Suggested Audio Candy:
 Cerrone “Supernature”
 Public Enemy “Welcome To The Terrordome”
 Rage Against The Machine “Sleep Now In The Fire”
It was almost time for Kit Arlington to unleash his monster on the world. He had spent the entire last six months preparing for this moment and his planning had been meticulous and any likelihood thoroughly thought out. Ever since high school, Kit had been biding his time until the ideal moment to strike presented itself and right now, with his five main antagonists all crammed in under a single roof and tanked up with alcohol, seemed as good a time as any to initiate his sickness.
Club security was woefully lapse and he had been allowed to enter with a twelve-inch machete tucked inside his right trouser leg, with staff being none the wiser. The Exultation Chamber was hardly heaving from wall-to-wall and numbers had dropped considerably since they parted ways with local hero DJ, Reese Tearney. Remaining ambiguous, whilst perforating all five of his targets, was unlikely and quick thinking would be critical to providing that final severance. Kit had allowed for any potential slip-ups or unforeseen obstacles and was totally focused on his agenda, that being to get in, make each of them pay princely for their indiscretions, and get out before the invariable drop-out ensued.
Five sinners, all of which deserved to die screaming, lined up before him like fleshy dominoes and ill-prepared for the carnage that lay in wait. The flashing strobes and sour strawberry infused smoke screen which nuzzled their personal space were distinct plusses and Kit would be required to use both to his advantage in order to complete the task. Thundering bass lines and erratic hi-hat would mask their screams and thuds but a thousand eyes all around would likely gather intelligence the moment that first strike was landed. It wasn’t Kit’s first foray into The Exultation Chamber and his last visit had enabled him to ascertain all available exits in advance of mass slaughter. By the time word got out, he planned to be on his way to the next state, leaving a trail of hard bodies for some other chump to concern themselves with.
There was a method to his madness and that involved making an example of Stuart Finnegan, for being ring-leader whenever the group punished Kit just for being a little different. School had been hell, every day he had been belittled and callously beaten, and Finnegan always seemed to be at the center tugging the strings of his impressionable flock. Of all the deaths, his would need to be the most diabolical. Beheading seemed like the way to go, especially considering the rusted bluntness of his blade. It would require some elbow grease to separate that thick head from its root and he planned to hold it aloft akin to a woodsman in a final act of defiance before vacating the premises.
Timing would be critical to his hopes of fulfilling his quota; thus waiting for the rousing anthemic crescendo seemed like the wise move. By commencing his death tally during one such peak in activity, he would buy himself a few more precious seconds to initiate the next stage of his plan. Order was immaterial other than making sure that Stuart witness the bloodshed before receiving his ultimate penance. Darby Jenkins, Mike Cleft, Stanley Ulrich, and Abioye “Banjo” Onobanjo; all four were little more than lambs and would follow Finnegan to the crux of the Earth if it meant being granted access into his clique. This evening they would tail him to a shallow grave and Kit had no remorse over snuffing them out for lacking individuality.
Kit decided to perform one final headcount before launching his offensive. Currently, only Banjo and Stanley were visible and the other three were likely holding each other’s dicks in the nearby restroom, about thirty yards back to the rear. Considering the fire exit was situated mere feet away from the male toilets, it appeared as though the stars had aligned sufficiently enough and he planned to use any forward momentum to soundly annihilate them en route to his extraction point. Fellow revellers will no doubt have witnessed the scene but news travels sluggishly when judgement-impairing liquor is slowing the process and the woefully under-staffed security were nowhere to be seen. It was now or never, and considering the cruelty he had been subjected to for five years of hellish scholarship, never was not on the agenda.
Like a piquant Technicolor wave, the chorus approached and every arm in the club was raised as the patrons all reached for the high-flying laser in collective fervor. Kit took this as his cue and strode forth into the dense crowd, zigzagging through as he approached Stanley and Banjo with his machete now by his side and exposed. All eyes remained skyward, which bought him the time to fully retract his arm and prepare a telling primary strike. Stanley was commonly extolled for being the best hung buck in the locker room and his tight denims concentrated his girth into a gift-wrapped package which Kit took full advantage of. That first blow is ordinarily used to ascertain reach and what better way to start the panic than through connection to such a burly target area?
