Cho Seung-Hui like your typical perverted white kid in his semi-autobiographical account fapped guiltily under the covers of his little room, clouded in darkness. He hadn’t showered yesterday, so the mild, musky stink from his oily penis wafted up from his crotch and reached his nose. He sighed.
“What am I doing?” he thought. “What the FUCK am I doing? It smells like death…that is what man really fears.” He fapped harder. The demon idea filtered through his mind again, the same awful, but beauteous notion that popped up during his idle moments. The final solution.
“Heh. Like Hitler.” Cho smiled. His balls boiled fiercely, sweating more grease into his palm. It hit his nose again, demolishing his grin. It was too much. Too much like the stench of dead things and the sea that filled his mother’s cunt during his development. He never articulated it, no, but the rancid odor was embedded deep in his psyche and burst out again whenever he encountered sex. At least, his own sex scent, the only one he’d ever known.
“That fucking cunt!” he snarled. “I’ll kill her! I swear that I will!” He thought again about the woman in tight leather pants, dressed like a harlot in his eyes, who came trouncing into Creative Writing 3348 everyday and plopped down in front of him. His eyes bulged a little each time as he took fleeting glimpses at her silky, neon-green thong. He yanked his rod harder. It had finally arisen all the way, and pre-cum dribbled onto his forefinger, moistening his entire length with foamy stickiness.
“All of them…she is just one of the many. No woman will ever want this in them.” He stopped fapping, holding his manhood gently for a moment. “And why should they? I’m a goddamn failure. A fucking ‘question mark’ kid and a washed up writer.” His bloodshot eyes rolled aimlessly, enraged. “Not even as successful as my parents. At least they’ve got their own business. But fuck ‘em! They never should have brought me to this country in the first place. They knew what kind of child I was…” He resumed fapping, much harder this time.
“And what kind of people we were.. Immigrants. Gooks. Just as they couldn’t integrate into American society, I can never integrate into THEIR society. Nor do I want to.” Another fiery coil of rage crept up his spine. “Those sons of bitches! Fucking tree-trunked assholes! I nearly lost it today in the history seminar when I heard that fucking cocksucker in the flip-flops crying to his little fuckbuddy bitch again.” Cho panted, partially from effort and the rest from ire. The veins on his penis bulged, echoing his outrage.
“That motherfucker, I’ve seen him driving around in a Mercedes! And it isn’t enough! He’s spoiled. Spoiled and fucking rotten. Several prime pieces of pussy, nice car, full ride on tuition thanks to his cuntbag rich parents…” He grunted.
The demon thought flashed through his brain again. Rich bastard, dead from a gunshot right through his chest, one of his flip-flops sprawled on the floor under his twisted leg. Cho himself, lifting up the skirt of Richie-Rich’s slutty girlfriend, to see her piss-stained panties, fresh from the shock of the pistol shot that rocketed through her throat.
“But if only there would be one—just ONE sign of change—I wouldn’t have to do any of this. But there won’t be. No, there won’t be, there never is. They have never known true, soul-searing pain. But they will. They must. They came to this school to learn, and if that is the last lesson they get, it will be the most valuable.” He slowed the strokes of his fist, he was close. “Ismail Ax,” he whispered. He addressed himself with that haunting alter-ego, taken from the story of uncompromising anger and devotion to righteousness from the Koran. He’d read it a couple years ago, when he briefly toyed with radical Islam as a conduit for vengeance. “It is time, you must do this. No more pussying out like the other times, no more bullshitting; tomorrow is the day!” His mind cleared as it suddenly dawned on him. Ismail Ax IS his identity. Cho Seung Hui, that anonymous, castrated little shit is the alter ego.
His fist pulled down—hard. The dead Professor. A bloodied Christfag from the campus crusaders, sent to his maker. Exploring the warm pussy of that brunette harlot, still in pristine condition, despite her grotesquely broken skull. Bullets flying expertly toward strangers, toward faceless enemies worthy of death, like in Counter-Strike. The stink of his mother’s cunt. Cho grunted and raised his hips as he came.
Thick, hot jets of milky sperm rushed from his shaft, landing on his brown stomach. He opened his eyes again and reached for the Kleenex, as his penis suffered its last strained spasms. A moment later he looked at the yellowing tissues in disgust. “Life is sick. It can’t go on like this anymore.” He zipped up.
The clock said 2:00 AM. April 16th. His last day. He smiled again, knowing he’d just had his last fap and his last sleep. Today would be a great day for Cho Seung Hui. No, for Ismail Ax. First he would go on 4chan.org, section /b/, one last time. They were the only ones who understood the terminal illness of existence. Usually a lurker, he might even post announcing his big plans, though no one would believe him, until it happened. Then the site would be filled with dark laughs for days, oh yes. First 4chan, then on to finish that package for the media he’d started last week, and then… my mom got scared, and said, "You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air." I whistled for a cab and when it came near The license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare, but I thought, "Nah, forget it. Yo, holmes to Bel-Air!" I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie, "Yo holmes smell ya later!" Looked at my kingdom I was finally there, to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.