Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Fucked Up College Kids File 213
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Robbery
-------
Phil Marberry stooped down besides the magazine rack, reaching deep into
his pocket while his eyes scanned the store for any unusual activity. A
woman with her kid standing over decided between skim and whole milk. A man
heating up some microwavable soup. Another woman filling out a lottery
ticket form. It would do. His hand emerged with a high powered pistol. He
opened up the chamber to check if it was loaded. The silver colored backs
of six bullets shined up at him, and Phil snapped it shut. He stood back up
again and grabbed a copy of Sports Illustrated from the rack, positioning
the gun behind it. His black eyes looked around the store once more, and he
walked towards the register. A man behind it with a 7-11 shirt on glanced
up at Phil and then back down at his book again. Phil dropped the magazine
onto the counter, his gun now beneath it, still hidden from sight. The man
hit a few buttons nonchalantly on his register while he asked, "Will that
be all today?" in a monotone voice, permanently imprinted into his mind
from years of work behind the counter. Phil raised the gun, keeping it
close to his body so only the clerk would see it. He said in a low voice,
"All of the money in the register. Now." The clerk looked up, and his eyes
widened as he saw the gun. His hand started to fall down behind the
counter, and Phil cocked it. "Keep your hands where I can see them or I'll
shoot." His hand stopped, and reached towards the register. Phil's eyes
darted nervously around the room some more, missing nothing. The register
flew open with a bang, and the clerks hand dropped back down and came back
up with a shotgun in an instant. Without hesitating, Phil pulled the
trigger of his gun three times in quick succession. The bullets erupted
from his barrel in a flash of light and flew through the clerk's face.
Blood and chunks of bone flew out through the back of his head, splattering
against the Slurpee machine. The clerk stood for a few more seconds before
collasping to the floor in a heap. Phil's hand shook, smoke rising from the
barrel of his gun in a blue-grey mist. The man by the microwave was staring
at him. He started to open his mouth, and without thinking, Phil aimed the
gun at him and fired twice more. The left side of the man's face
disappeared as the bullets tore through it, and he flew back into a display
case, breaking the glass and sliding to the floor, screaming. The woman
filling out the lottery ticket screamed and ran out through the automatic
door, the doors sliding open obediently as she ran towards it. From where
he was, Phil couldn't see the other woman and her kid. Panting heavily,
Phil stood there, waiting to see what to do next. Somebody would have heard
the gunshots by now, and the police were probably on the way. He leaned
over the counter and took a handful of money out from the register, and
turned to run out the door when he saw the other women cowering behind the
freezer with her kid - a little girl, Phil saw. He walked up to her and
pointed the gun and her, and she uttered a whining sound. "Please...
please, don't hurt us." He stood there with the gun pointed at her,
listening to the man scream, for what seemed like an eternity. Sirens broke
his haze moments later, and he turned from the lady and ran to the back of
the store to the back door. Phil threw it open, and ran out into the warm
afternoon air. The door had exited into an alley, cluttered with boxes and
dumpsters. He turned right and ran towards the street. A car was just
pulling up to a stop sign when Phil came out from the alley. He ran out in
front of it, the man in it slamming on his brakes to keep from plowing
through Phil. He looked back, two policemen had already come out through
the back door on his trail. Phil ran over to the driver's open window, and
pointed the gun at him. "Out. Now." The driver looked blankly at him. "Now!
Get out of the car! Get out of the god damn car!" The man's hands tightened
around the steering wheel in response. Turning around, Phil saw the two
policemen were advancing quickly upon him. He spun back towards the car.
"Out! Get out of the fucking car! Get out! Now!" He grabbed the man by the
collar, and began to pull him out through the open window. Surprised, the
man offered little resistance, and Phil drug him to the ground and booted
him in the head to keep him from getting up. The man slumped to the
pavement, dazed. Phil tore the car door open, and slammed his foot down on
the accelerator. Nothing. The car had stalled while Phil was trying to get
the driver out of the car. Frantically, he reached towards the key and
started the car's engine. The police were just emerging from the alley, and
one drew his gun to fire at Phil. Phil raised his own gun and shot at the
officer, hitting him in the arm. He slumped to the ground beside the
driver, his gun falling to the concrete. It bounced once, a bullet firing
from it. Phil felt something puncture his arm. He slammed down on the
accelerator as the second policeman drew his gun, aiming it at the car. The
car sped down the street, the rear windshield shattering as the cop shot
it. Phil reached over and scratched at his arm absently. He set his hand
back on the steering wheel, and jumped when he saw blood on his
fingernails. He had forgotten about the pain and his arm, and pulled the
car into a gas station to examine it. The gun had probably shot off
accidentally when it fell to the ground, and the bullet happened to have
hit him. He tried to turn his arm around, but it wouldn't move very well.
