cops...the only thing they're good at is catching students drinking or tracking stolen bicycles. Even if they came to your door, you're sure you could waste some pussy ass college pigs, no problem. Killing two people makes you feel invincible. You feel like Oldboy beating his captors to a bloody pulp with nothing but a hammer...
You set up your digital camera and pick up a hammer for your first picture, glowering at the camera in a rictus of rage that you are certain will scare the bejesus out of people. You plan to exact vengeance on everyone who has kept you a captive of their banal idiocy all these years. Maybe they'll get the reference, maybe not. Fuck 'em anyway, you look scary in that picture.
You continue to snap photos. Actually, it's kinda fun. You pose with your guns, giving a range of expressions that go from scary and angry to empty and nihilistic. After you think you have enough, you upload them to your computer and create a folder, throwing in two earlier shots of you in a car looking like a nice, normal young man. Now they will all see what you once were versus the you they created.
Damn, this is kinda fun. You unplug the camera and set it to record video. You vent at it for a couple of minutes, then realize that all you're doing is repeating your manifesto. So you erase that take and do another one where you compare yourself to Jesus and rail against the debauched culture of the school.
"I hope you know you had every opportunity to stop this, but you turned me away..." you say. Hopefully, that will make the people at your school feel worse because now they know they are ultimately at fault. At the very least, maybe it will make some of the girls who turned you down for dates feel bad.
You upload the video to your computer and burn those and the photos to a disk. You stick them in a manila envelope. Now, who to send them to? You suppose you could just leave them here, but you know that the ignoramuses here would likely destroy them, being too afraid of your words. You should send them to the news, but which network? You decide on NBC since you're a Will and Grace fan. If they can come up with brilliant programming like that, then they're sure to appreciate the deep meaning of your words.
You Google the address for NBC News, scribble it on your envelope, slap on about ten stamps since you're unsure of the postage. You look at the time. Oh no! It's almost nine o'clock. Classes have been going on for an hour! You completely lost track of time putting together your media package.
You calm down. Your massacre is a little behind schedule, but things aren't too bad. 9 o'clock classes should still provide you with a target rich environment. You grab your guns, some bike chains, and the envelope for the news and head out your door for the last time.
As your walking down the stairwell of your dorm, you notice through the window that the police have finally arrived. There are four cop cars you can see (two of them are Blackburg city police as well as Virginia Tech campus cruisers) and an ambulance. A paddy wagon is pulling up as you speak. Nervously, you peek down the stairwell to see if there are any police searching them, but there aren't any. It looks like the police are all concentrated on the other wing of Ambler-Johnson where the shootings occured. It doesn't look like the building is cordoned off. You can probably slip away through the side enterance without being detected.
Then you realize, "How am I going to mail this envelope?" You just spent over an hour putting it together, you might as well send it off. You figured originally you were going to put it in the mail drop by the front entrance, but with all the cops around now, that doesn't seem like a really good idea. Perhaps you should go to the student union instead. There is a small post office there where you can drop it off. The only draw back to that is that the student union isn't exactly on the way to Norris Hall. In fact, it's on the other end of campus and it will be a long walk, adding at least another twenty minutes before you can get your killing on.
What do you do...
Play it safe and put your media package in the mail drop at the student union?
Risk going through the front entrance to leave it in the dorm's mail.
Stupid fucking cops. If they knew it was you who shot those two people your sure they would have come for you by now. Might as well drop the package off in the dorm's mail room and be on your merry way.
You walk to the dorm's front entrance. You hear the squawk of police radios as you approach. When you turn the corner to head for the mailboxes, you finally see them. There are about five cops and a couple detectives mewing around the lobby. They are discussing the shooting. You feel nervousness tighten in your scrotum as you pass them. They glance at you, but otherwise pay you no mind. Your scrotum loosens.
There's a slot in the wall where outgoing mail is supposed to go. Since the slot is made for standard envelopes, it takes you a moment to carefully fold your manila envelope in order to get it through without damaging your precious media kit. You almost have it through when it seems like it's gotten caught up on something. You bend over and look in the slot to see what's hanging it up.
While bent over, you suddenly hear a clank followed immediately by a loud bang. You jump. Oh no! The Glock fell out of your vest while you were leaning over, and since you were too dumb to put the safety on, it discharged. You hear yelling in dorm lobby and the police radios blazing anew. "Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer down! Send back up!"
You look over at the brood of cops in the lobby. Your stray bullet apparently struck one of the police in the back of the head, cavitated, and blasted chunks of his brains and face all over his buddies, who now have their guns out and trained on you. "Freeze you fucking chink scumbag!"
