Kim Lazenby's ResumébyPrimalRoots©
(All characters sexually active in this story are at or above the age of eighteen. All characters are purely fictional. Check out my profile!)
I like to think of myself as a master of exploitation. Others will call me a bitch, a whore, or just plain evil. But my interference in the affairs of others is minimal; its victims further extend the problems I cause. Many solutions present themselves, but are neither explored nor realized. I feel no sympathy, and remain far from empathy. I only feel joy for every second of misery they experience. And the best part will always be the transition period; when they realize that the fun I gave them is becoming a great misfortune, and in some cases, a disaster.
Ch. 01 - The High School Disaster
I am Kim Lazenby, currently twenty-six years old, located in California. Recently, to avoid issues with the Internal Revenue Service, I have been hired as a secretary. However, for what I consider to be my full time job, over the past eight years I have been self-employed as a social assassin.
The term is perhaps a tad extreme; I do not kill people, I kill their personalities and their social lives. If they are strong-willed, they will not become a victim. If they succumb, they must start their lives anew. What I do is not actually illegal, but the source of funds is always questionable. The IRS is not after me, I've just learned to be cautious.
Since my senior year at James K. Polk High School, I've been working to take down people who have been causing more problems than they should. Morally, there is always a better answer than what I do. Unfortunately for them, I don't care. I've never cared. Through my own experience, I have been desensitized beyond selflessness. I can feel joy, but only for myself. And I'm happy that way.
My first exploit was for the last of the "popular" kids, the stereotypes and emotional pariahs of teenage social circles. The only emotions they seem to be able to experience are anger, jealousy, and arousal. Their lack of care is far different from mine. They mindlessly hurt, lackadaisically and without consideration. I plan my moves, and deliberately do damage.
It was spring, 2005. Most of the people in the senior class had already turned eighteen, save a few kids who skipped a year and the ones who were just born a few days before the cut off date for kindergarten applications. I was experiencing a humdrum, solitary life.
I woke up between 6:00 and 6:30, depending on how late I had stayed up the night before. My alarm was always set for 6:00, but sometimes I just ignored it for a few more minutes of sleep. When I did decide to wake up, I would just walk to my closet and throw on the first things I saw, much like the average male. But like most girls, I had taken a shower the night before, so it wasn't necessary in the morning. After dressing, I lost track of what I did. Sometimes I would see a book lying around and start reading, other times I would pick up my guitar and start strumming. No matter what, I always lost track of time, and ended up leaving at least five minutes past 7:00.
Arriving at the parking lot, I parked in my usual spot, only distinguishable from the others by the uneven separating lines. There I was sit in my car, listening to whatever CD I had in the radio. I was a rocker.
At 7:20 the first bell would ring and I would go to class, straight from my car. Every day, I started out with Chemistry, then proceeded to my first English class, Sci Fi, and then went off to Government class (but the first semester was Economy). After "Nutrition Break" I would fall asleep in Differential Calculus, and then wake up again for AP English Literature, and enjoy a Caesar salad in my car for lunch. I ate all of it, but always wondered what they did the chicken that made so "not chicken" as I thought back then. When the bell rang yet again, I walked as slowly as I could to French 4, and after the painstakingly bland daily lecture on "eeeeuuuuuuuugggggghhhhh" and "aaauuunnnnnnggghhh" (no offense to the French, but I think the language is ludicrous), I would finish the day off with going to Mr. Kalman's World History class, in which I was his Teacher's Assistant.
When school ended, I would wait for about ten minutes for the major traffic jam of the parking lot to clear up, and make my exit from Polk High to return to my solitary cave and complete my homework. More often than not, I would spend hours on math homework because I didn't listen in class. My mother would bring dinner up to my room, as my family had grown less intimate as the years rolled on. Sometimes, if my music was off, I could hear her praising me over the phone as a studious young girl, but,"...not much of a looker."