The bullet had gone all the way through his arm. Must've severed a tendon
or something, Phil thought. He gunned the engine and took the on ramp onto
a highway out of town. Probably shouldn't be seen around here for a few
days, Phil thought, glancing down at his slowly bleeding arm periodically.
Still, I can't go to a hospital. The fear of getting caught was much
greater to Phil than his arm becoming infected. Holding the steering wheel
with one hand, Phil tore off part of his shirt and tied it around his arm.
Good enough. He stopped about an hour later by a cheap looking motel in a
small town. Phil rented a room with some of the money he had grabbed from
the register. While the clerk got his key, Phil counted out the money. He
had taken only $204. Two-hundred four dollars for killing two people. Phil
shook his head, although whether in remorse or anger he wasn't able to
tell. The clerk offered a strange look at Phil's bloody arm, but said
nothing and handed him his key. Phil walked over to his room and opened the
door. A double bed filled most of the small room. It smelled like Lemon
Pine-Sol, and the wallpaper was peeling off the wall. He shut the door
behind him, and walked over to the television. He flipped it on to a local
station, and waited for the news to come on. After sitting for a few
minutes, Phil got up and walked over to the bathroom. He took off the piece
of shirt that covered his arm. It was still bloody, and Phil didn't bother
to clean it. He ran the cloth under some water from the sink, and replaced
the dressing. Phil sat back down on his bed and waited for the news, but he
couldn't keep his eyes open for more than moments at a time. Finally, they
slammed shut and he fell asleep. When Phil woke up, it seemed like he had
slept for days. It was light out, and by turning his head to the side, Phil
could barely see the clock -- the blue digits flashed 11:00 A.M. at him. He
started to roll over on his side to get up, but screamed when his injured
arm touched the bed. Phil laid on his back again, and propped himself up on
the other arm to look at it. It had started to turn a strange purple-green
color, and a throbbing feel had started to make it's way up his arm. It
reached up to his shoulder and down to his wrist. Phil sighed, and laid
back down. By now, the police would've gotten reports from the witnesses to
the shooting, and they would be searching for him. I should leave now.
Staying this close is insane, they'll find you, it's just a matter of time.
Thoughts swirled in and out of his head, none offering any real solutions
to his problem. He sat up, and turned on the television. The 11 o'clock
news was just starting, and Phil watched with interest. After a report on a
budget amendment being passed in the White House, he saw what he was
looking for -- himself. Phil's picture was display on the upper right of
the screen, while the anchor gave a vague description of the shooting.
"Police questions have labeled this man as a suspect in the shooting," the
anchor said. "He has killed two people and injured two more, and may be in
the surrounding area. If you happen to spot him, police advise you to call
your local sheriff and to not approach him." The anchor went on to a few
other things, and then a commercial for laxatives came on. Phil rubbed his
eyes and laughed. He was a criminal. Armed and dangerous, just like on the
movies. What had he done to become such a violent and feared person? Just
wanted a few bucks, that's all. It's not my fault the dumbshit reached for
that shotgun. I warned him. Still, the thoughts did little to comfort him.
He walked over to the sink, and looked in the mirror. Black marks were
under Phil's eyes, he looked almost like a junkie. The face in the mirror
was nothing like the one on the news. Phil looked at his arm some more, and
drank a glass of water. He was still tired, he hadn't slept for days before
the robbery, and he could use the sleep now. Might even help heal my arm,
Phil thought absently. He laid back down on the bed, careful to lie on his
good side, and went back to sleep. Phil woke up in confusion. It was dark,
and the remnants of a chaotic dream were still cluttered in his head,
refusing to fade. He was hot, and he couldn't feel anything in his left
arm. He kicked off the bedsheets, and wiped the sweat off his brow. Phil
sat up, and swung his legs over to hang off the bed, fighting off
dizziness. Sick... must be sick, he thought blankly. Phil flicked on the
light, and went over to the sink again. He drank a glass of water, but had
a hard time swallowing it. The face in the mirror was nothing like the one
on the news. He looked like he had aged years. Beard stubble covered his
chin, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face had turned a chalky white. Upon
examination of the bullet hole in his arm, Phil saw it had turned black in
the area around it. He sighed, and walked over to the window. He pulled
apart the curtains and looked around outside. A car passed by on the
highway. The neon sign advertising the hotel buzzed above the office, flies
circling it lazily. He glanced around at the cars, various licenses plates
showing their origins. Utah, Texas, California. Got one all the way from
Ontario, Phil thought as he looked around. He eyes stopped on two police
cars parked beside each other. Both were empty and the lights out. Phil sat
back down on the bed. He couldn't tell if the cars were there by
coincidence or not, but he wasn't going to risk leaving his room to get
medicine or food if it meant he'd be caught. He swung his legs back on the
bed, and looked at the blank screen of the television. His mind wandered...