Well, you guess it's come to a shootout with the cops. You reach inside your vest to grab the Walther, but the cops have you dead-bang. They pop off about six shots at you. One shatters your elbow, sending a spike of pain shooting through your body. You drop your gun without firing a shot. Three of the bullets hiss miss and strike the mailboxes behind you. The other two get you in the chest, but their impact is dampened by the magazines in your vest. You fall to the ground, bloodied but still very much alive.
One of the cops runs up and kicks you in the ribs, knocking you on your back. Then he kicks both of the guns out of your reach. He is enraged. He looks like a mad animal with splinters of the dead officers cheekbones glued to his face with blood. "You cop killing sonofabitch! I'm gonna kill you right here!"
"Hold your fire, Sergeant!" the detective barks.
"Why? This is the perfect 'good shoot' if I do it here. You guys will back me up, right?"
"It is. But that guy he killed is my cousin's husband. I've got a special thing planned for him. Take him out to the van."
The cop above you groans, but he holsters his weapon and roughly cuffs you which makes the shattered bones in your elbow sing with pain. Two of them grab you underneath your armpits, hoist you up and take you to the paddy-wagon waiting outside. There are a few students standing around outside. No news media have responded yet, so hardly anyone sees them take you out there.
Once they've tossed you inside the paddy-wagon, the cops get inside and close the door. They un-cuff you and bark, "Now bend over you fucking slope."
"What?" you say, confused and in a daze from the pain.
They don't ask twice. One of them swings a nightstick into your face, breaking your jaw and most of your teeth. He swings again, striking you in the diaphragm and causing you to double over in pain. One of the cops grabs your hands and holds them. Another starts unbuckling your pants. They strip down your underwear and you are there bent over and bare assed.
"Look at this," the detective says. He grabs you by your hair and yanks your head up. He's holding a sixty-watt lightbulb in front your eyes. "I learned this trick when I was serving in Iraq a few years ago. It worked like a charm on the sand-niggers. I'm sure it works on chinks too."
You wonder what the fuck he means to do with a mere light bulb. You quickly find out when he starts sticking it bulb first up your butthole. You scream as best as you can through your shattered jaw as he works it all the way there. This hurts more than the time Mr. Brownstone butt raped you as a child.
"Somebody hand me a nightstick," the detective says, then he whispers in your ear. "Now, here comes the fun part..."
The detective swings the nightstick as hard as he can against the light bulb in your ass. It breaks with a pop. Your butthole clenches up, driving the shards of the broken glass through the walls of your sphincter. Mere words cannot come close to describe the pain you now feel.
"Jesus, Lieutenant...he sure is bleeding a lot."
"He's hemorrhaging," he says. "It usually takes about fifteen minutes before they bleed out completely. So take your time while we drive back to the station boys."
It would be stupid to go out the front entrance of the dorms with all those cops swarming around. It might take longer to drop your media package off at the student union, but it will reduce your chances of getting caught.
You take the staircase all the way to the basement and exit out the door by the loading dock. After circling around to the far side of the dorm, you move to cross over the drill field, walking at a brisk pace but not running. You don't want to call attention to yourself.
Once you've crossed the length of the field, you figure you're in the clear. If the cops were looking for you, they would have found you by now. You head over to the student union, confident you can pull off your slaughter with ease now.
You head over to the student post office. You planned to just stuff it in the slot and go, but the slot is locked shut with a sign above it. DUE TO TRASH BEING STUCK IN THIS DROP ALL OUTGOING MAIL MUST BE TURNED IN AT THE COUNTER. Dammit...you walk inside where there is a line of students waiting for some slow work-study plebe to weigh their packages or sell them a book of stamps. The line isn't that big, but you're impatient. You wanna get on with the killing already.
While waiting, you eavesdrop on two sorority girls who are ahead of you in line...
"Did you check your e-mail yet?" the blonde one says before snapping her gum.
"Yessss. What was up with that?"
"Oh, did Brandon take you off his Facebook page too?"
"No. I'm talking about the one that said there was a shooting on campus."
"Yeah, I guess it took place, like, at one of the dorms this morning."
"Ohmygawd," the other one gasps. "That's, like, so sad."
"Also, I don't think they caught the person yet. They might still be walking around on campus."
"That's so scary," the blonde one says. "We'll have to make T-shirts about it or something."
Your ego swells as news of your rampage is already spreading. You let out a sinister chuckle. One of the sorority girls ahead of you turns around and gives you a nasty look.