The machete made contact in no uncertain terms, causing Stanley to violently convulse as Kit pushed the blade a little deeper behind enemy lines. Anonymity was temporarily secure as Kit played it off as though an elaborate dance move and shadowed each shudder as he cleaved through the lad’s undercarriage with his free hand pressing down on Stanley’s shoulder. This was like snatching candy from an infant, although Kit was under no illusion that the sands of time were already slithering through the hourglass and his next action would be crucial to the overarching game plan. He removed the tarnished metal from its nestling place and propped Stanley’s spasmic carcass against a nearby beam as he honed in on the totally oblivious Banjo next.
Kit wasted no time in introducing the hapless Banjo to his weathered steel and slid the blade straight into his lower abdomen with sufficient force to exit the other side. This time, he had attracted an audience and the girl who Banjo had been grinding against for the past ten minutes let off a shrill shriek which alerted the onlookers to any clear and present danger. This was exactly what Kit hadn’t wanted at such an early juncture, with his other three targets still not forthcoming, but there was no turning back as the cat was now well and truly out of the bag and the entire crowd began their very own dance move…the “let’s get the fuck out of here pronto” jive.
This new dance hall craze was unlikely to take off as there was no rhyme or reason to the panic which ensued. It became a frantic dash for safety and numerous pleasure seekers fell to the floor under the almighty scramble. Kit wasted no time in punishing the girl responsible for blowing his cover and embedded his machete into the side of her head forcefully. Just as he did this, he noticed Darby and Mike materializing from the restroom and trying to ascertain what all the sudden commotion was. Still no sign of Stuart but Kit knew full well that his opportunity was about to pass, so removed his blade from the girl’s temple hurriedly. This incited a gush of pressurized blood from the open wound which sprayed all over the panicked throng of partygoers and their screams immediately intensified.
Kit attempted to traverse the crowd but this was proving more troublesome since they had adopted the “everybody for themselves” attitude and he was left with no option than to chop his way through any lingering limbs. His weapon may not have been the most effective tool of dismemberment but, now that it had become whetted, it was making short work of any obstructions. Had Kit been keeping score at this point then he would have been as proud as punch by the statistics as his precise accuracy bagged him half a dozen casualties before he had so much as vacated the dance floor. As any victims fell to his feet clutching their wounds, his focus remained solely on Darby and Mike, for whom the penny had now dropped. But still Stuart was nowhere to be seen.
As Kit began closing down the gap between him and his next targets, the club security finally began to earn their keep and two bouncers hurtled towards him with the intention of taking him down. Kit was not a particularly stocky teenager and ordinarily his odds would have been rather long when faced with two primed pitbulls such as these but what a difference a blade makes. He offed the first before he could enter his personal space with an opportunist swipe which took the man’s nose clean out of its skull trench. His next adversary grabbed him round the throat before he could retract his blade a second time and wrestled him to the floor. Kit was no stranger to being overcome by sheer might but was still clutching the deal breaker tightly and managed a quick blow to the back of the man’s crown, turning the tide once more.
Nearly 250 lb of dead weight was all that stood between him and the next phase of his execution and neither Darby or Mike had been savvy enough to make their exit while the opportunity presented itself so he wriggled free from beneath the human rubble and swiftly regained his composure. On the plus side, the stampede had now largely subsided and nothing stood in his way so he charged towards the pair with a murderous glint in his eyes, raising the machete high above his head with harsh intent. Finally, Mike decided enough was enough and turned towards the open door with every intention of employing his getaway sticks. Darby, however, remained unmoved and, furthermore, appeared to be taunting Kit.
In a split second, Kit recalled the last day of semester and, in particular, the moment when Darby ejected him from the locker room before he had finished drying, in full view of the entire year. That moment may have been just another yearbook memory to Darby but to Kit it ended his school experience on a particularly dour note, especially given the fact that he had grossly deformed testicles which resembled a pair of nobbled Maris Piper potatoes. Kit hated Darby for this unkind parting shot and, momentarily, Stuart ceased being a priority. Instead, Darby had to go and in a manner far less than hospitable.
Darby was state boxing champion and known for his vicious right hook. True to form, this left Kit teetering as it made contact with his upper jaw line but his forward surge afforded him a single chance to swing the odds in his favor and his trusty machete was called back into action. It removed three of the digits on Darby’s left hand and offered Kit an advantage which he sure as hell wasn’t about to let slide a second time. Darby attempted to hold his one good hand up in defense but it was too late and the blade was given a soft home in the center of his larynx. Up until now everything had been something of a blur to Kit but this was one moment he intended to relish, in honor of defeating one of his most embittered foes. He held eye contact with the boy as the life drained from his eyes, until which point as his pupils rescinded and any struggle slackened. Kit hadn’t had many moments to savor during his adolescence on account of this punk but ironically the most gratifying instance came upon his disposal. Whatever happened from hereon in, Kit would take this snapshot to his grave.
