Yes. It's true. I'm making this poll. I have had my limits on writers being asses or jerks (don't start with me, you fucking hypocrite). I have decided to create this about whether or not Agent BM should quit.

Why? You may ask. Because he has literally threaten people to him him on his enemies list, causing bias opinions and destroying the idea of freedom of speech. Don't we all have an opinion? I, for one, will not be intimidated for someone who is a troll. That's right. BM is a troll.

You can vote on my profile, but I will take all love or hate reviews. The vote stands tall. It will be a blind poll. You can be anonymous and vote in the reviews.

Along with that, Agent BM CAN NOT vote on this. If he does, it will result in the poll being unanimous and the poll will state Agent BM should leave.

What does the poll accomplish? It states opinion, freedom of speech, and that the public of those archive does not want him or care for him.

Its your opinion. This is America. You have rights.

Also, this won't be deleted. I'm doing the same thing as Flynn by using this for a story. So, ha!

Enjoy...

Prove It

Based off the short story of the same name by Evelio

For Evelio

1

Girls like to play with your mind about love, convince about your true feelings. Well, I got news for all of you: Your mind has been fucked. You and I are not so different. Believe me, when they tell you things about love and marriage and what the future holds when you're just in high school, and only know each other for a couple of months. That's not love, that's lust, my friend.

Every day you would see, two by two, couples holding love or expressing some form of love, while some wish for that or have total hatred of it because of their own self-jealousy. You have to understand why is never real in high school. It's hyped up for what can happen in the future, but the lust (horny teenagers) soon takes over and BOOM! I see babies, mistakes, total damnation, flame, and brutality…You live with this because this hasn't happened yet. But it will. Trust me. It will.

Lives have been wasted over the course of time because of our own fault.

Listen—you and I are the most dangerous thing in the face of the world. We have no control of what we do or sympathy. Some of us may reject that, but you can't deny it as fact. We are a non-stopping killing machine.

Call me a hypocrite, but I never said I am not. I am proud to be a killer, but humanity fails to understand how killing one of your own kind helps the world more.

We are insufficient. How can you tell? You're reading this. My work, my life, my pain, is all that complies here. But there is a story that is told here. I will not give you my name because that defeats the purpose of how you and I are the same. If you look back on my history, you will believe that I am crazy. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. That's why this is still alive.

Violence has always been the key for survival. We can't have too little or too much. Both will kill the system of survival. We have a staggering ten billion human beings…That's a lot, friend. We can live with a steady hundred million people. We don't have to waste ourselves giving undeserving pain to those who shouldn't have to live in a cruel world.

The lives of us are going to hell. Why? We are a product of failed parenting and failed passed. It seems like one billion humans are born each year. That's too much—and all that "everybody has a right to live" is bullshit. Believe me, I can give you the truth, whether you refuse to believe me or not. In that case, leave. Leave the truth behind and burn from your mistakes.

We are already dead.

No, no, no, I'm not referring to the fact that we will eventually die. I'm talking about the fact that we are all murderers and can't admit it. You should be ashamed. We're nothing more than the giant in the forest that has the power to destroy it all, but we believe we shouldn't. We really shouldn't, but we become so devious that we end up killing everything in sight because we believe it is the right thing to do. Well, you may be right, or could be wrong.

Let's start the story of what's going on: The beginning, the middle, and the fatal end.

Let's go.

2

The story begins in…Wait, let's clarify something else—high school. That's where our prologue will begin. (Don't bitch me at me if I didn't include a prologue in my three story arc setup. We're all liars, deal with it.)

We'll start with a kid; I'll name him Michael Peterson, because giving his real name is pointless.

Michael had a hard life in school. He didn't roll well with the ladies, barely passed his classes, perfect attendance, joke-killer, that guy. It's not his fault, friend. It's because his parents expected too much for him, where his destiny was sealed for life. He became the product of failure, not one that succeeds…Until he finds out what his calling is.

That's Michael, and you won't hear about him again, until he robs you blind.

That's that.

What else would you want from me? To help you understand what kind of person is Michael so you yourself can care?

Invalid. Why? He's dead. Shot from armed robbery. He succeeded three times before making a mistake.

Listen to what the birds tell you—songs and little sounds that are nice. At least they won't bullshit you.

3

Okay, let's really begin our story. I wouldn't want to bore you. After all, you are in for a surprise.

It begins on a simple night during a taxi drive around the city. I usually pay them to do that every month or so. I do it to see how much society ignores the violence when they do nothing about it. I see more than twenty fights an hour when I go on these drives. It's a big city, but those fights are in suburbia. Most of them are skinny teenagers who think they are tough and drunk fucks that are fat and lazy, probably with a wife who is unappreciated.

After the drive I go back to my lonely apartment where I never turn on the light. The only form of electricity that is used is the small TV set I leave on. I watch the TV alone, but I never pay attention to it. I stare into the black space of what's there.

Fuck, that's boring, even to me.

You know what? Fuck that shit. I'm just going to start from where it really begins.

4

I met a girl (or lady for any of you feminists) named (the name I'll make up) Dawn Wilson. I was sitting by the counter of a diner, but I was alone and isolated. I looked around to see if I was fully alone (aside from the workers here). I saw her looking at me, smiling, with her hand under her chin. She was probably thinking about what would happen by the end of the night that would really be worth remembering.

I turned back to my half-eaten cheeseburger. I stared at it for a while. I didn't really care about what was going on, whether she thought about me or was even smiling at me.

Then, she was next to me.

I didn't move, or care, for that matter.

"Hey," she said.

I didn't talk.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

I didn't look at her. "How would you like to take a stroll with me?"

She paused, almost a little shocked by my response. How do I know? When so many people become posers, they become predictable; they become easy to manipulate.