Furious nobody gave him the respect he deserved, Dakota Spencer was gonna create a higher body count than that pussy Adam Lanza at the school that expelled him, had he not dropped out first, with that twink Bucciarati watching him storm off to his meemaw's basement.
Fuck respect, Dakota was going for glory, as in G.L.O.R.Y.
Glory meant illegally acquiring AR-15s, a nice assortment of grenades, fatigues, combat boots and gas masks – all on meemaw's I.D. and credit card.
Because Cousin Jimmy understood glory and had a car, Cousin Jimmy was #1 wingman. Anyhow, dumbass Jimmy was so fuckin' stupid he'd go along with whatever Dakota cooked up even if it got him a month in the county jail while Dakota walked because meemaw could only afford to pay bail for one dumbass, not two.
Post scoping out the sitch at Merston after getting fired from McDonald's for calling the Manager a "lesbo carpet munchin' bitch" to her face, Dakota and his cousin posted epic final messages and carefully prepared manifestos on their Facebook and Twitter pages after loading Jimmy's ratchet little Ford Festiva with all the shit legends were made of that he'd been storing in meemaw's backyard toolshed.
On the way they stopped at a 7-11 and changed into their Army surplus fatigues, combat boots, and Kevlar vests before shoplifting Slim Jims, Dorito's, and beer on their way out the door.
Finally, the world would notice Dak—… oh yeah... him and Jimmy.
Whatever.
They'd march through Merston High's halls, spraying lead just like in "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2" Or "CSGO".
The girls that ignored Dakota would go down.
The jocks that wedgied him, would go down.
Bucciarati and his faggot ass? Down!
And the RADs who fucked up the whole town?
DOWN!
Crack. Crack. Crack.
A simple trigger squeeze, and the school's front door's glass shattered - epic!
Dakota Spencer pulled the pins on two tear gas grenades and rolled them down the hallway of the school just like in the YouTube video.
And in swirling clouds of tear gas, two cheap rubber masks, one of Dracula and one of Frankenstein, strode into the building, alarms screaming and the Doppler effect of doors slamming one after the other down the hall ahead of them... time to become Gods among men.
Helen Goode, third Diversity Counselor at Merston High since last March, tearfully dropped the school board's reply to her official complaint about how that poor boy, Fargo, had been handled, to the blotter of her battered school desk and buried her face in her hands.
How could they not see that police did NOT belong in a school setting?
Particularly Officer Mike Schmidt.
Blue-eyed blonde Officer Mike Schmidt with his black beanie, sheathed baton and Kevlar vest was a harsh symbol of oppression deliberately placed in the high school as a message from the Man: conform or be cast out.
Fargo wasn't Schmidt's only victim, he'd also brutalized Fredator and Tedator, the Sargent brothers – two gentle souls from an obviously pacifistic culture. So what if the two muscular mounds of dreadlocks and mandibles simply lumbering past her open office door on their way to football practice scared the shit out of her?
That, and their personal smell...
Like an entire boy's gym locker room with the boys still in it.
Plus a hint of roadkill skunk.
Helen Goode found their stank revolting, but as a colonizer, she had no right to complain, so she didn't despite the growing complaints from parents insisting that the school impinge upon the Sargent brother's natural right to be natural because their odor DISGUSTED their privileged offspring.
Desperate to avoid a discrimination lawsuit, the school board nervously consulted the district's attorneys and collectively sighed with relief when the answer came back: RAD or not, they legally could do something about the twin's hygiene issue – that's what the Diversity Counselor was for.
Principal Bucciaratti bluntly informed Helen that she was going to have to solve the… problem.
It was her job, after all.
To solve problems.
And the smell was a problem.
Deeply offended on Fredator and Tedator's behalf, Helen, in a show of fist-waving solidarity, stopped wearing her natural, Earth-friendly antiperspirant so that both RAD and non-RAD students, who already shied away from Ms. Goode, positively avoided her.
Helen didn't care; she was being TOLERANT.
Until Officer Schmidt walked up to Stank Inc. casually holding out two sticks of deodorant with a stone-faced Officer Abbacchio in tow, saying: "Try this, y'all. GIRLS love it when you smell like THIS!"
Crushed by his deliberate insensitivity, the brothers stared at Officer Schmidt's offensive offering, rattling their mandibles in obvious distress before he body-shamed the brothers by demonstrating how to apply the product of brutal subjugation right in front of EVERYONE with Officer Abbacchio pulling a Vanna White.
Unbelievably, the two brothers TOOK THE DEODORANT from Officer Schmidt and USED IT right there in the hall to the forced applause of their obviously traumatized peers before swaggering away in a bourgeois cloud of Axe, exchanging high fives with everyone including Officers Schmidt and Abbacchio, but not Helen Goode, who'd battled so hard on their behalf.
Schmidt, white CIS AMAB patriarchal stormtrooper that he was, calmly walked back to his tiny office across from Helen's large, carpeted one with the window that overlooked the school flowerbed and bird feeders, and resumed filling out the morning's incident reports as if nothing happened.
Stewing in her own stank, Helen glared at the enemy, gathering enough outrage to confront him. Except Officer Abbacchio casually stood outside the door, idly tapping his talons against the floor tiles while drinking (un)fair trade coffee from a mug proclaiming, "Frybread Power", awaiting his turn to use the single desk in the tiny janitorial closet turned police station, obviously ready to assault anyone brave enough to stand up to the tyrant that was Officer Schmidt.
Still, if you need to take a stand, you need to take a stand. Helen Goode took a deep, centering breath and began her long-overdue march across the hall.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Was that… surely not… "Oh God, oh GOD!" temporarily forgetting her militant atheism, a hysterical Helen screamed while staring down at Officer Schmidt's pale blood where it soaked her fair-trade hemp sandals after he deliberately stepped between her and the gunmen who'd shot their way through the locked front doors of Merston in a cloud of acrid smoke.
How was she supposed to know that being an oppressed minority isn't always obvious?