the shady file II
the Mass shooter and the suicide bomber
“You?” the bomber exclaimed, once the face of the hooded figure that came out from under the table was visible.
“Yes. Me!” the shooter replied. “Are you blind, bitch?”
“No,” the bomber replied, before hastily adding, “bitch!”
“Then why are you here?” the shooter asked.
“It’s a free country, isn’t it?” the bomber replied.
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean that you can sit on a table that’s already occupied. Find your own!” the shooter said.
“You weren’t sitting on it,” the bomber said.
“I was too,” the shooter said.
“Were not. You were under it. You are more than welcome to go back down there and do whatever creepy fucking shit you were doing,” the bomber said.
“I was checking something in my duffel bag. That’s why I knelt down. If you had actual eyes instead of those two puffed up black buttons then you would have seen something so obvious,” the shooter said. “Stupid poop face.”
“Poop face? Seriously? You, of all people?” the bomber said.
“What do you mean, me of all people?”
“You are calling me poop face? Have you seen yourself in the mirror? You’re as white as a sheet. Goddamn pasty face racist buffoon,” the bomber said.
“Pasty face? That’s the best you got?” the shooter asked.
“It’s miles better than poop face,” the bomber said.
“It is not,” the shooter said.
“It is too,” the bomber said.
“Poop face,” the shooter said.
“Pasty face,” the bomber said.
“Poop face,” the shooter said.
“Pasty face,” the bomber shot back.
“Pasty face,” the shooter said.
“Pasty face,” the bomber replied, as he burst out laughing. “That shit doesn’t work on me, you idiot.”
“What happened, poop face?” the shooter asked, when he realized that the bomber had frozen all of a sudden.
The bomber remained silent, and pulled his hoodie further over his head instead. The shooter sat down in his chair and observed the bomber. He watched as the bomber’s eyes darted to the left every few seconds. The shooter followed the bomber’s gaze and immediately realized what the bomber was looking at. Kids from school. The shooter didn’t know them, but he’d seen them around. They were one grade below him, just like the bomber was. The shooter immediately realized why the bomber was hiding from them.
“Friends of yours, poop face?” the shooter asked, a few minutes later.
“I wouldn’t say that, pasty face,” the bomber replied.
“I see. Then stop looking at them like a shy schoolgirl with a crush. They will notice you if you keep that up, you poop faced dolt,” the shooter muttered.
“What do you suggest I do then, you pasty faced bitch?” the bomber asked.
“Ignore them. Look away. They will move on,” the shooter said. “Trust me, poop face. You have nothing to lose. Those romantic glances you are giving them every few seconds, full of all that longing, are not fucking helping.”
The bomber looked away from his pursuers and thought for a few seconds. “Very well, pasty face. I will do as you say,” he finally said.
“Good. Now pretend as if you are having a conversation with me,” the shooter said.
“What?” the bomber asked.
“Just do it, poop face,” the shooter said.
“Alright. I guess I have nothing to lose.”
“That’s right. You don’t.”
“So, pasty face. How’s it going?”
“How’s what going?”
“Things… I guess…” the bomber said, as he leaned back in his chair.
“Things? What things?”
“I don’t know. Life. School. Just… things…”
“What’s it to you, poop face?”
“It’s nothing to me!” the bomber said.
“Then why are you suddenly so fucking interested in my life?” the shooter asked.
“You! You pasty fucking piece of… you just asked me to have a conversation with you, asshole!”
“Oh, yeah!” the shooter said, letting out a little laugh. “Things are… fine.”
“Good. Good. What else is new, pasty face?”
“That question implies that you have a point of reference when it comes to my life,” the shooter said.
“I what?” the bomber asked.
“You asked me what is new. How will you know what is new when you know nothing about my life? You have no point of reference, poop face.”
“It was just a question, pasty face. You don’t have to overthink every fucking thing,” the bomber said, before quickly whispering, “no wonder you look so damn constipated all the time.”
“Excuse me?” the shooter asked, angrily.
“Nothing. Nothing, pasty face. Well, would you look at that?” the bomber said, as he looked around the food court. “Those ass-wipes are gone, which means that this torturous conversation can finally end. Thank the Gods!”
“Thank the Gods, indeed! I thought this would never end. Well, leave now, poop face. I have things to do,” the shooter said, as he put up two middle fingers.
The bomber shook his head as he got up, and returned the shooter’s gesture before walking away.
“Keep walking, poop face. Walk far, far away. Your day will get much worse otherwise,” the shooter muttered under his breath, as he watched the bomber.
The shooter was about to kneel down and grab his mask again when the bomber turned around and came back to the table.
“Wait a minute, pasty face,” the bomber said. “Why the fuck did you help me?”
“Oh, what fresh hell is this?” the shooter muttered, before letting out an audible groan.