GOD
He woke up with a start. Today was the day. No more thinking about it. No more endless planning. No more "Will I?" or "Won't I?" It was set in stone, no more fucking around. The things he had done yesterday he couldn't undo. He couldn't believe he had slept so well in this house. Not one bad dream. Well, it just goes to show. He guessed he really was crazy.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the bed and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung on the closet. Rumpled hair sticking up in corkscrews. Wrinkled shirt. Sleepy eyes. Oh, but there was something about the eyes, wasn't there? Wasn't there just a ghost of something in them? Something that looked just a bit like glee? And what does that say about our hero, friends and neighbors? Just what, exactly?
After going to the bathroom he headed downstairs. He passed his mother on the hall floor on his way to the kitchen and greeted her cheerfully. She didn't answer. He wasn't all that surprised. In the kitchen, he grabbed the milk from the 'fridge and drank straight from the carton. Leaning against the counter, he saw his father sitting at the dining room table in the same place he'd been last night. Dear old dad wasn't looking too good this morning. The blood from the gaping slash-wound across his throat had congealed and somehow looked like syrup. It reminded him of that crap they put on pancakes at IHOP. On dear old dad's face was an expression of immutable horror. Almost like... almost like he'd seen who was killing him and couldn't believe it. Yes, almost just like that.
He took another pull from the milk carton and belched. He set it on the counter but somehow it didn't set right and fell off onto the floor, splashing milk across his bare feet. The site of this sent him into an immediate rage (such a klutz I am SUCH A FUCKING KLUTZ) but he controlled himself. Not today. Today he wasn't a klutz. Or a loser. Today he was God. He belched again and then leaned toward his father, as though imparting a great secret. "You know, Dad," he said. "They say if you keep making that face, it'll freeze that way." After waiting politely to see if dad would respond, he laughed to himself and went back upstairs to get ready. There was a lot to do.
In his room, he took stock. Under his bed was an AR-14 assault rifle with three magazines, an Uzi with two magazines, two .45s with one extra clip each and a sawed off double-barrel shotgun. Should he take them all? He would have dearly loved to, but he couldn't see how he'd have time to use them all even under the most optimum circumstances. They responded to these things quickly since Virginia Tech, Columbine and all the other incidents. He knew his idea wasn't original but that was OK. HE wasn't original and that was the whole fucking problem. Nothing made him stand out. Nothing made him special. Nothing would make people remember him. At least, not until today. Today those motherfuckers would be wishing they could forget him and they never would. He'd haunt their nightmares for the rest of their lives.
The knife he'd used to kill his mother and father (he never used the word "parents" to describe them, since that word usually describes someone who cared about you and took care of you) was under the bed too and he wondered if he should take it with him. He reflected on the fact that even that part of his plan wasn't original, since that kid Kip Kringle or whatever his name was had done the same thing. But that was OK, too. He may have been a copy-cat but he was a sincere copy-cat. That part of his plan had been totally unscripted, totally unplanned. His father had started in on him last night and he had just lost it. He'd come from the kitchen with the knife he kept strapped to his leg always now clutched in his hand. Before his father could even speak, he had jerked dear old dad's head back and cut his throat deeply. Dad's head wobbled in his grip and he wondered if he'd cut so deep it might come off. The thought didn't distress him. His father tried to stand up, actually did make it on the second try and turned sideways. He had such a surprised look on his face. Our hero stood there, chest heaving and holding the dripping knife. There was just enough life left in old Pops for him to realize what was going on and who. And why. He didn't think he'd ever forget that look on his father's face. It was a reckoning and it was beautiful. To be sure his father realized exactly what had happened, he held the knife up. His father's blood dripped from the blade; the same blood that now ran over dear old dickhead's hands and down his shirt in torrents. "You wanna see God?" he asked just before his father collapsed. "I AM God."
His mother came runing down the stairs to see "what all the fuss was about" (her words exactly, god what a stupid bitch) and he had caught her in the hallway. She had struggled and screamed but not for long. He had cut through her throat and some of her hair, too. It fell on the ground like straw. When she stopped screaming, he had let her go and she had swayed drunkenly down the hall a few steps. He stood there watching, covered with blood and laughing. "Excuse me, ma'am," he had called out in his best police officer's voice. "How much have you had to drink tonight?" She finally stopped her stumbling and had fallen face down where she now lay. Her body kept trying to gasp and convulse. He walked over to her slowly, still laughing but a little nervous. "Mom?" he said and couldn't hold back a shrill little giggle. "Mom? Are you dead?" She didn't answer. He had taken that as a yes.
