Chandler McCann shoved his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, bowed his head against the chilly breeze, and started home. Hatred, dark and total, smoldered in his chest and his lips curled over his teeth in an unconscious sneer.
It was late afternoon and he was on his way home from school. Fading autumn sunshine bathed the world in amber tones and drifts of yellow leaves swept across the sidewalk, brittle and crunching underfoot. The tang of woodsmoke lightly scented the crisp air and the laughter of children found his ears like the mocking titter of cruel girls. Tiny ranch houses with wide front lawns faced the street and golden leaves fell from spreading trees like drops of liquid fire. A battered Royal County school bus lumbered by, its rusted frame creaking, and Chandler shot it a dirty look; kindergarteners pressed their faces to the grimy windows and squealed like piglets, but he didn't see her. What bus did she ride anyway? He didn't know, but he'd seen her getting onto one.
His anger flared like a knot popping in a fireplace, and he clenched his teeth. Who the fuck did she think she was? Who the fuck?
That question had been running through his aching mind since that morning but even all these hours later, no answer presented itself. He was Chandler McCann. He was tall, handsome, smooth, intelligent, and wealthy. Any normal girl would give her right tit for a night with him. He had already bagged Cristina, Cookie, Jordan, and Luan Loud, and each and every one of them turned to his putty in his hands.
But Stella…
He sucked a sharp breath through his teeth and let it out in a hiss.
It happened during gym class. After putting them through the wringer, Coach Lambert gave everyone ten minutes of free time before the bell rang. A group of boys scratched together a basketball game, several girls jumped rope by a door marked EXIT, and the resident nerd sat on a stack of mats and read from a fantasy novel with a bright cover.
Stella walked the parameter of the basketball court with a few of her girlfriends, and Chandler watched from the bleachers, where he sat with Poppa Wheelie and Lincoln Loud, two of his cronies - every great man needs a couple betas to flex on, and those were his.
She wore tiny pink gym shorts that bared her long, smooth legs and a white T-shirt that clung to her budding breasts and clearly showed the outline of her bra; Chandler didn't know what color her panties were, but he imagined white. Stella was a plain and wholesome girl and those always wear white underwear.
You can tell a lot about a girl from what color undies she wears. He knew that first hand. Jordan was loud and aggressive, and she wore red; Cristina was dainty and girlish, and she wore pink. Stella was probably a whitey.
Only one way to know for sure.
Getting to his feet, he rolled his neck like a star quarterback preparing to take the field, put on his biggest, most calculated smile, and strutted over, catching up with Stella's group just as they rounded the far hoop. One of her friends cracked a joke, and she laughed so hard she snorted. When she realized he was there, she sobered. "Hey," he greeted.
Her friends glanced at him, then at Stella. One, a fat blonde named Katie, lifted her eyebrows knowingly. Chandler didn't like fat bitches but he was on a mission to get every girl in his grade, so he'd get around to her eventually, probably next to last, right before Penelope.
Gag.
"Hey," Stella said.
The others drifted off, leaving them alone, and Stella's pace slowed to match Chandler's. "I was wondering if you wanna hang after school," he said. "Go to Gus's or something."
He was so confident she would say yes that her rejection didn't register at first. "Uh, no, thank you, I...really can't."
When what she was saying dawned on him, his step faltered. What? Did she really just say no? To him? "Really?" he asked, bewildered. There was a dazed quality to his voice that made him wince. He'd never, never, been rejected before and he never expected to be. His plans, carefully laid over the course of days, collapsed in a single instant and he honestly had no idea how to proceed.
Stella flashed a condescending smile. "Sorry."
"Why?" he asked. "I mean, maybe we can do it another time. If you're busy." His words came out in a fumbling, awkward manner that was alien to his own ears.
Stella ducked her head and pointed her eyes at her Keds. "Uh...well…I like someone else."
Though he'd been in fights before, Chandler didn't know what it felt like to be punched in the stomach...until that moment. Someone else. Someone else? He could kind of understand if she had something else going on and couldn't go out with him, but was she really choosing someone else over him?
A girl. It had to be a girl. She was a fucking dyke and she didn't like boys. That was the only thing that could explain it. He was the best boy in school, there was no way she would pass him over in favor of someone else unless she was gay. "Who?" he asked.
Her answer shocked him.
"Lincoln."
"Loud?" he blurted.
The crimson blush coloring her cheeks confirmed it.
