In the sulfuric acid-scented morning fog, the school bus runs over an abandoned specimen of daisies. Lucas had just stepped into the hallway when the fire locker glass suddenly reflected blood red all over the floor-someone had glued a giant sign out of an Auntie's napkin: #CinderBitchGetOutOfTheBasketballCourt.
"Surprise!" Marcus crushed his instep on the limited edition AJ23, the tongue's gold buckle stabbing into his ankle bone, "Now you don't even deserve to touch the locker room trash can." He flung on his janitorial uniform, the cuffs reading 'Cinderella Limited Edition' in menstrual blood.
Layne's pickup horn blasted across the street.
Today's training ground is a slaughterhouse cooler with twenty frozen hard turkeys dangling from hooks." Each chicken has a basketball chip stuffed in its heart," Rayne's torch ignited the wall of ice, "and if you can't get it out, you'll be hung here as a Christmas decoration."
As the ice cut through his fingertips, Lucas heard screaming from the direction of the gym. Elena was being huddled in front of her locker by cheerleaders who were mixing daisy ashes into pink paint and painting burning B's on her forehead." Did you really think the trash would send you crystal shoes?" The captain ripped open the collar of her shirt, bruised debt figures spreading from her collarbone to her chest.
The turkey's abdominal cavity burst into flames, chips searing through his gloves. Raine pressed the back of his neck against the wall of ice, "Back in the day your mom would rather marry a gambler than watch me play finals!" The ice clicks and cracks, revealing a newspaper that has been sealed for twenty years - "Talented player Rayne Holt has been permanently banned for allegedly gambling on the game."
The school bells boomed.
Lucas crashed through the iron gates of the slaughterhouse just in time to see Marcus pinning Elena against the equipment room door." Paying off your boyfriend's debt?" He shook the naked loan photos from his cell phone, "Or pay it off with this..."
Layne's shotgun bursts through the overhead lights.
In a shower of glass, the old man flung in his blood-stained pocket watch - a photo ID of his mother in a lab uniform embedded in the inside of the cover, dated March 15, 2001, set in stone. That was the day of the chemical plant explosion, fire records showed.
"Extra training program tomorrow," Rayne stomped on the pocket watch, "what your mother didn't teach you-the proper position for killing."