Now, as he stood looking down at the knife, he decided to take it with him. Maybe it was a good luck charm. Hell, maybe it was a bad luck charm but fuck it. He was making his own luck today. He decided to take the shotgun, the knife and one of the .45 pistols. He didn't wipe the knife off. The blood was dry anyway. Mostly. He dressed quickly, throwing on black pants and a white T-shirt. He had a black trenchcoat. It was cliche, he knew but a necessity. He had cut a hole in one of the pockets so that he could hold the shotgun down along his leg under the coat and it would just look like his hand was in his coat pocket. One thing he wasn't going to do was start shooting before he got inside. He was sure that was one of the mistakes others had made. Wait until everyone's inside. Then it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Except lots more fun. Fish had never done anything to anybody, so shooting them had to be pretty unexciting. Revenging yourself against assholes who had wronged you and making them reckon with you... now THAT was exciting. He realized he was actually looking forward to something for the first time since God only knew when. Maybe his 7th birthday party that no one had come to. Perhaps that was when he realized hope is for idiots.
He sat down at his pitiful desk and wrote the note he had decided on last night. If the other incidents were any indication, there would be a huge uproar after. People would want to know why. His note read simply this:
"I am one of many. There are many like me, more so than you would ever believe. But there are more like you. We live our lives totally outnumbered. There is me. And there is you. My name is Darryl Everret Franklin, Jr. and for this one day, I am God." He signed it with a flourish, knowing handwriting experts would go over it and wanting them to catch the essence of his mood. And why not? He felt good. He felt fucking great, as a matter of fact. It was over. All over today. No more outcast. No more loser. No more nobody. No more. He looked around his room, trying to absorb the fact that he was never going to see it again. He found that it didn't bother him very much and the emotion he was perhaps looking for was not to be found.
He went out to the car, heart starting to pound. Ordinarily he would have to walk or worse, take the bus but not today. Today he could do whatever he wanted. Today no one could stop him. Just let them try. In the car, he settled his weapons in the passenger seat and got going. He wasn't too worried about being pulled over, so he didn't hide anything. If a cop pulled him over, that cop was in for a surprise. It didn't take very long to get to the school. He found himself almost wishing it had taken longer so he could listen to the music a little longer. Music had always been his friend. Now it was no-bullshit time.
He parked the car in one of the closest spots, ordinarily reserved for teachers. He supposd today it didn't really matter. After taking a glance around, he got out and went around to the passenger side. He put the pistol in his pocket and the shotgun down along his leg. The knife he stuck in his boot, just in case. He stood in front of the school for a few minutes, looking up at it almost meditatively. This was his hunting ground now and he tried to absorb all of it's complexities. Then he said, "Rock 'n roll," and went through the doors.
The first class he had was math. He walked through the halls in secret joy. Look at all these fucking idiots. They are so happy in their ignorance. They have no idea what is about to happen. They think they are so grown up. All it takes is one tragedy to turn them all into sniveling little kids. They would fear him. He began to get an erection at the thought. That made him angry. He was going to die inexperienced. Not a virgin, no, but might as well be. His attempts at sex with girls had been mostly failed. He got nervous, he couldn't help it. Then of course, everybody found out. They had called him Limp Dick Darryl. Well, that was OK. He had something hard for them today. They would get it with both barrels.
He entered his math class as usual. His heart was pounding. The teacher stood up and droned on and on for about 15 minutes and then asked a question. He raised his hand. She called on him and he stood up.
"Who gives a fuck?" he asked.
The teacher blinked. He was usually so quiet. "Excuse me?" she said.
"Who... gives... a fuck?" he repeated, as if talking to an idiot.
"I'm not sure what you mean," the teacher said, totally nonplussed.
"I mean, who gives a fuck? I don't. And I'm God." And with that, he brought the shotgun up.
For a second, no one moved. It was almost as if they didn't even see it. Time stretched, pulled taut. His heart pounded, waiting for the reaction. A girl in the back of the room finally screamed and it was like an explosion of movement. He fired at the teacher and then turned and fired again at everybody. It was chaos incarnate, the only person not screaming or running was him. He felt jacked up to the highest decible but at the same time serene.