She liked Loud. Lincoln fucking Loud, the scrawny little white hair, buck tooth faggot. Lincoln Loud, the girly-boy who couldn't even catch a football, the soyboy cuck who let that spic bitch Ronnie Anne Santiago push him around like a fucking punk.
Lincoln Loud was everything that Chandler wasn't. He was weak, shy, self-conscious, and goofy. He scurried through the halls like a timid field mouse and stammered whenever a girl talked to him, which wasn't fucking often. No matter what the feminists say, girls like alpha males. It's a scientific fact. Alpha males make better mates because they go out and take what they want. They can provide. A beta can't. A beta lowers his head and subsists off the crumbs alphas allow him to have. They aren't as virile, their sperm is weak and their children will be weak. Human beings are animals and animals have instincts. A girl's instincts tell her that someone like Lincoln Loud would be a shit husband, a shit father, and a shit man. That's why guys like him wind festering in their mom's basement and jacking off to My Little Pony fan art. Girls can smell their rotten pheromones and avoid them in favor of Chads like Chandler.
The only girls who go for pathetic sissies like Lincoln Loud are alpha females who want someone meek and submissive they can control. Stella was not an alpha. She was gangly, bubbly, and Asian. Asian women are notorious for being servile to their men. What in the fuck did she want with Lincoln?
She was lying, he decided. She was a fag. She was just too scared to admit it. Her parents were probably old school gooks who beat her if she got an A- instead of an A+, and if they found out she was a dirty lesbian, they'd probably kill her. And they'd be right to. Faggots disgusted Chandler, especially female faggots.
Even if she was gay and legtimately not into any boy, being shot down hurt; he was still smarting as he turned onto Rosemont Street, and the more the thought about it, the angrier he became. Part of him wanted to plow her teeth down her throat and another wanted to do it to Loud just in case she was telling the truth.
Loud.
That was funny. Of all the boys she could lie about liking, she chose that fucking dweeb. A few months ago, Chandler dated Lincoln's sister Luan - they hung out, talked on the phone, and kissed once. He eventually dumped her because she wouldn't let him touch her boob (boo hoo, I'm not ready). Before he did, he went over to her house a few times and got to see Loud in his natural habitat, walking around in his tightie whities, getting run over by his sisters, being a cuck. Stella wanted that over him? Did she really?
No, she didn't, but the thought that maybe she did, that any girl did, made him so mad he shook. He didn't care about Stella or any other girl, but that wasn't the point. If he wanted something, he should have it, and that Lincoln Loud of all people could possibly cuck him out of it…
He ground his teeth.
From Rosemont, he turned onto Fairrs Street. As he walked, he let his mind wander, and his feet carried him left, off his normal route.
He didn't know where he was going, but he had an idea, and five minutes later, the Loud house appeared on the right, its peaked roof thrusting into the draining sky. Its siding was grimy, its windows smudged. Toys and bits of trash littered the unkempt front lawn and the porch sagged in the middle like the stooped back of an old and weary man. Mr. Loud's van sat in the oil splotched driveway, rust chewing away its wheel wells, and a fat tom with one ear and no tail lay curled on its side in the grass. Chandler couldn't tell if it was alive or dead, but the urge to go over and stomp on its soft body came over him, and he almost did it.
Slowing his step, he craned his neck to look at the house, hoping Loud was out. He didn't know what he would do if he was. Maybe punch him, maybe choke him, maybe knock him down and kick him to death. The only thing stopping him was the promise of getting in trouble. His dad was loaded and could afford the best lawyers in the world, but even a legal dream team can only get you so far when you literally kill someone on a semi-busy residential street in broad daylight. A long time ago, guys like Chandler - handsome, wealthy, and gifted - could get away with anything, then the crybaby liberals started saying it wasn't 'fair' and if someone cries loud enough in America, things change. Doesn't matter if it's right or not.
Chandler's father followed politics (he wanted to run for office one day) and Chandler picked up the habit like a child learning to smoke from watching its daddy. He had learned enough to know that he was a capitalist (capitalism is about going out and taking what you want, it's truly the most alpha philosophy) but that capitalism had one fatal flaw.
Greed.
Not the kind of greed that led companies to cut down forests or pay niggers in Zimbabwe three cents a day to make tennis shoes, oh no, that was just the way things work. The kind of geed that leads them to katow to the vocal super minority on Twitter - the blue haired SJWs who cry racism and sexism at every little thing they don't like. The squeaky wheel gets the grease and those nu-moral crusaders are as squeaky as they come; they're like locusts, and hold American companies in the palm of their little Bernie loving hand. All it takes is a few of them to bitch on social media, and these companies, so afraid of losing even one red cent, rush off to do whatever it takes to balm their butts and make them happy.
