Peter biked alongside Kora and Eun, unable to wipe the cheese-eating grin off his face. He’d just maowed down a spicy bean burrito, and he planned to unleash it on Blake Turner. Peter had taken enough shit from Atherton’s resident alpha-jock.
It was time to return the motherfucking favor.
Over the past few weeks, Peter, Eun, and Kora had spent long hours studying ANOS’s compound. Their best shot at breaching the facility was going to be on Thanksgiving break, when staffing would reach a holiday low, improving their chances of getting in and out without anyone noticing. If things got hairy, Peter thought they could fight their way out, but still—it would make things way more complicated.
In the meantime, Blake and his goons had upped the pressure. Their harassment ranged from typical bullshit—flicking Peter’s ear when he wasn’t looking—to booby-trapping his locker with week-old garbage. The last straw had been when they’d pissed on the Bite Mobile.
Kora had volunteered to whup their ass, but Peter had declined her offer. This shit was personal. Like look-me-in-the-eye-while-I-fuck-your-mother-and-give-her-a-dirty-Sanchez personal. After he parked the Bite Mobile and locked it in the rack, he gave his belly a pat and giggled maniacally.
Spicy bean burrito—get some.
For the next few minutes, he waited in the parking lot. Blake and his goons came rolling in, parking their fleet of douche-mobiles one by one. Mustangs, small-dick sports cars, smaller-dick trucks and SUVs, all pulsing with a medley of washed-out songs that allowed each guy to claim some individuality through his musical preference. Nothing too crazy—just enough so they wouldn’t be accused of copying someone else’s style or being gay, which was—in their stunted minds—infinitely worse. Atherton’s jocks still used the antiquated threat of possible homosexuality to keep each other in line. It bonded them into a single, unified entity: an unthinking hive-mind of insecurity-driven, brain-dead aggression.
Peter, who’d sucked dozens of cocks to secure his blackmail-generated finances, didn’t give a rat’s ass if people thought he was gay or straight. He couldn’t have given a finger-blasting fuck. But he knew Blake did, so…
“HEY! SHIT STABBER!”
The jock shot out of his car and slammed the door. “The fuck did you call me, you slant-eyed gook?”
“I called you a cum-guzzling cock-smuggler,” Peter said calmly. “You’d walk through a perfectly good whorehouse to grab hold of a fat boy’s tits.” He cocked his head, affecting the caricatured movements of a mentally handicapped person, along with the stereotypical, distorted enunciation. “My name is Blake. Deposit sperm here.” Peter pointed at his mouth and opened wide. Due to his garbled speech, it came out as: Muh nem ith Bake. Depothith thperm her.
Blake strode toward him, face reddening. “Mother FUCKER! I am gonna go World War II on your banzai ass! You’re gonna wish you never—”
Peter dropped his hips and grabbed hold of Blake’s torso, stuffing the Jock’s attempt at a double-leg takedown. He’d been watching videos of Blake’s wrestling matches. He knew that if you could piss him off, you could gas him out fairly quickly.
“LOOSE!” Peter called.
Blake’s friends, all of whom had formed a semicircle behind Blake, looked around with puzzled expressions. Who the fuck had Peter been talking t—
Ffffwhhhoooo….SLAP! Bryce Latton’s head snapped backward. He stumbled away, clutching at his eyes. Spencer Cook and Reed Tucker—standing to Bryce’s left and right—threw an astonished glance at Bryce before missiles from the rooftop began pelting their faces, covering their features with steaming feces. Up on the roof, Reptar—wearing a ninja mask and baggy clothing—was launching nugget after nugget of freshly cut turd. If anyone saw him, they’d think he was a disgruntled middle-schooler, or maybe a short ninth-grader.
Peter pulled guard, cocked his hips, then shot his legs up around the jock’s head, cinching them tight in a solid triangle choke. He grasped a pair of quick-release tabs on his pants—one extended from each hip—and yanked outward, ripping off his trousers, which were custom-engineered for just that purpose. Initially, Peter had made them as a goof—he’d wanted to induce awkward silences or cheap laughs by yanking off his pants for the sheer fuck of it—but today, they served a much more sinister purpose.
Peter emitted a long, hissy fart. He pulled down on Blake’s head, scooting his hips up so he could squeeze harder with both legs. A follow-on fart—loud and blatty this time, PLPLPLBBBBBBLLLT—shot into the jock’s face. His beet-red face became a few shades redder.
“Peter,” he wheezed. “Don’t—”
“Too late, fuckgobble.” Peter rocked sideways, rolling the jock onto his back. Peter was now on top, his legs locked around Blake’s right arm and head.
He squeezed a little harder.
“Peter, don’t do it man!’ Due to his arm being pressed up against his face, Blake’s desperate entreaty came out as: Feeter, dun do if m’n!
And then Peter took a giant, steaming shit.
Pure evil spilled from Peter’s backside, pushing past the hole he’d cut into his underwear and piling on top of Blake’s chest. As the wrestler cursed and screamed (he wasn’t intelligible due to Peter’s viselike hold) maniacal laughter poured from Peter’s lips.
He squeezed a little harder. Up until now, he’d been using the choke to restrict Blake’s movements, but now that he’d enacted his disgusting revenge, it was time to show a little mercy; the extra pressure made Blake pass out.
Peter rose to his feet, walked to his pants, and pulled them on.
Blake’s accomplices had already fled the scene, driven away by Reptar’s monkey-poop barrage. Peter looked up and caught a brief glimpse of the chimp’s baseball-capped head as he slipped out of sight.
Peter smiled. Good job, buddy. I owe you one.
He reached into his cargo pocket and produced a can of acrylic spray paint. He shook it briskly, then aimed it at the section of sidewalk next to Blake’s body.
DO NOT DISTURB, he wrote.
HE’S HAVING A SHITTY DAY.