Still not a peep from Stuart. Overall satisfaction could not be achieved until the leader of the pack had been dealt his bloody hand and the only course of action which presented itself was for Kit to enter the restroom and hunt his nemesis down. He wasted no further time on Darby and left his still rattling corpse to continue its jolting closure. Once inside, his upbeat mood took an unforeseen knock as he discerned an open window which appeared to have gifted the thug his departure. This was most unwelcome news and caused Kit to wail out in bubbling fury as he had clearly failed at the very final hurdle. Such a cruel blow may well have knocked the wind from a lesser man’s sails but, instead, it made Kit more determined to complete his work.
He peered through the open window and managed to make out Stuart in the distance, making his way across the town square awkwardly as though he was carrying an injury. Kit’s returning luxury heightened as he noticed blood on the edge of the frame. Stuart Finnegan’s size had been a distinct advantage to him right through secondary education and hours in his home gym every afternoon after final period combined with his father’s secret steroid stash had provided him with all the bulk required to handle most situations with relative ease. Squeezing through an opening not designed for a lad of his heft certainly wasn’t such a situation and Stuart had badly lacerated his right thigh attempting to squirm through to the other side. Game on once more.
Outside, a considerable crowd had already formed and Kit could now hear distant sirens, suggesting his arrival at the last chance saloon. He had never been particularly sporty and was still aching from having 250 lb of dead meat straddle him just moments ago. But he was nothing if not persistent and vacated the restroom via the same means as Stuart. He had to be 200 yards away and Kit would be required to face any stragglers en route but he wasn’t about to let this go. For five long, gruelling years Stuart had made his life a living hell, wiped out any shred of confidence, and shown absolutely no remorse the whole time. He deserved to die. Whatever came of Kit afterwards was inconsequential now as his only goal was to have his retribution before the night was out.
Waving a blood-sopping machete about with his flailing right arm proved the ideal crowd disperser and he picked up the pace as he had now spotted bright lights emerging with his tertiary vision and a rusted chopper comes a rather poor second against a polished and pre-loaded firearm, as years of watching vigilante movies had already proved. 100 yards to go and one final push would be required. He had never been what you would call a track star but hateful rage spurred him on, until which time as he was within spitting distance of the bandit in question and about to be afforded one final lunge.
He could barely hear the officers as they commanded him to “freeze” and had given up fretting over what he had no bearing over. As soon as he had dealt with this life-sized cockroach he would gladly take a bullet or two. But not before then. Stuart had fallen to the ground and was clambering for safety, snivelling for his life like a featherweight. The worm had indeed turned and Kit finally felt a dash of pride as the moment had now arrived and, one fell swoop later, that feeling intensified massively. The blade embedded into Stuart’s lower calf, directly above the Achilles heel, and was enough to stop the sobbing teen in his tracks. With that, a shot rang out but Kit had far too much excess adrenaline to notice that it had skimmed his left shoulder.
There was still time for a second, more decisive strike and Kit still hoped to relieve his opposite number of his head before having his party spoiled. Stuart was powerless to resist as he pressed the metal down across his voice box and began to carve furiously. A second shot ricocheted from the park bench directly in front and he knew that time was of the essence as the next would likely end his dominance. So much gristle to negotiate, the machete was being given one helluva workout, and was struggling to sever the remaining creatine-pumped neck muscles so he applied every last ounce of strength and…voila…success.
The third and final gunshot was far more telling and hit Kit in the back of the chest, sending him careering to the ground. However, he still held onto the decapitated head for dear life; his token of a job well done and refused to relinquish his grip as the blood began to flood his heart cavity and cause him to drown from the inside out. Those precious few seconds were put to good use as he took one final look at his handiwork and exhaled with relief as, in little over nine minutes, he had banished his demons. No more pulling the material of his smalls from his ass crack, no more guarding his lunch money as though it were the crown jewels for fear of imminent ambush, no more bullying or being made to feel insignificant and worthless. Just immense pleasure which far outweighed any pain. It hadn’t always been pretty, occasionally it was downright desperate and lacking anything resembling finesse, but Kit Arlington finally had his yearbook photo.