The liberals know this and they use it to their advantage. You think socialism can destroy capitalism? No, no, no, only capitalism can destroy capitalism.
Speaking of destroying things, the Louds' front door opened, and Chandler tensed. If it was Lincoln, he decided, he'd run up and hurt him, fuck the liberals.
Someone slipped out, and Chandler deflated a little. It wasn't Lincoln, it was his little sister Lola. She closed the door behind her, stuck her pert little nose in the air, and strutted down the steps like a haughty queen parading in front of her adoring subjects. A silver tiara inset with pink diamonds - was it real or plastic - sat atop her blonde head, and the hem of her pink dress swished around her feet. A sash lay across her chest and pink gloves were pulled to her elbows, putting Chandler in mind of a butt doctor getting ready to shove his hand up someone's rear.
She held a baton in her hand, and as Chandler watched, she began to spin and twirl it, a long, pink ribbon rippling behind it like a wind-dappled flag. She marched back and forth, tossing it high above her head and catching it, thrusting it up and down, slicing the air. The aching fury in Chandler's chest began to subside, and for a moment he was cold and numb. His eyes flicked to her clenched little butt, and the fire returned, somewhere else this time, somewhere lower.
Lola Loud embodied everything he hated in women. She was snooty, stuck-up, and thought she was perfect. She was aggressive, assertive, and confident. She was one of those alpha females who marry beta cucks and then badger them into hanging themselves in the garage. Her will was indomitable. She was high and mighty and drunk on Third Wave Feminism, the strain that tells women they are goddesses and encourages them to look at men as inferiors. All people are selfish but most of them aren't a threat because they follow some bullshit god or ninety-year-old socialist who implores them to fake kindness and charity. Women like Lola Loud are liberated from those constraints; they are unafraid to be shallow, self-centered, and contemptuous. The world revolves around them and there they are, in the center, demanding that everything bend to their tiniest whim and fancy.
Women like Lola Loud sincerely believed themselves to be progressive and feminist, but feminism, like every other "woke" subculture, was simply an excuse for its adherents to indulge their innate selfishness. People like Chandler were brave enough to do it own their own, but the liberals, socialists, feminists, Tumblrinas, woksters, Christians, conservatives, niggers, spics, and towelheads had to hide it behind a false facade of social justice and liberation theology. They presented themselves as perpetual victims forever oppressed because they weren't bold enough to come right out and say "I only care about myself. Fuck you." Blacks only cared about blacks, sand niggers only cared about sand niggers, old white men only cared about old white men, and faggots only cared about other faggots.
Self-centeredness is the natural state of nature. Neither the lion nor the wolf cares about his fellow animal. He worries only for himself. He forms packs and schools only to serve his own interests the way men work together only far enough to keep the lights on and the trains running. People cooperate but only because doing so improves their lives, not the lives of others. Selfishness is a beautiful thing, but it is also ugly. It can achieve greatness on a grand scale, but on a microcosm, it created uppity little sluts like Lola Loud. She wiggled her hips and clenched her butt like a bitch in heat, and Chandler was dimly aware of hot lead expanding in his depths.
Little girls like Lola Loud needed to be taught their place. They needed their clothes ripped, their make-up ruined, and that pink little chip knocked off their shoulder. They needed their hair pulled, their necks choked, their butts spanked black and blue. They needed to be stripped naked, forced to their knees, and made to wear dog collars like the bitches they were. They needed that feminist crap fucked out of their skulls. They needed to learn that they weren't special, that they weren't unique, that there are 20 million other basic bitches just like them with the same pedestrian tastes, the same skimpy little clothes, and the same burning need for attention.
Every girl had the latter. He had observed that in every single bitch he had ever known. It was one of those constants that you can always find if you dig deep enough, just like greed and jealousy. Of those cunts, the Loud girls were the most obvious and shameless. Each one of them had manufactured their own little identity as a way of standing out - Lynn the sports nut, Lana the shit-eating tomboy, Luan the Gallager wannabe, and Lola...pretty little Lola was the beauty queen. She stood up in front of a packed gallery of pedophiles and basked in their adoration like it was a fucking accomplishment. She didn't do anything, she didn't create anything, she just coasted by on her appearance, something that she didn't make or earn herself, something that was handed to her by genetics.