"What's so funny about that?"
She looks you up and down. "What are you supposed to be? Some loser boy scout or something?"
Boy scout? You are about to pull out your Glock and blow this sorority bitch's head off, but you calm yourself down. Not here. Soon, you will make them all see.
The sorority girl rolls her eyes and turns away from you. After five more minutes, it's finally your turn at the counter. You hand the work-study loser your envelope and march right out of the post office, out of the student union, and head straight for Norris Hall.
It's a little after nine when you arrive and the hallways of the building are clear except for a few stragglers since classes are in session. Originally, you planned to be here when people were just arriving, hoping to catch them in the halls. You had a perfect chokepoint laid out and figured if you got the people in the back first, the ones in front would trip over the bodies, making it easy pickings for you.
Still, you realize you have another opportunity...now that everyone is in class, you can trap them in the rooms. If you start on the second floor, no one will be able to get out the windows without injuring themselves, adding to your body count.
You use the bike chains to keep everyone out and your victims in. You figure if anyone gives you shit, you'll just blow them away, but no one interferes. Once you have them all sealed in, you pull out both your guns. Time to start killin'.
You march up to the second floor and peek into the first classroom you see. It's a French class. The professor looks at you and says, "Que voulez-vous?"
"I'm gonna kill you all," you say scowling, hoping your face exposes the abyss of hatred you are to your soon to be victims.
"Ah-ah-ah," the professor says. "En francais..."
You don't know what that means so shoot three bullets at her head that obliterate her face and leave a smear of blood over the chalkboard.
The students in the class start screaming, "Oh la-la!" and you start shooting at the crowd indiscriminately. You shoot until the slides on both your pistols lock open, bullet casings jingling to the linoleum floor. There are about three bodies laying in rapidly expanding pools of blood, and you can count a several more wounded writhing in pain on the floor who get trampled by the no-so severely wounded who are rushing around trying to find any sort of cover they can find in the room.
You stick the Glock in your armpit while you fish out two more magazines from your vest, ejecting the empties on the ground and leaving them. You've practiced reloading so much that you can get both your guns ready to fire again in less than ten seconds.
The students in the classroom are screaming and rushing to open the windows. One guy manages to jump out and you hear a wet snap as he shatters his legs falling from the second story. Another one is getting up to try to jump out the window despite what happened to his classmate, but you shoot him between his shoulder blades before he can get out.
Instead of firing indiscriminately, you choose your targets more carefully this time, only firing at people who still seem to be alive. There's a blonde girl hiding behind some metal bookshelves (possibly the best cover in the room) clutching a English-French dictionary to her chest.
"Please...please Jesus don't kill me please..."
You don't say anything, you just raise your gun at her. She yelps and holds the dictionary in front of her like it will protect her from the five bullets you fire. She slumps to floor, leaving a smear of blood as she slides down.
You look around the room and pump a few extra bullets into some assholes who are doing a bad job of playing dead. There's tons of blood and mayhem everywhere. The people in this classroom surrendered easily though (after all, it is, ahem, was a French class). You wonder if the rest of your rampage will go as easy.
So you leave the class and head to the next one and do your thing, then the next one after that. Damn, this is almost too easy. Besides some old heeb, hardly anyone gives you even rudimentary resistance. You go on nearly unimpeded for twenty minutes.
You unload an entire clip into some swarthy Engineering student (is there any other type) and giggle as his body twitches with each hit. While reloading your gun, you become aware of the numerous police sirens flashing outside. Looks like the cops are on this shooting a bit faster than the last one. You figure you can keep on looking around for a few minutes for some more victims, but the pickings are getting sparse. Everyone is either hiding or ran off by now.
You head back towards the French classroom where you started. There seems to be fewer bodies in her than when you left (you figure that some of the ones who managed to survive slipped away while you were in other classrooms. You sit down exhausted. Killing sure is hard work. You contemplate shooting it out with the pigs. You still have enough ammo to smoke some pork.
Then again, what would happen if they caught you alive? You would bring great shame on your family.
You hear gunfire downstairs. The heavy thump of a shotgun using a breaching cartridge to blast the lock off one of the doors you have chained shut. You hear the patter of boots downstairs. They're coming.
You put the barrel of your Glock against your temple and pull the trigger and for the briefest moment before the bullet tears through your frontal lobe sends it against the wall with a big red splat, you feel contentment. You are now the perpetrator of the largest spree killing in American history, and further proof that Asians are over-achievers.