No matter how much time I had to spend on homework, I would always finish it, and thoroughly too. Except for French homework, I would just gloss over that. But regardless, I was a hard worker. I kept to myself, enjoyed my music, and looked forward to the day when I could live comfortably, self-sustained, and not be bothered by anyone. I just didn't know how to accomplish it. There was no passion I had. I did love music, but there was no way in hell I was going to pursue it as a profession. Then came my first client, a vengeful teenager by the name of Lyle Drummond.
Lyle was the rich boy in town, the cock of the block, and the least liked senior in school. Perhaps it was his ego that made social issues such a major conflict for his mind, but whatever the cause, he could not stand the constant rejection of the people he deemed worthy of his time. I never noticed it; I had no connections of experiences with other students that school year. The extent of my conversational involvement with others was class projects. As fate would have it, that's how I ended up getting hired as Lyle's social assassin.
It was government class; the very beginning of March when I first heard about his troubles. Every month, we would all switch seats for whatever reason, and this time around, fate put Lyle and me very close. He was actually behind me, and sat next to some girl whose name I don't remember while I had the fortune of sitting next to no one. Although Lyle's neighbor for March was unpopular, she wasn't hated like him. But naturally, she was a good listener, willing to hear Lyle spout his teenage angst on a daily basis.
"All I do is give and give but they just don't care, you know? It pisses me off. I like them and they have no reason to dislike me. I could do a lot for them if they would just let me hang out with them."
I would listen to that every day. About a week and a half into March, the girl asked a question. "Who are they?" That was the first time any of it actually piqued my interest. I did want to know which ones he had formed his delusions over. Human psychology has always interested me, so a real application caused my ears to perk up. There were six. Garry Middleton, Pam Schoen, Fred Gris, Sarah Chula, Olive Pentar, and Ted Daley. The seed had been planted in my mind, albeit subconsciously, and without thinking about it I start to perk up my ears for word about them in all my other classes.
By the end of the month, when Spring had begun, I had collected a verified pool of information about each of them.
Garry Middleton, 18 as of that January, was a pitcher on Polk High's baseball team. Not the best pitcher, and not in the starting lineup, but the most popular player on the varsity team by far. He was notorious for meddling with the JV team as "initiation" for anyone planning on trying out for varsity the following year. As for the ones who didn't intend to, it was just hazing. He would do things like fill their mitts with superglue and cover their cleats in chewed gum, never taking into account that someone might want revenge on him. Any word about his personal life had to do with his close relationship with his car.
Pamela Schoen, 18 as of that March, was probably the least aggressive of the group, but that's not to say she wasn't vicious and scathing. Where the others used actions, she only used words. Pam was an unconfirmed homophobe, often taunting people as "faggots" for simple actions such as carrying a roller backpack. She was incredibly concerned with her personal appearance, and anyone she considered to have a large circle of friends had the power to make her insecure only by saying, "Your hair is looking a little frizzy." Her response would be something along the lines of, "Fuck you, I don't need to be perfect." The next day she would come to school with straightened hair, and it would stay that way for some time. She was also single, but word was that she was holding out for someone, as she frequently had opportunities to enter into a relationship.
Fred Gris, 18 as of the previous December, was the theater king. I suppose since the 80's, theater has declined as a "gay" activity for men, so it never really bothered Pam. Often busy with rehearsal or a performance, Fred wasn't always around for the group's antics, but was always welcome when he had time. From the perspective of the athletes and the passivists (the inactive students with no extracurricular activities), he was a talented dramatic genius. From the perspective of the other theater kids, however, he was quite a diva. Fred had a need to prove everyone wrong, or at least be the most correct person in the room. Thus, he is also academically advanced. Unfortunately for my purposes (in causing social damage, not for my personal interest), the last thing on his mind was dating.
Sarah Chula, 19 because of being held back a year, was a shameless whore. Known as the least angry of the six, she would start up rumors about herself, and on occasion, prove them to be true. One such rumor was that she had gone streaking across the baseball field at another school. When students at that school denied it, she proceeded to actually commit the act, masked of course. When approached by the administration, she coolly responded, "I never know how these rumors start." The attention she got from the horny boys did not faze her like it would other girls, especially Pam. But if anyone made a move, Sarah would lay down swift vengeance. Sarah had recently broken up with Ricky Lutin in February, which caused the others to jettison him from their clique.