She was the worst of them all, and as Chandler glared at her from afar, his chest and his dick throbbed in hateful unison. Lola spun on her heels, tossed back her head, and threw her arms out on either side of her, looking for all the world like she was offering her soul to God. Chandler's eyes narrowed and his teeth grinded with a grating crunch. His chest rose and fell and the flush in his cheeks deepened. He clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails bit into the padding of his palms, and suddenly, he saw not Lola, but Stella, the little gook bitch who made a fool out him. Her almond shaped eyes danced with wicked light, and the corners of her lips curled up in a taunting smirk. She shook her head dismissively, and Chandler's skull throbbed hotly.
Fuck her.
Stupid, stinking bitch. Fuck her.
His vision began to dim, and before he knew what he was doing, he started toward her, his righteous indignation pulling him forth. He tried to stop himself, but he could feel his control slipping...and he liked it. Endorphins flooded his system, adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his consciousness separated from his body. He watched himself cross to the bottom of the driveway; watched himself come to a halt when the front door opened and Lana leaned out.
"Dad says dinner's ready!"
The spell shattered like a pane of brittle glass. Chandler came back to himself with a sharp exhalation. He blinked in confusion and shook his head to dispel the mist in his brain. Lola chucked her baton over her shoulder and dashed up the stairs like a starving dog to a banquet of kibble, and the slamming of the door behind her echoed through the neighborhood. Chandler pressed his shaky hand to his fevered forehead and leaned against the back of the van. Neither she nor Lana had seen him. He looked around. No one had seen him. Good. His erection made an unmistakable tent in his jeans and his knees quivered like jello, making standing up hard; anyone passing by would know from a glance that something was wrong with him.
He took a series of deep breaths, and when he was calm, he pushed away from the van and hurried down the street. The back of his neck tingled as if in expectation of a blow but he didn't look over his shoulder until he reached the end of the block. The windswept street stood empty save for swirling leaves and long, misshapen shadows. A cold gust blew against his face and shook the trees lining the way, and with a sigh, he spun around and rushed home.
His house, a two story brick affair with European windows, sat well back from the street in a quiet neighborhood populated by doctors, lawyers, and accountants. Nice cars sat in cobblestone driveways and wrought iron gates trimmed spacious front yards; the people were all well-dressed and polite, and you never heard shouting, loud music, or arguing the way you did downtown.
Dad's Bently wasn't in the drive, which meant he was either still at the office or attending one of those boring cocktail parties where company bigwigs rubbed elbows and oogled each other's trophy wives. Chandler hated his parents. Dad was a drunk who started slamming martinis the moment he got home in the afternoon and mom was a pill head who laid around the house all day staring at soap operas with glazed over eyes and drool crusting her chin. One of Chandler's dirtiest little secrets was that he looked up to his father. Not as a man, of course, but because he was successful. Life is a game. You pretend to care about other people and to be a "good" person; you abide by all of society's stupid laws and bylines even when every fiber of your being tells you not to, and you utalize the resources available to you to build the best possible life for yourself that you can. Dad had done that. At least in the material sense. He had a fat bank account, a nice house, two cars, a swimming pool, and a firm that had become one of the largest of its kind in the county in less than ten years. He fucked up in many ways - such as becoming a weak-willed drunk who didn't know how to control his own impulses - and Chalder disdained those flaws while respecting his victories.
One day, he hoped to be like him, only better. He would go to the best university, fuck the prettiest women, drive the fastest cars, and make the most money. Every woman would want him and every man would envy him, just like they did Dad. Only Chandler would be superior in every way, because Chandler was smarter. He knew man's nature and he could dominate it. His father couldn't. He fell victim to the same traps and pratfalls that the poor and sightless did. He allowed himself to buy into the game, let himself begin to forget that it even was a game.
That was Dad's greatest flaw, Chandler reckoned. He became greedy and materialistic. He bought things just to buy them. He certainly had the money to afford them, but he did not do it to flex his superiority over everyone else, he did it because he thought he wanted to. He would buy a brand new car and stare at it the way a horny schoolboy stares at a buxom teacher; he would wash it, wax it, run his hands over its flanks, and obsess over it like Gollum with his ring. He would sit up at night and worry about someone denting or dinging it at the grocery store, and every other day, he posted pictures of it to Facebook. That wasn't a bad thing in of itself, but the look of pants-wetting joy in his face as he did so was.
