A truly despicable college co-ed may have finally met her match because you just never know who is watching you, and what they are capable of...
The Message by Rob Fields
Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com
Produced by Daniel Wilder
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Imagine this . . . You’re a twenty-three-year-old girl who’s got everything going for you: a very rich family, luxury and privilege, never wanting for anything, and a beautiful body. You can have any man you want. You’re on top of the world. Interested? Okay, let’s begin . . . You’ve passed every class while you were in school – without studying. Why should you have to study when you can just cruise along with your million-dollar body? You can just keep your pretty eyes on certain men . . . show generous amounts of cleavage . . . offer a handjob to the right teacher . . . All for those As you’ve never had to study for. You still here? Come on, stay with me . . . You graduate with a great GPA. But in order for you to take over the family business someday, you must continue your education. You agree to go to college. Like high school, you rely on your porn star body to get through each semester of college. Like you’re actually going to crack open a book and read the assignments, right? You’re even allowed to bring a laptop to take notes, but why?! Why should you have to write . . . anything?! You’re rich! You’re privileged! You’re entitled! Besides, your glorious nails cost a pretty penny. Hell, you can charm some geek into writing your papers, right? You still with me? Nice . . . You finish your first three-and-a-half years at Strickfield University, with plenty of good grades. And . . . all of your professors were guys. Coincidence? Or maybe because you know your sex appeal won’t work on women, aside from lesbians or bisexuals? Also, you’ll be damned if you lip-lock with another female. Anyway, all your professors are male. Because even college professors can let the little head think for the big head. We’re moving along. Hang in there . . . The second semester of your pivotal senior year comes. Things are a little more challenging. You’re finding your looks are just not enough now. To get those all-important As, you have to show your big titties . . . give more handjobs . . . maybe give a really good blowjob. And for some professors who want even more . . . you’ll actually have to spend the night with them. You haven’t been a virgin since junior high, so what difference does fucking university professors old enough to be your dad make? Don’t worry, it gets better. Stay with me . . . Now you’ve finally got that one professor . . . Yeah, that one! The one who doesn’t care about your looks, your big tits, or your sexy body. He’s a happily married man who loves his wife of twenty-five years, so the sight of you doesn’t arouse his little head in the least. No matter what you do, you just can’t win this professor over. You still refuse to take notes, do homework, or lift your pen to take exams. Your grades in his class are the worst. But you’re privileged . . . You’re entitled . . . You’re rich . . . The world owes you. Hell, what this professor makes in a year is pocket change to you, right? You still want to keep going? Of course you do . . . You’re desperate now. Sitting in the back, you’ve shown him your tits during class. You’ve even shown him you weren’t wearing panties. In fact, you’ve even offered to suck your professor’s cock – more than once. Even more, you’ve offered to let him fuck you, and in some compromising places. You’ve even surprised him by waiting for him in his office . . . completely naked! Yet, the fucking professor just will not surrender to you. He never once pops a chubby. What the fuck?! Does he really love his wife that much? Nobody loves his wife for that many years! Your own parents are out fucking around on each other, for Christ’s sake. Ah, you’re still with me, still loving all this juiciness. Mm, mmmm . . . The professor’s going to turn you in to the dean for your erratic behavior. He’ll tell him that you haven’t done . . . anything really! He certainly has your grades to show for it, including your blank exams. Because you’re simply too entitled to put forth the effort. In fact, you’re entitled to everything life has to offer. It’s getting dark now. Turn on those smartphone flashes . . . Now you’ve got a real problem. You can’t let your parents see that you’ve actually failed a class. Didn’t your parents tell you that if didn’t bring home the grades, they weren’t going to keep you in school? If you’re not ready to be a part of the family business, they’ll cut you off. They’ll send you out into the real world to make your own way. You’ll no longer live in luxury. You’ll no longer be entitled. You’ll no longer be pampered and have the world at your feet. You’ll be banished to the Mortal Realm with all the other bottom-feeders who have to bust their asses just to make end’s meet. There’s only one thing left to do . . . Darker still! Hope your smartphone batteries have a good charge . . . You talk to your scumbag boyfriend, knowing he’s a scumbag. But he’s always been there for you when you needed him. He listens intently as you tell him about the professor who’s fucking up your whole world. Then he comes up with the perfect plan to help you get the grade you’re entitled to. All it’ll cost you is a little of your green and some quality time with your pink. Anything to keep you entitled! Really dark now!! Hope your smartphone batteries aren’t ready to die . . . Your boyfriend knows the professor works in his office late on Fridays. He knows your professor always gets a Mountain Dew out of the soda machine beforehand. Not coffee . . . not bottled water . . . a Mountain Dew! Probably the only unconventional thing about him. Having his