Olive Pentar, 18 the day before spring break began, stereotypically enough, was a cheerleader. Against the current of the stereotype, however, she was in a long and serious relationship with Ted Daley, a mechanic whiz kid. Olive had a tendency to argue with everyone, especially her boyfriend. But at the end of the day, she would always forgive him. Everyone else never found themselves to be so lucky. She never spent any time defending her case, only attacking the other. So oftentimes, she would win arguments by yelling louder rather than being smarter or correct. Men learned long ago not to flirt with her at risk of genital defenestration. I couldn't find any information about her passions or her positive side.
Ted Daley, also 19 from being held back, and like many teenagers, had an inexplicable love for cars. But unlike most, he actually built a car piece by piece with the help of his father and uncle, and to my knowledge still drives it to this day. Later, you'll know why that surprises me. It seemed that there was nothing else he was interested in, save Olive. He had an ego much different from his friends. His generous thoughts of himself were based on delusion rather than insecurity. Whenever Olive had a bad day, he thought she could take solace in knowing she got to drive away in a handmade car with him. No matter how many arguments involved his obsession with automobiles, he would never understand that she truly did hate it. His view of the world was stagnant. Therefore, his attitude toward others reeked of violence.
The information I had gathered didn't actually have worth to me until one fateful conversation I had with Lyle when the girl he sat with wasn't at school one day. Even though I didn't like his whiny disposition, there was one thing he said that struck a nerve. After about ten minutes of the usual complaints, he said it.
"They had a party last night, and of course I wasn't invited. I showed up anyway though because it's not like they have a right to tell me what I can and can't do. They were playing some shitty Eminem song, like Encore or whatever, so I changed it to Runnin' With the Devil because it's a good party song, you know? I thought that everyone loved Van Halen, but I guess I was wrong because they turned it off."
My personality had never reacted so strongly to something that could so easily be brushed off, but something just changed in me when he said this. It kept repeating in my head, "they turned it off." Physically, I didn't budge. But inside, I was boiling. It shouldn't have bothered me. They have the right to listen to whatever music they want, and comparatively to a lot of rap music, I didn't think Eminem was all bad. Even so, it clawed at my soul with relentless vigor, landing a few scratches until at last I burst.
"If you can't join 'em, beat the shit out of them," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"They won't accept you, they've made that clear. So before we graduate, I will ruin them for you."
He took a moment to register what I said. Being the rich money-buys-everything type, he asked, "How much?"
Spring Break had begun. Naturally, there would be plenty of parties to hold everyone over until the summer began. As a gimmick to add to their popularity, the PG-SOFT group (their name for themselves) planned one party every night at each of their respective homes, leaving the Monday and Thursday as a cool down period, and Sunday as a period of rest and detox before school started up again. As part of it, each party would go in order of the group name, Pam, then Garry, Sarah, Olive, Fred, and finally Ted. The parties would be quite large, so my presence wouldn't be noticeable until I made it that way, and after that I'm sure it wouldn't make a difference because my name isn't Lyle Drummond. The first party was Friday night, as Pam's house.
The thought had crossed my mind that their parents might oppose the alcohol flooded get-togethers, but then I figured that they knew what their were doing, so I didn't think about it. One way or another, no parents would be present.
When I arrived, the party was already raging on. The sun had set just an hour before, so there would be much liveliness for the next couple of hours. If anyone actually knew me, I'm sure their surprise at my presence would have been visible. I spent my time playing Super Smash Brothers Melee with a group of slightly more nerdy boys until I felt enough time had passed for Pam to be angry for some reason and pouting in her room, no boyfriend to console her and no friends not otherwise occupied.
I found my way to her room and put on my concerned face. I entered, and seeing that she was lying on her bed quietly, I asked as sweetly and sympathetically as I could manage, "Hey, everything okay?" As I predicted, my tone led her to believe that we were friends at some point and she just forgot, knowing too wide a scope of people. So to avoid looking stupid, she played along.
"Guys are fucking pigs," she sniffed.
I sat down next to her on the bed. "You're telling me. You remember what Glen did to me last year," I lied, "but this isn't about me. What's wrong sweetie?"
"It doesn't matter. It's just going to keep happening and there's nothing I can do about it. I wish I could be more like Olive," Pam cried.
I tried using real logic, "You don't want to be like her, you should be glad you're independent."
"What do you mean?" she asked, now interested in what advice I had to give.
At this point I felt some pity, so I gave her some real advice before planting in my poison. "Just think about it. You can do whatever you want with your life right now. You don't have to be tied down by a boyfriend and all the drama that comes with one. I won't tell you to just suck it up, whatever's going on right now, but as a single girl, it doesn't have to affect you." My advice wasn't the best, but it was certainly better than anything her self-absorbed friends could manage, or that she could for that matter. I gave her the advantage of pretending she could remember my name. "My mother's told me a million times, 'Kim, you don't need anyone to make you happy except yourself.' So I took it to heart. You think you can try?"
She sniffed and rolled over to face me. "I guess... but how?" She looked truly desperate for an escape from a terrible world that tormented her. If I had been a subject of the Gatsbyesque world of high school, I would have believed her. But I knew better, and later I found out that all that bothered her that night was a guy complimenting her teal tank top. She had assumed it was a comment about her breasts. But I digress.
Now it was time to play on her inner desires. "Well, what's something you've always wanted to do?"
Pam thought for a moment, but nothing came to mind. "I don't know."
"Come on, even if it's silly," I assuaged.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll think of something... but right now..." I suppose she thought that I knew what she was going to say, but I simply didn't.
"What?" I asked, slightly fearing a harsh quip.
"Ugh! Right now I just never want to see a man ever again!"
I hoped she would say that. "I know the feeling," I chuckled, "sometimes I just forget them completely."
"Oh, please teach me," she said with a little sarcasm, now calming down a bit.
"Just spend time with girls," I said with a bit of a kick.
"I spend enough time with them," she sighed.
"No, no, I mean spend time with them," I emphasized.
"Kim, what are you talking about?" she spat.
"Oh come on, don't tell me you've never thought about it."
Pam sat up and put on a bit of a scowl. "Don't tell me you're saying what I think you're fucking saying."
"Pam, don't be so closed-minded. Girls can be a lot of fun. They know what you like; they're more caring, gentle, soft. You can talk to them you can just be yourself. It's wonderful and I think you should try it."
She got off the bed and marched over to the window to get away from me. "I'm not a fucking faggot, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard! Get the fuck out, you fucking dykes sicken me."
"I'm sorry you feel that way, but if you change your mind, there are plenty of girls out there," I said, reassuring her that I would always listen.
"Out!" she screamed, ready to throw something at me.
I left her room and found Trey, a semi-popular and hotheaded pretty boy. Also unable to recall my name, I knew he wouldn't be mentioning me. "Hey Trey, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, why?" he said, immediately wanting to get back to partying.
"Pam's in her room saying some shit about you," I gossiped.
Without even asking what she had said (which wasn't anything anyway), he stormed upstairs to scream at her. I followed and stood in the hall until it was all over. Trey stormed out and I waited a minute before re-entering. Pam was in the fetal position, crying. I sat down next to her and held her, and she embraced me.
Pam was the hardest part of the night. I'll admit, this being my first attempt, her part of phase one was based on little information and great assumptions. Lucky more me, though, it worked. So with her out of the way for phase one, I moved on to Fred. Unfortunately, I can't give you the details of how I accomplished it because I don't remember. Let me explain.
In spite of all the stories I had heard of punch bowls getting spiked, I didn't expect it to happen to me. Having been at the party for a few hours, I was getting thirsty. I grabbed a cup of juice and drank, only finding out that it was contaminated the next morning. My memory ends halfway through a conversation with Fred in which I did a very similar thing as with Pam. How did I know he would turn out gay? Psychology, that's why. Want to question it? Have fun.