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Trent Bloodbag was shutting his locker as he said “You know Emily I just don’t feel like people get me, you know? They just don’t understand what a twisted fucking soul I am, they don’t know what it’s like to walk a mile in my twisted fucking shoes. They just don’t get it.”
“Ok…”
“You know what I mean right?” It was very difficult to hear him, as he was fairly soft-spoken and the noisy crowd of students parading through the halls masked most of his tortured ramblings. Emily Darkle was the only one who ever gave him the time of day, mostly out of pity, but she was really starting to get tired of his spiels about the sheer darkness of his soul and how “no one else understood him,” or whatever.
Anyways, he was saying “I think you understand. Of course you still can’t fully understand my twisted fucking perspective but I think you get it more than most people. You’ve got some of the Bloodbag gene in you I think. You know what I really hate more than anything else?”
“Ok Trent I get the picture, I’m gonna go to my next period now. I really truly don’t care about any of this and wish you would stop talking to me.” She turned away and trudged to her math course, taught by Mr Silverhammer. He was a nice guy but not a very effective teacher. Constantly stuttered every sentence he tried to put out and never seemed confident in what he was saying.
Trent watched her perambulate away and seethed with rage. The part about her not caring about anything he said didn’t bother him, he was already pretty aware of that. Not that he cared though. You wouldn’t get it, rambling to people who don’t care at all is just part of his twisted fucking way of living. No, the part that bothered Trent was Emily’s refusal to find out who he really hated more than anyone else. Which is clearly very interesting, I mean, how could she not want to find out? Like Jesus, what could be more fascinating than Trent’s thoughts on the world and the sheer stupidity of everyone living in it besides him?
“I don’t know, I’m sure what you thought was very interesting! I don’t know! Please, stop!”
“You just don’t get it, you fucking normal! This is what all of you people deserve!” Trent was in the process of brutally attacking one Ms Robin Glasscandle, a professional bricklayer who had been walking down the street after another long day at the misery fuck factory before being jumped by Trent, who had immediately launched into a rant about his hatred of Emily Darkle while stabbing her.
“Ow, Jesus! Can you give it a rest already?” Robin was saying. “I’m probably gonna… oh huh, that muscle feels a lot better now. Ow, dammit.”
“Ahahaha! Now you all get it! You understand how I feel, you pathetic normal!” Trent violently raved. “How you feel right now? While being stabbed? That’s how I feel all the time! Ahahaha! Or, uh, something like that. Say goodbye, soon-to-be-cadaver!” He plunged one final knife-stab into Robin and then threw her body out into the middle of the road. After making sure no one saw his misdeeds, he ran back into the alley he popped out of, sheltered again by the cover of night.
“Hm,” Robin said, still conscious. “I actually feel pretty good right now.” She looked down at her body and noticed no blood or visible injuries. “Huh. I’ll be damned.” You see, Trent was regarded by later commentators as possibly the worst serial killer of all time, as his frankly embarrassing homicide techniques had almost exclusively the same results as a particularly vigorous massage. He was pathologically incapable of causing any harm to his victims, and mostly helped them. He hadn’t realized this yet.
“Maybe this Trent guy wasn’t so bad after all,” Robin was saying, laying out in the middle of the street. Death manifested near her and took a sip of his drink. “What the hell? She isn’t dead at all! Why did the Universe tell me to come out here?”
Robin was starting to get up when she noticed a car barreling directly towards her. “Oh, right,” Death said.