office phone number, you make a desperate phone call. You tell him you need help and give him a false location. When he leaves, your boyfriend slithers into his office and roofies his Mountain Dew. Later, you and your boyfriend watch as the professor returns to his office, no doubt upset at your phone call. Oh, but he has no idea of what awaits him in that green bottle. It’s only time . . . We’re at NC-17 content now. Put the kids to bed . . . You and your boyfriend take the sleeping professor to an empty classroom. It’s Friday night and nobody’s around. You undo the professor’s trousers and pull them down with his boxers. Up comes your dress – no panties. You finally get him nice and hard. And . . . Congratulations! You – a girl – just committed rape! You’ve got him by the balls – literally! You both get him dressed and take him back to his office. Next, you both go back to your place. With the incriminating juices still inside you, your boyfriend beats the living shit out of you. It has to look like an actual rape, right? When he’s finished, you call the police and tell them everything. Feeling pissed off yet? Good . . . The professor is arrested. The police take samples from you both. They get a match. But they won’t find the Mountain Dew with the roofie in it. Your boyfriend saw to that. His plan worked perfectly. Yes, his plan! Psst! He’s actually smarter than you. So now . . . The professor’s in jail. He’s fired from Strickfield University. His wife leaves him after twenty-five happily married years. She wouldn’t even listen to him when he pled his case to her. He gets a trial by jury, is found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison. That night . . . he hangs himself, knowing he won’t survive prison. Your boyfriend already got into the professor’s computer to change your grade. But if it was that simple, then why ruin the man’s life? Because you’re entitled! And nobody fucks that up for you. Hey, you’ve made it all the way to this point. Ready for the twist? Sure you are . . . Now, two things are established: you think you’re entitled . . . and you’re not too bright. Your boyfriend made the plan that led to the death of an innocent professor who wouldn’t give you the grade you wanted. But neither of you had any idea that a certain girl was in that same class with you. Actually, I was in a couple. Boy, did you two ever stand out to me . . . Not only did I see you showing your titties and your cooch to Professor Rodney Simmons, I even saw you arguing with him in his office after that class. I suppose those things alone wouldn’t trigger a red flag. It was after the newspapers revealed that Professor Simmons had committed suicide. I watched you both closely. Neither of you showed remorse. I did my usual research and found the gradebook in Professor Simmons’ office before anyone came to clean it out. I took pics on my smartphone, wearing gloves of course. I also lifted fingerprints off the professor’s laptop. Some belonged to the professor. The others belonged to Jacob Lavigne. Thanks to a fingerprint scanner I rigged up, I matched them with a special program I picked up on the Dark Net that gave me immediate access to fingerprints databases. Now, I just needed one more thing . . . “What the fuck . . . ?” Genevieve Van Sant demanded. “Where am I?” “Right where I want you,” I replied, stepping out of the darkness. Genevieve spoke with her entitled voice. “I know you. You’re that Criminal Justice bitch people talk about all over campus.” “Wow, you actually know something,” I replied. “I’m surprised you know anything, considering how stupid you are.” She struggled to get free. “You can’t scare me!” Then she glared at me. “You really fucked up. Once I talk to select people, you’re fucked. You don’t ever put your hands on me. Professor Simmons found that out.” “Oh, you mean when he raped you?” I made air quotes to emphasize the end of my question. Genevieve protested, “His spunk was inside me. He beat me within an inch of my life. He raped me!” I waved her off. “Please . . . I’m on a time crunch here, so let’s wrap things up.” “You got cops waiting outside?” Genevieve sneered. “You haven’t got shit on me.” I raised an eyelid. “No? I know your whole plan: the roofie . . . the real rape . . . the alleged beating . . .” Genevieve gawked at me. “Nobody was around. No one saw us.” I shook my head slowly. “I saw everything. Would it have killed you to have done your schoolwork? Because what you just did . . . will kill you.” I picked up some photographs and showed them to her. “Wow, I’m surprised these pictures didn’t end up on some porn site,” I said. “Porn’s a multi-billion-dollar industry, you know.” Genevieve shrieked when she saw herself in the act of raping the professor. “Bullshit! The classroom we went to didn’t have security cameras.” I picked up a nearby smartphone. “This camera was there. It’s your boyfriend’s. I took it from him.” I turned and flipped a switch. Another set of lights came on. Genevieve gasped when she saw her boyfriend secured to a second table that was propped up. “Yes, this is your boyfriend’s loft,” I said. “I found roofies and other interesting shit in his room. Oh, and lots of videos of you two fucking.” I raised my finger. “Especially the one where you two pretty much confess to everything. Victory sex? I cracked Jacob’s passcode and found the photos. His big mistake was leaving his fingerprints.” I held up a copy of the newspaper revealing that Professor Simmons had hung himself. “This was all you and Jacob here. All because Simmons wouldn’t just give you a grade.” I showed her Professor Simmons’ grade book. “It surprises me how many teachers still use these. Looking at the professor’s laptop, you get poor grades throughout the semester, but end up getting an A overall?” I opened the grade book. “Same poor grades here. