Power lifted him and pumped through his blood as he trotted to his Escort and unlocked it. He sat behind the wheel, working himself into intense excitement as he stared at the circle of yellow school buses and the hundreds of kids suddenly streaming out of doorways, cheerful, playful and in a hurry.
Smoke started the car and drove to the appointed spot in the parking lot, forcing other students to go around him or turn and head out the other way. He wasn’t going to move for anyone. Traffic and voices were loud as he sat watching for Weed, who was about to hurt like hell and make Smoke famous.
Smoke wanted to touch himself again, but resisted. When he deprived himself, he couldn’t be stopped. He could do anything. He would get a faint metallic taste in his mouth as energy rushed up from between his legs and lifted the top of his head. He could work himself into anything.
All he had to do was play the same fantasy over and over again in his mind. He was sweaty and dirty on a downtown rooftop with an AR-15, taking out half the rucking cops in the city, slapping magazine after magazine into his assault rifle, shooting down helicopters and slaughtering the National Guard.
Smoke never carried the fantasy much beyond that point. A rational part of his brain realized that the last scenario most likely would be his death or imprisonment, but neither was enough to get his attention when he was consumed by lust so intense and seething that these days he did little beyond playing with plans.
It was five past three when Weed walked up to the car, knapsack limp in his hand. Smoke was silent as Weed climbed in, shut the door and fastened his shoulder harness. Smoke drove off, slowly making his way out of the parking lot. He turned onto Pump Road and followed it south to Patterson Avenue while Weed got increasingly nervous, licking his lips, staring out his side window.
‘So how come you asked the cops all those questions?’ Weed finally mustered up the courage to ask.
Smoke said nothing.
‘I thought they was good questions.’
Smoke was silent as he turned east on Patterson Avenue. He started driving faster. He felt Weed’s fear, and the heat of rage pressed against Smoke like a wall of fire.
‘I thought the cops were fuckin’ stupid.’ Weed tried to sound big. ‘Hey. You hungry, Smoke? I didn’t eat my sandwich at lunch. You want it?’
A long silence followed. Smoke turned south on Parham Road.
‘Hey, Smoke, how come you ain’t talking to me?’ Weed’s voice jumped. ‘I do something?’
Smoke’s right hand flew out as if it were alive on its own. It chopped Weed hard between the legs.
‘What time I tell you to meet me in the parking lot?’ Smoke yelled as Weed shrieked, doubled over, arms locked under his crossed legs, head practically in his lap. ‘What time, you fuckin’ little shit!’
‘Three!’ Weed cried, tears running down his face in little rivers. ‘Why’d you do that? I didn’t do nothing.’ He hiccuped. ‘Smoke, I didn’t!’
‘And what time was it when you walked up to my car, you little fuck!’ Smoke grabbed the back of Weed’s woolly cornrows. ‘It was five after three!’
He yanked. Weed screamed again.
‘When I say three, what does that mean, retard?’
‘I couldn’t get away from Mrs. Grannis!’ Weed choked, gasping and making awful faces as Smoke gripped Weed’s hair, tearing some of it out by the roots. ‘I’m sorry, Smoke! I’m sorry! Oh please don’t hurt me no more.’
Smoke shoved him away and started laughing. He turned up 2 Pac on the CD player, every other word fuck and nigger. Smoke reached under his seat and snatched out the Glock. He shoved it between Weed’s ribs, getting off on how bad the little shit was shaking. Weed put his hands over his face. He farted and burped.
‘You pee or shit in here, and I’ll blow your dick off,’ Smoke told him.
‘Please, Smoke,’ Weed begged in a tiny, pitiful voice. ‘Please don’t, Smoke.’
‘You gonna do what I say from now on?’