Ellen Klebold and Merrick Harris shoot up their school most nights. They have a meticulous recreation of it on the .grid, mostly built by Ellen. The hallways. The classrooms. The soon-to-be victims of their teen angst (well, nearly teen; Merrick is only 11 or 12 while Ellen is ... how old? 16?).
Anyway, the gang's all here. Gang gang. Nighttime in the VR interface of the .grid is a dress rehearsal for violence. "Dress rehearsal", that sounds gay. Too oldfag. Ellen hates dresses, even though she’s a girl in the VR. Behind the wearables, who knows? Who cares? Pants rehearsal. Trenchcoat rehearsal.
Ellen is the ring leader and knows all the moves. Merrick is “low IQ” or “ADHD” or “autism spectrum” or something. The other kids at school call him “retard.” But like the people in that cult VHS hit called The ABC of Sex Education for Trainables, Merrick can learn a routine pretty good.
The routine is:
Finger twirl gesture to start the music. That Nine Inch Nails song from the slo-mo homo action movie about the Greek pederasts.
Reach downward and make the Remington shotguns appear.
Cocking motion, pump that shit.
Blast front door open, glass shatters.
Unload on the janitor. Unload on the trans woman gym teacher who's tossing a penny into the campus wishing well. “John Money shot!” Pump that shit.
Move down the hallway, always strafing.
Dome Jimmy. Weapon-swap. Pistol whip Althea the black girl with Berettas until she doesn’t move anymore. Blow up Susie's head like in Scanners. (Neither of these kids has seen Scanners.)
Then it’s a race up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Art department. Put both barrels to the stomach of cantankerous Mrs. Roth. “You’re gonna die, cunt.” (Trigger warning). Spray her guts across a canvas to her rear—gall, stones and errything. Maroon over red; “intensely personal.” Art captured in repetition. Roth-ko.
Then it’s to the library. Jock with his nose in a geometry book gets his trapezoids destroyed by several rounds. Pause for necking. Banter: “What if we kissed at the intersection of Wrath and Natural Selection?”
Random fire. Shoot everyone who’s anything.
Ellen and Merrick shoot themselves, then lie on the floor real still for ages.
Finally, synchronized Chris Benoit gestures kill the party.
“Really, quit?” says the gridbot.
“I’m not gonna tell you twice, botfuckerrr!” slurs Merrick, the one with the ‘Wrath’ shirt.
“...”
“Yes, quit.” says Ellen, less (and more) explicitly for selective electronic ears.
“Quitting!”
***
Some wednesday.
Merrick asks Ellen if they’re going to the tri-state gun show today.
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow comes.
Trigun comes on and stays on.
***
Some monday.
Zero day.
“Your dad leave the car?” Merrick wonders.
“Yeah I think so.” Ellen kind of confirms.
Trenchcoat rehearsal.
“Remember,” Ellen doms as the world collapses around them, “The routine is: Finger twirl. Shotguns. Pump that shit ...” —and Merrick is going through the motions with her perfectly— "... Blast the glass. Unload—BANG!—unload! Pump it. Move down the hallway. Strafe! Dome Jimmy. Weapon-swap. Pistol whip Althea. Blow up Susie's head. Second floor. Art department. Mrs. Roth. It’s all paint job! Library. Jock. Several rounds. Stop. I fucking love you. Shoot everyone who’s anything. We die in each other’s arms, like this.”
Ellen hugs Merrick and squeezes tight (and a little low), then does the Benoit throat slit.
“Really, quit?” says the gridbot.
“Let’s do this!” says Ellen, the one with the ‘Natural Selection’ shirt.
“...”
***
The drive to the school is uneventful. Outside is plasticine, pixel junk, barely there. 50% render scale tbh.
“Look at all-uh-’em,” Merrick says through gritted teeth.
“Hmm?” asks Ellen.
“It’s like AI made ‘em. Barely fuckin’ human.”
“Fucking right,” Ellen goes to fist bump Merrick but he barely returns it. She says, “We’re gonna have lots of fun.”
Merrick shoots her a glance. 100% seriousface tbch. His sick is New York cabbie, not California skater.
“We’re gonna fuckin’ kill ‘em,” he grumbles, slurring the last words and spitting foam.
They walk through Turok fog towards the school. Everything is just so.
Merrick’s face brightens as he twirls to start the music.
The drop cascades into a dopamine rush.
The routine is:
Reach downward and make the Remington shotguns appear. Cocking motion, pump that shit. Blast front door open, glass shatters. Unload on the janitor. Unload on the trans woman gym teacher who's tossing a penny into the campus wishing well. “John Money shot!” Pump that shit. Move down the hallway, always strafing. Dome Jimmy. Weapon-swap. Pistol whip Althea the black girl with Berettas until she doesn’t move anymore. Blow up Susie's head like in Scanners. (And no, they still haven’t seen anything but shitty ass anime probably lmao.) Then it’s a race up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Art department. Put both barrels to the stomach of cantankerous Mrs. Roth. “You’re gonna die, cunt.” (Trigger warning). Spray her guts across a canvas to her rear—gall, stones and errything. Maroon over red; “intensely personal.” Art captured in repetition. Roth-ko. Then it’s to the library. Jock with his nose in a geometry book gets his trapezoids destroyed by several rounds. Pause for necking. Banter: “What if we kissed at the intersection of Wrath and Natural Selection?” Random fire. Shoot everyone who’s anything.
Ellen and Merrick shoot themselves, then lie on the floor.
Real still.
For ages.
-- Rudy Johnson (@lynchpoet) is an idiot and co-founder of Misery Tourism who designs games and shit.