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the shady file II

the Mass shooter and the suicide bomber


“What the fuck do you want, poop face? Why are you bothering me?” the shooter asked.

“You act as if you hate me, pasty face. And yet-” the bomber began.

“I do hate you,” the shooter said, trying to cut the bomber off.

“And yet, you helped me,” the bomber said, ignoring the shooter’s comment entirely.

“So what, poop face? It doesn’t mean that I’m in love with you,” the shooter said.

“Even if you were, pasty face, nothing would come off of it. I’m leagues above you. Besides, even if I wanted to give you a chance, in my heart of hearts, out of pity of course, unfortunately for you, I don’t think I could get myself to do it. There aren’t enough drugs in the world,” the bomber said.

“I’m not interested in you,” the shooter said, through gritted teeth.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re not. But good to know, pasty face. Good to know.”

“Fuck you, poop face.”

“Sorry, pasty face. That’s never happening,” the bomber said, smirking.

“Just leave me alone already. What do you want from me?” the shooter asked.

“Ah yes! You sidetracked me. Why did you help me, pasty face? You say you hate me, and the way you behave makes it clear that you do not like me, or my company, all that much. But you still helped me.”

“Should I not have helped you, poop face?”

“That’s not my question. You’re trying to deflect.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“You can’t beat me at this, pasty face. We can go on like this all day long, and I won’t even flinch,” the bomber said.

The shooter didn’t respond. He simply let out another groan, which was much longer than his last one.

“Come on, pasty face. Just answer me. I have things to do as well. I need to be on my way.”

“Why do you want to know? How does it matter?” the shooter asked.

“I’m curious. I don’t understand it. I can see the disgust you have for me in your eyes, just like everyone else at that godforsaken place we are forced to go to every fucking day. Unlike them, however, you set that disgust aside for a few minutes. I can’t figure it out. And I want to understand. Besides, who knows if we’ll ever see each other again,” the bomber said.

“See each other again? What do you mean? Why did you say that?” the shooter asked.

“Again with the over-analysis. Just answer me, pasty face. Why’d you help me?”

“Because I have a heart of gold?” the shooter said, with all the fake sincerity he could muster.

“Cut it out, pasty face. The real answer. Come on. I have an errand to run,” the bomber said, impatiently.

“I know what it’s like, poop face. Being bullied. You’re not the only one who’s picked on. Your self-centered ass obviously thinks it is. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“They bully you too, pasty face?”

“Not them. Others. They’re much worse.”

“Oh, please, pasty face! They couldn’t possibly be worse than the fuck-faces who were after me,” the bomber said.

“Are too, poop face.”

“No, no, no! We’re not going through that endless circle jerk again. What did your bullies do to you, pasty face? Tickle you with feathers? Make a few comments about your appearance? About how ugly and weird looking you are?”

“Is that what happened to you, poop face? You think that’s bullying?” the shooter asked.

“No,” the bomber said, “I think that’s what people with your skin color call bullying, and such small things are more than enough to trigger pasty faces like you, and make you all run to your mommies. None of you know how bad real bullying is. You wouldn’t survive a second of it.”

“Oh really, poop face?” the shooter said. “Why don’t you tell me, then? Considering I’d never really get to experience your torment first hand.”

“Where should I begin, pasty face?” the bomber said. “Ah, yes! How about what you’ve been calling me ever since we ran into each other.”

“Poop face?”

“Yes, pasty face. Poop face. Everybody calls me that. But I don’t let it bother me. It doesn’t even make sense, for fuck’s sake. Poop can be of a different color every day. It all depends on what you ate the previous day. My face does not change color. Poop face does not even make sense.”

“You said it didn’t bother you,” the shooter mumbled, before flashing the bomber the tiniest of smiles.

“It gets to me once in a while. How would you feel if you were called pasty face all the time? Everybody calls me poop face. Everybody! And they do it all the time. Nobody, I repeat, nobody, ever calls me by my name, even my so called friends. Do you think you’d be able to cope with that?”

“They call me much worse, poop face. At least everybody sticks to just one annoying nickname in your case. And the nickname they have given you is kinda funny, just like pasty face, which is what you have been calling me ever since you so rudely sat at my table. Yes, yes, I know,” the shooter said, cutting the bomber off, “I called you poop face first. But that’s not the point. You have been given one hurtful nickname. I have many. Some of them make fun of my appearance. Others make fun of my clothes, and how poor I am. Some make fun of my hair specifically. Others of how skinny I am apparently. The worst ones make fun of the fact that I’m always bruised. So, in this case, your torment is not as significant as mine.”

“Is that so?” the bomber asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you constantly asked whether you have a bomb in your school bag, pasty face? Is your religion constantly insulted in front of you? Are you made to listen while your entire culture is berated day after day, while your people are called animal fuckers and backward and what not?”

“No, poop face. But are you constantly teased about being inbred? Are you told, day after day after motherfucking day, that your mother doesn’t know who your father is? That your family is still unable to figure out if it’s your uncle or your grandpa? That you’re bruised all the time because your father can’t help but beat you up, because he can’t stand to even fucking look at you, because he knows you’re not his, because he hates the fact that you represent incest in its purest fucking form?”

“Is the food you bring to school made fun of, pasty face? Are kids constantly complaining about how it stinks, and how its smell makes them want to puke? Are you constantly forced to answer idiotic questions about your country and people? Does everybody refuse to touch you? And do those that accidentally touch you run to the restrooms to wash their hands? Are you constantly told that you stink? So much so that you are no longer sure if you do or don’t?”

“Yes! I’m told I stink all the fucking time. Nobody wants to touch me either. I have no friends. Everybody thinks I’m diseased, and that they’ll catch something if they get too close to me. Everything about me is made fun of. Nobody at school has said one kind word to me in years. Nobody.”

“Oh, boohoo, pasty face. At least you’re not physically abused. I’m shoved into lockers and bins all the time. I can’t even walk home without being beaten most days. They run after me the second they see me, and they shove me to the ground as soon as they catch up to me. And that’s when the pounding begins. They kick me. They punch me. They spit on me. Sometimes they even pee on me. I have no friends either. All I have are tormentors. And you saw them in action today. I didn’t sit at your table because I wanted to. I sat at it because I had no other choice.”

“At least the beatings stop once you get home, poop face,” the shooter said, softly.

“What did you say?” the bomber asked.

“Where do you think these bruises come from, poop face?” the shooter asked, angrily, as he pulled up his hoodie and t-shirt for a few seconds, while making sure that the bandoliers he was wearing remained hidden. “They don’t just happen by themselves, you know? I get beaten at school too. My bullies shove me into whatever they come across as well. They even beat me in the shower. They put soap bars into socks and go at me with them. I get beaten on the way to school, at school, on the way home from school, and then at home as well. It never stops for me, poop face. Never. At least you get a respite from it all, even if it is for a few hours every evening. I have no such thing. All I do is go from one beating to another. Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing more than a goddamned punching bag. Like a literal, motherfucking punching bag.”

The bomber, much to the shooter’s surprise, didn’t respond. He just sat there silently, staring at the shooter. The shooter returned his stare for as long as he could.

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