by Writing Shark
Your first victim
“Last chance buddy. You can still get out of this one.” But you don’t, and your reflection in the bathroom changes from a boy worried about doing something mean to a man who knows he’ll enjoy doing something very, very mean.
The cartridge in your hand is light and delicate but feels heavy and powerful as you weigh it and look at it. You’re going to do this. It’s the only thing you can do anymore.
You have tried everything. You’ve been nice, you’ve tried hard to improve your body, your manners and your mind. Sometimes you succeeded, sometimes you didn’t. But it was never enough. You are not good-looking enough, not strong enough, fast enough, smart enough to get what you want.
But even if you don’t understand why women always fall for the drunken bastards in the clubs, you’re intelligent enough – and desperate enough for two years – to find a way out that no one else has.
For you, from now on, neither good manners nor anything else that women – sluts and whores – find so attractive in men counts. You will get money, you have no doubt about that. And you will get women.
Bad women. That is the only rule you have set for yourself. Bad women who will only screw you and others in your situation if they show courage.
The cartridge is the result of your father’s work, a respected researcher who is too naive not to bring his experiments home. And he is too oblivious to notice when his son copies his work and gives it to a perverted purpose.
What started as a cure for paralysis has turned into something completely different with a PC and a lot of depraved thoughts.
And now you’re ready. Two years later. Four loads, that’s all you’ve been able to steal from your dad. But that’s enough for you.
One last time you look in the mirror, but you have no doubts. You used to be a nice guy but after so many disappointments you know what the world wants from you.
And you know what you have to do next.
“What now?” Of course your sister is annoyed again, is not a pleasant person and she tries not to be one.
“It’s me. Can I come in? Please?” There it is again, the cold, long-suppressed anger you feel when you have to ask for time with your sister. Several years older than you, Cathy is a prime example of what you’ve been denied. Her natural beauty – you’re sure she helped it along here and there, but when you called her on it, she slapped you in the face – has opened the door for Cathy to the social standing you can’t achieve with hard work. She has lots of friends who are all just as pretty and spoiled as she is, a good-looking, strong, muscular and stupid boyfriend and an easy job with a good income and a boss who wants to fuck her – just like any other man. The cameras and lights in her room are for her beauty blog but if you could afford Only Fans you are sure to find her there too.
No, Cathy has no qualities that wouldn’t make her the ideal target for your first attempt on a real person. There would be easier targets, homeless people for example, but you’re not one to beat down the social ladder and the cartridge in your hand is your means to not only storm the ladder, but to burn it and replace it with your very own escalator.
And yet you’re nice enough to offer her one last chance. And you hate yourself for it.
“How are you sis?” Your friendly smile remains hidden from Cathy, like you earlier she focuses on her reflection.
“Good, what do you want? I don’t have time for you.” And Cathy also misses how your face darkens. Your voice remains friendly, though.
“I need your advice as a big sister. Please.” The girl groans in annoyance.
“Is my little baby brother having trouble with girls again? I already told you you’re fishing too far out of your league. Be content with what life offers you.”
You look around her room. Chaos and filth everywhere. Your mother doesn’t dare stand up to Cathy, much less get her to move out.
“I want a girlfriend as pretty as you, though.” One last compliment can’t hurt. Maybe it will help, too. Cathy laughs and glares at you through the mirror.
“You’re serious?” Her grin is like poison. Then she purses her lips and turns around to face you. Her big boobs almost spill out of her tight top and her skirt is too short, way too short. She goes clubbing again, like every night. No matter if she has school tomorrow or not.
“Is that too much to ask?” You’ve never really heard Cathy laugh heartily, good-naturedly. Then she spins around again, concerned with her appearance.
“Listen Little One. Some people are meant for social life and others aren’t, okay? What do you want with a pretty girlfriend anyway? Trust me, guys like you don’t even know what to do with girls like me.” Amused, she shakes her head.
This is the moment you’ve been waiting for for the last two years. And this was the last chance you ever gave Cathy.
As you cross the room, holding the cartridge tighter in your hand, you start to feel fear. What if it doesn’t work? But that doesn’t stop you. Your life can only get better.
Two years of work and a life of loneliness and frustration culminate in half a second.
The tip of the cartridge touches the back of your sister’s neck. A hiss is heard as you press the button. Then Cathy screams and pushes you away from her.
“What are you doing, you fucking psycho?” she shrieks and tries to hit you. Quickly you jump back but Cathy jumps up.
“Wait!” you command… and get a peppery slap in the face.
“You sick fucker! What was that?” Anger doesn’t suit your sister, but maybe you’ve just seen her angry too many times. But you don’t care right now. Did you fail? Didn’t it work out?
Quickly you make a run for it and want to escape from your angry sister. But before you leave her room, you figure it out. The rats were smaller, but the spear was just as big as Cathy’s! You turn around again, warm, happy hope inside you as Cathy throws her hairbrush at you.
“Cathy!” you call out in a commanding voice, fending off the brush that comes flying at you. “I want you to apologize to me for being a bad sister all these years.”
“Fuck you, you little scumbag!” Then you close the door, hear some more objects banging against it, and go to your room.
“What happened?” your mother asks from the kitchen, disinterest in her voice, a little annoyed that her kids don’t give her a break.
“Nothing Mom,” you lie, grinning. “I have everything under control.”
Writing Shark 