There was a boy who lived on Archland Road in the Northwest who often sat on his door step with a fag and stared at it more than he smoked it. This was the boy Samson Drey wanted to kill.
Oftentimes, he would fantasize sticking the lit cigarette into the boy's eye. Other times, he would fantasize about having his rough way with him. It all depended on Samson's mood, really.
Today was a bright, perky day, and today, as Samson watched the boy from a couple paces away, he stood with his mother's chihuahua, Phrisky (no, that was the weasel-creature's actual name), glaring. He was sure he didn't look too threatening when there was a goddamn chihuahua at his feet, pissing a feminine stream nonchalantly, but that did not matter.
Today, he wanted to kill the boy. Even more so when the boy's girlfriend stepped out of the patio door with a milkshake and her big blue eyes planted on him. He gazed up at her with a half smile, and she bent down to kiss him.
Samson gave Phrisky a brief tug and stormed on his way.
Brady Rennalds needed to die, pronto.
At the usual spot, where Samson usually went every Friday to get stoned or wasted or somethinged, the lights prevailed against the dark. They cast happy colours along the waves past the beach. They tended to party in public under a straw hut known simply as The Hut, and since this was a small little seaside town, the police tended to leave them be. They were kind like that.
Unless, of course, streaking / skinny dipping or drunken swimming occurred. Then the police went haywire.
But Samson and his chums were relatively unstupid.
At times, Samson's friend Scott would invite Brady fucking Rennalds and a couple of his friends. And at times within those times, Brady fucking Rennald's oblivious girlfriend would tag along.
Homicide seemed interesting, when this occurred.
Tonight, he watched as Brady drunkenly clapped a hand down on Scott's shoulder and leaned into him, his tanned cheeks flushed pink. "Dude, can I see?"
Everyone knew what Brady Rennalds wanted to see.
Scott shifted, an apprehensive expression touching his face. "A-again? I showed you last week!"
"But I... was very drunk, and forgot," Brady said, bristling like he had a right to bristle.
Scott heaved a sigh, stood up, and unzipped his pants. "Shelter me," he instructed, as a few people — including Samson — were watching. Two girls were giggling to each other. A boy nudged the girl beside him.
So Brady stood in front of him with a very serious, concentrated expression, and Scott made the motion of unzipping his pants, and Samson glowered.
A moment passed, and Scott zipped his pants back up and cleared his throat.
Brady turned, a hand on his chin, eyes narrowed. "Interesting," he murmured, and then tugged the front of his shorts away from his waist and peered down. "Interesting."
Samson clawed at his own throat. What the hell was so interesting? What did that mean?!
The boy turned from his locker, reddish hair shifting against his forehead. "Yo?"
Samson approached, a little hunched, a little sketchball. "Dude, hi. Nice to meet you."
"What? This is a town of four thousand people — what do you mean 'nice to meet you'?" Brady said.
Samson leaned on the locker next to Brady and arched his dark eyebrows. "Fucker, show me your schlong."
Brady jerked away like he'd been literally shoved by Samson's words. "H-hah?"
"I mean," Samson said, gesturing to Brady's package, "why do you get to see everyone else's and no one gets to see yours, except your mental case girlfriend?"
"W-why is she mental, and why do you want to see it?" Brady stammered.
"Uh, she's mental because she's dating a flaming fag," Samson stated, in this what-the-fuck-do-you-figure? sort of way. "And I want to see it because I want to see it."
Brady shut his locker with startling care. "Um, I'm not gay."
He wasn't — ?
He wasn't gay? Was that what he'd just said?
Samson scratched the inside of one ear with his pinky, and then smiled politely at the red head. "You've got to be joking."
Brady shook his head, very calm and rational. Side-to-side. "I just find them really interesting," he explained.
Brady nodded now. Up-and-down. "You know, some people are obsessed with kittens, some people are obsessed with marbles, I so happen to be obsessed with the male genitalia."