it's not my fault that the clerk's dead. I told him to keep his hands above
the counter. They're trained to obey the person with the gun, right? His
fault. My conscience is clear. But... the other guy. Just the way he looked
at me, it made me pull the trigger. Maybe he was a cop, maybe he had a gun,
but his face just -- asked for it. Another voice inside him was having an
argument with the first. You're lying, Phil, you know you killed them both
on purpose, because you couldn't deal with what you were doing. You can't
justify it... "STOP!" Phil suddenly screamed in the darkness. The voices in
his head were silent for a few moments. Somebody in the room beside him
pounded on the wall, telling him to shut up. But soon the voices started
again, one supporting him, and one telling him he was wrong. Am I? Did I
screw up? Phil couldn't tell. He groaned. His arm had started to scream in
pain a while ago, and he could do nothing about it. Wait it out, Phil
thought. He got up, and looked in all of the drawers by the sink. One had a
couple of old NyQuil capsules in it, and Phil eagerly swallowed them dry.
He laid back down, and waited for the drug to put him to sleep. But even as
he was drifting off, Phil could still hear the voices... you killed them...
it's nobody's fault but yours. Light shone in through the thin shades on
the window to Phil's face, waking him up. He groaned, his armed screamed
and it was stiff, like somebody had driven an iron bar into it. He could
barely sit up. His head pounded, and he felt like he was in a furnace
although the thermostat only read 67 degrees. There was a lot of commotion
outside, and Phil went to the window to look out. About seven police cars
formed a sloppy semicircle around his room. Officers were standing behind
it, and a few people in suits were there. One was holding a megaphone,
talking to another, discussing something. Oh no. I waited too long, was the
only coherent thought that brought itself up from the haze that was now
Phil's mind. He couldn't think clearly, all he really could tell was that
he shouldn't go outside. Or should he? Even in the confusion, a voice was
still telling him it wasn't too late to go out, to give up. Phil kept
staring out the window. The man with the megaphone raised it to his mouth
and demanded something, but most of it was gibberish to Phil, he couldn't
hear very clearly. He scratched his face. It was hard to move, hard to
think, hard to do everything. And on top of that he had to run from these
guys? Forget that, Phil thought. The man said something else into the
megaphone. Blurrily, Phil thought he was asking him to come out. Probably
wants to have tea and scones, Phil thought, and giggled insanely. He sat
there for a while longer, the fog still thick in his head. Finally, it
cleared momentarily for one thought to form: Go out. It's not too late to
give up. A few moments later, another one formed: No, are you insane?
They'll kill you. He moaned again, confused. Should I go out, or stay in?
What am I even in here for? Did I end up robbing that place? Revelation
crossed Phil's mind suddenly. He stood up straight very slowly, and reached
out towards the door knob with his good arm. It seem to take a huge amount
of strength just to turn it, but after what seemed like hours he managed to
open the door He took a step out into the bright sunlight, and was
immediately surrounded by cops. They took him over to one car, and Phil
thought they were doing something to him. Am I being handcuffed? Are they
reading me my rights? He couldn't really tell. A few different voices
flashed above him. A man in white clothes came over to him, and put his
hand on his forehead. The man drew in breath quickly, and pulled away his
hand. "It's like a sauna... he's burning up." Somebody untied the cloth
around his arm. The man looked at it, and talked again. "It's infected...
we have to get him to a hospital immediately." Phil felt himself being put
onto a bed. After that, everything became very hazy. He couldn't really see
much, but it was becoming very hard to breathe. But Phil didn't mind much,
because now there was only one voice inside his head -- and it kept saying
that he had done the right thing, that he didn't have to run any more. Phil
turned his head to the side, and took in a deep breath. The air was clean
and it tasted good, and although his mind was still filled with regret, it
felt cleansing. Phil held it for a few moments, and let go, smiling.