He was enjoying the game too much, in other words, to be an effective player. A good player is stoic, determined, and thinks two steps ahead. Not Dad. Dad was like a little kid reveling in the sheer act of play.
Fuck him.
He made Chandler sick.
At the front door, Chandler produced his key, inserted it into the lock, and twisted the knob. Inside, an unbroken gloom held court with itself. Where ever Dad went, he took mom with him, leaving Chandler to himself.
Good.
If he didn't need them, he'd wish them dead in a car crash.
Closing the door behind him, he went up the stairs and to his room without turning on a single light. His steps were sure and firm. He had lived his entire life in this house and knew it entirely.
In his room, he tossed his backpack onto the floor, crossed to his bed, and sat down. Soft purple light pressed against the window and the screen rippled in the wind with a nearly inaudible snapping sound.
He kicked his shoes off, swung his legs onto the bed, and stretched out, lacing his hands over his chest. He stared up into the gathering darkness and called up a vision of Lola Loud. She pranced back and forth in her front yard as if she knew he was watching and liked it, her little butt rolling with the sway of her hips and her chest thrust out to give her the appearance of having breasts. Her dress was indefinably different; in reality, it was long and shapeless, but now it was thinner and clung to the curves and ridges of her supple body. She didn't look six, she looked older, her inner whore projecting down through the ages. He saw her not as she was, but as she would be - strutting back and forth and perfuming the air with her scent in hopes of attracting a man like him, a good looking man with money who would pay her bills and buy her all the sparkly things she was too poor to buy on her own.
She tossed a sultry look over her shoulder - eyes narrowed, lips parted - and a contradictory mix of lust and hatred flooded Chandler's stomach. His dick twitched even as hot rage crept across his face. Dad told him once that girls use sex to get love and boys use love to get sex. He was wrong, though, because of course he was. Girls don't use sex to get love, they use sex to get money, diamonds, and vacations to Cancun. They don't care about men, they don't care about other women, they're people - they only care about themselves.
They thought they deserved all the things their beta cuck sugar daddies bought them. They didn't. They deserved to be broken like China dolls.
Lola swished her hips and spun on the balls of her bare heels, her blonde hair fluttering around her head like rays of sunlight. The fabric of her dress pulled tight across her tiny chest and dipped into the junction of her thighs. Knowing her, she probably wasn't wearing anything underneath.
In his vision, Chandler went to her and she stepped into his arms, her body pressing lightly to his and her sinful eyes staring up at him. His hands went to her butt and squeezed and his raging erection prodded the hollow between her legs. She pushed up on her tippy toes for a kiss, and suddenly his hands were around her velvety throat. Her eyes widened in alarm and the pulse in her neck pounded in primal fear. She tried to pull away, but he redoubled his grip and pushed his thumbs into her windpipe. Her gloved fingers clawed harmlessly at the backs of his hands and her lips formed a silent scream. Her face turned blood red, then purple as her oxygen starved lungs fought and failed to take in air. Chandler bared his teeth and dug his nails into her quivering flesh. Skin tore, blood oozed. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she sank to her knees.
On his bed, Chandler thrust his hand down the front of his pants and closed it around his throbbing cock. He tugged violently to the image of Lola Loud's life draining away, his breath hitching as his mental doppelganger mounted the supine little girl. He forced her legs apart, yanked her dress up over her pussy, and threw himself into her. She reflexively jumped, and her pussy tightened on his shaft.
When his fist crashed down onto her face, his body clenched and he came with a wavering grunt. Hot cum filled his underwear and the vision faded to black, leaving him shaky and winded.
For a long time, he lay there in the darkness, tingling from head to toe and catching his breath. His seed dried on his flesh and his heartbeat gradually came down to normal. He inhaled deeply and raked his fingers through his hair. He pulled his other hand out of his pants and wiped it on the blanket. Most of it had hardened like candle wax and he would need to wash with soap and water to get it off.
Getting up, he went into the bathroom, stripped naked, and climbed into the shower. Steam choked the humid air and water slucied down his chest. He ducked his head under the spray and kept it there. Thoughts of Lola ran through his mind and a chasm of gnawing, gnashing need opened in his stomach like a hungry, fang-crammed maw.
He was strong.
He was in control.
He was not like his father and he was not going to do what every cell in his body screamed for him to do.
He was not going to rape Lola Loud.
He was not.