No one was obsessed with marbles.
But that wasn't the point. He reached up to strangle the boy, then remembered they were in a public setting with many witnesses, and opted to condescendingly tweak his nose instead. It turned out to be a much lamer gesture than throttling him, but hey. "You're attracted to boys, Brady. You want to fuck boys, Brady."
Brady smiled back, a little sweetly. "Sorry, Sam. I'm really just interested in penises because I find them kinda cute, but that's about it." He batted Samson away and went off to be in denial.
"It's Samson, you fucking fuck!" Samson shouted after him. His fists clenched at his sides, and he fumed. Fumed.
Samson peeked his head in Brady's classroom and shouted, "Cock!"
Brady immediately sat upright and looked around, exclaiming, "Where?"
Samson shot out of the room, seething.
Brady was a case study, so Samson asked 'round. As it turned out, Brady wasn't the only one in denial.
"What do you think of it all?" he asked Scott.
Scott scratched his head. "It's a bit eccentric, but I think he wants to study the reproductive aspects of humans, so it all makes sense."
No. No, it didn't.
He turned to Mandy or Candy or whatever she called herself. "What do you think?"
She placed an Acrylic fingernail to her pouty lips. "I think he thinks that they're ferrets, all cute and tucked and hidden."
He turned to Cindy or Mindy or what the fuck ever. "You don't think he's gay?"
She cocked her head. "Why in the Lord's name would I think that?"
Was the world mad? Was the entirety of the entire world quacks?
"Brady." Samson gripped the railing above Brady's head and leaned over it, waving a hand before the boy's face to get his attention. It worked, but in a way Samson hadn't predicted. Brady ended up smacking his face into Samson's hand and staggering back in alarm.
"Y-you slapped me!" Brady exclaimed, turning wide brown eyes up at the dark haired boy.
Samson stared. "No, you walked into my hand, you moron."
"How the hell did I do that?"
"By walking into my hand, you moron."
The two boys glared at each other.
"Listen, fucker," Samson said, straightening. He gripped the railing tighter, and then leapt over it, landing on the lower ground of the school so he was now level with the red head. "I want to show you something before I kill you."
"I mean, I want to show you something, mumble, mumble, you can't hear me."
"Come along," Samson casually said. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans and took the boy round the corner to the bike rack area, which was pleasantly deserted. He heard Brady's footsteps following, and so turned around. "You've never seen my dick, Brady."
"No," Brady agreed. "I've specifically avoided doing so because you're gay, and I don't want to give you the wrong idea." Brady hesitated. "It isn't anything personal! I'm sure you've got a nice one."
Samson's shoulders slumped. "You make absolutely no sense, Brady."
"No," Brady insisted, "it's very logical."
Samson took a step away, because he was sensing murderous intentions beginning to stir within his dwindling soul.
Brady shifted, awkwardly. He started to rub at his arm. "Sam, do you... like me, or something?"
"My name isn't Sam and it never will be, fucker."
"Not even like, nickname wise? I mean it's a pretty predictable nickname for 'Samson'."
"No," Samson stated. "How dull are you?"
"Can I start the fad, then?"
"No, fuck off."
Brady shrugged helplessly. "Can I go now?"
"Not yet," Samson snapped.
"Technically I can."
After Brady left, Samson proceeded to vandalize the bikes in the racks.
At The Hut the following Friday, Samson stalked Brady to the shadows, in a little brush area, where the red head had decided to take a piss.
"At last, I have seen it," Samson announced.
Brady jumped and zipped up right away. "H-hey! You — you fag!"
"You don't say," Samson drawled. He proceeded to pull his swimming trunks down, and Brady stared. Samson sprouted a brash grin. "And caught ya."
"I said I'm not gay, so you're not gonna get anything out of this," Brady said, lifting his gaze. "Though yours is really not so cute."
"What?" Samson barked.
