Tate Langdon leaned on the gazebo, watching his girlfriend Leah pull up into his old house's driveway. After entering the vehicle, he pours a substantial amount of coke on the dashboard. Watches Leah snort, watches her dead eyes stare into his, feels her tongue in his mouth. He fucking hates her. Loathes her conventionally pretty face, her upturned nose, her coke addicted body. He just waits patiently for the day he can off her and no one will notice. He has a reason he keeps her alive. She is his beard, his cover for the fact he was not all mentally present. As long as Leah got coke and an occasional good fucking, he is the god of Westerfield. Tate fucked his way to the top, and at Westerfield, Leah Callaghan was the top of the provincial iceberg. Captain of the volleyball team, cunning, and obviously beautiful, Leah owns everyone at school and she knows it. Of course, only a select few knew she was a cokehead, and that Tate was her dealer. They drive along the main road, some synthetic pop song blasting from the speakers. Tate looks out the window, imagining streets streaked copper from Leah's blood. Bliss. a glint of honey gold catches his eye. The same bitch from this morning is joyfully walking along the road, long maxi dress blowing in the wind, bowl hat perched precariously on her head, arms swinging. Her contentment is palpable, sickening. While he sits in a hot car, driving to his personal version of hell with the crabbiest bitch in Los Angeles, she is enjoying her Monday morning. Her vibrancy becomes an offense. He supposes he's jealous, and that's the reason he tells leah to splash the bitch. Leah, the demon always up to make someone suffer, swerves and miraculously manages to splash the cunt, despite her fucked up state. Her hyena laugh makes him regret even bothering, her suffering not worth the pain in his ears and the bitterness in his heart. "Why?" Leah asks. He doesn't need to ask what she means. Her being clever is what makes her an excellent bitch. "She pissed me off." He didn't give shit about her clothes. Tate didn't want to examine any part of why he was obsessing about a random bitch. He had Leah, granted she was an annoying gremlin, but if he gagged her and put a bag on her head he could probably stand her. If not Leah, who else at this shit school would he bother dipping his wick into? They park in the student parking lot, the spot that everyone wants and no one uses, unofficially reserved for Leah's car. Vanessa Deinard, Leah's best friend and co-slut, squeals and leans over Tate, stuffing her oversized d cups in his face, and embraces Leah in an insincere hug. He doesn't particularly want to suffocate this monday morning under Vanessa Deinards melons, and ducks under her roughly. Brandon Cavillio, Westfields quarterback, gives him the cliche hello every high school douchenozzle does, and then rambles on about some bitch he fucked over the weekend. He's gonna target her twin sister next weekend to compare and contrast their style and their performance of oral. Tate tries to reign in his anger like he has every fucking day for the past 3 years, but he feels today is harder for some reason. He wants to take a machine gun and shoot Brandon Cavillio until his body is riddled with holes like swiss cheese. He inhales deeply, resolves not to lose his shit no matter fucking what. "Pick the one that swallows," he jokes with a plastic grin, "golden rule."