=-=
Whoosh. The automatic doors that lead into 7-11 opened as Chris stepped
towards them. He stood in the entrance for a few seconds, not sure of where
to start looking for lunch, and then spotted a display case behind the
counter that had microwavable soup lined up in it. He walked over, picked
out one, and put it in the microwave. The microwave rattled noisily as it
heated. Chris looked up from it, glancing around the store. Maybe this
would be the place. He had been planning to rob a store soon - rent has
skyrocketed in his apartment building and he just lost his job. I could do
it right now, Chris thought, reaching inside his jacket to feel the gun he
had tucked into his pants. He looked around some more, trying to decide.
There were four other people inside, counting the clerk that he would end
up robbing. Chris didn't see any cameras, so he might get away with it. A
man with his goatee and eyebrow ring walked in through the door. Chris
looked at him - he might be the only problem if he was going to rob the
store now. He sighed, and took his hand back off from his gun. Another
time. The man walked over to the magazine rack and looked disinterestedly
at the magazines, one hand in his pocket grabbing at something. Chris
turned towards the Slurpee machine, looking at the flavors and trying to
decide whether or not he should buy one. He heard the clerk behind him say,
"Will that be all today, sir?" The man must have gotten the magazine. Maybe
now would be a good time for the robbery. He heard the man mumble something
in response. Chris reached for a cup on the counter, and place it under the
Cherry Coke spout. A loud sound exploded behind Chris. He would've
dismissed it as a car backfiring if he wasn't immediately showered with
something wet and disgusting. Most of it landed on him, but from what
splattered onto the Slurpee machine, he realized that it was blood, with
little white chunks in it - bone? Chris spun around, not sure of what to
do. His hand went back inside his jacket. The clerk was still standing, but
there was now a tattered hole out through the back of his head the size of
a dime. Chris froze there, and watched the clerk finally crumple to the
floor. The man who had been looking at the magazine rack had a gun in his
hand. His eyes went towards Chris. Chris started to clutch the gun that was
in his belt, and he opened his mouth to say something to the man - he
wasn't sure what - but the man fired. He felt the bullets hit him in the
face and throw him backwards into the display case. Shards of glass cut
into his back, and Chris slumped to the floor. The pain finally came, it
was as if a sledgehammer had hit his face. He screamed, and blood flowed
onto the floor. He couldn't see out from his left eye, it might have been
shot, Chris couldn't tell. He writhed around on the floor like a wounded
rattler, screaming in terrible pain. His hand went up to the left side of
his face, half of it was gone. He screamed again, and crawled around the
counter. The man was now standing over by the freezer, his gun aimed
downward. Chris reached back into his jacket and pulled out the gun, aiming
it at the man. He pulled the trigger twice. Nothing happened. He looked
down at the gun, barely seeing it through a haze of red. He popped open the
bullet chamber - it was empty. You forgot to load it, asshole, he thought,
still pulling the trigger in the blind hope that somehow it might fire.
Chris could hear sirens now, and the man turned from the freezer and ran
into the back room of the store. Through the window, Chris saw two police
cars pull up, sirens casting red light into the store. Two police got out
of the first car and ran in, the other two in the second car got out but
stayed beside it. The police stormed through the door, and looked around.
One saw him on the floor, and leapt back when he saw him, yelling, "Christ,
he's got a gun!" The other officer turned towards Chris, his eyes wide. He
raised his shotgun. Chris opened his mouth to scream that it was empty, but
before he could he saw the finger of the cop pulling on the trigger of the
shotgun. He felt the pellets driving into his skull, the force of the blast
sliding him back a few feet on the floor. Chris hit the wall, his head
leaving a bloody streak on it. His eyes felt heavier and heavier now. The
gun fell from his hand, clattering on the ground. He looked back up to the
policemen - it was very hard to see anything now - and tried to tell them
that it wasn't him, but he couldn't speak. His lips formed soundless words
for a few more seconds, and his eyes finally slammed shut.
k2
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.343.4053 PheedbacK 303.782.0893 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images 407.834.4576 =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 =
= Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 The Keg 914.234.9674 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