"I-I mean, it isn't little! That's all!" Brady said, holding his hands up.
"Then how the fuck would you describe it?"
"I mean it's like this," Brady said, measuring the length with his hands.
"Um." Samson awkwardly yanked his trunks up. "Are you a woman? It's like you've never seen inches before."
"Well, it's the same size as mine pretty much, but it's not mine!" Brady irrationally explained.
"You're scared of it, Brady, because you're subconsciously imagining what it'd be like to be all up in you, fucker," Samson explained.
Brady made a face. "That's horrible." He stalked off.
Samson kicked at the sand in a display of fury.
"You know," Samson casually began, sliding innocently up to the red head, "I'm likely the only one in the school who'd let you touch his."
Brady, who'd been about to get into his car, halted immediately. He looked at Samson, kind of eerily slow, like a robot that wasn't functioning quite right.
Samson smiled. "You're obsessed with dicks, aren't you?"
"Have you touched one other than yours?" Samson pressed.
"I have no need," Brady insisted.
Samson stepped closer, looked left and right, and then pulled his shorts away. "Lookie, lookie."
Brady looked. "I think it's one of my favourites," he absently said.
He needed to be locked away, or killed, Samson decided. But it was oddly flattering in any case. "Ignoring that. Touch it."
He poked it.
And then leapt in his car and ripped away, tires screeching. Samson stared, spooked, his hair blowing out of his face from the take off.
Dude was so gay.
Samson smiled big and smug when Brady flinched. He grabbed the red head's sleeve and tugged him into the guy's washroom at school.
"Brady," he muttered.
"W-what? Why are you kidnapping me? What is this? What do you want? Who are you working for?"
Samson hesitated, releasing him. "Calm down, weirdo. I want you to touch me again."
Brady stiffened. "I — I told you, I'm not gay."
"But we both get something out of this, don't we? You get to play with your favourite thing in the whole wide world, and I get to be played with."
Brady's brown eyes widened. "But, but, but, that's... destroying the select beauty and innocence of my obsession..."
"What you are obsessed with is a dirty tool used for banging the shit out of someone, you fuck face."
"Why are you so foulmouthed?"
"Why are you so insane and denial-happy?"
Brady sighed. "I have a girlfriend."
"Sham. Do you fawn over her vagina like you fawn over penises?"
"Well, I do find the penis a little more interesting. And it's kind of more fascinating. I could stare at one for hours."
"That's..." Samson grit his teeth. "Fucking stupid guy. Touch it." He yanked the dark eyed boy into a stall and pulled his jeans and boxers down.
"Okay," Brady said, evenly. "If it will make you stop this ridiculous thing you're dragging me through."
Brady touched it, briefly, then pulled his hand away.
"Again, fucker. Hold it."
Samson lifted an eyebrow expectantly.
Brady sighed, as if this was all tedious, and then gripped Samson. Samson smiled, smug, so very smug.
"Now do to me what you do to yourself the one hundred percent of the times that your girlfriend can't get you off without letting you fuck her from behind," Samson said.
"Oh, sure," Brady said, and went at Samson. Samson gasped into Brady's ear, gripping his shoulders in alarm.
Holy fuck face.
Samson poked Brady in the side of the head in the cafeteria.
Brady leaned back and blinked up at him. "Sam!"
Samson flinched. "I hate you. Never mind, can I talk to you in a bathroom stall for a second?"
Brady hesitated. "Sam." He looked down at his lap. "I went too far. I told you, I'm not gay."
Samson smiled, coolly.
"My obsession is still pretty solid, but I really, really don't want you to get the wrong idea," Brady explained.
"Of course," Samson said, taking a long step backwards. He made a gun with his fingers and thumb and set his mouth in a firm, solemn line.
Brady Rennalds was the boy who lived on Archland Road in the Northwest who'd rather stare at a fag than smoke it. This was the boy Samson Drey wanted to kill.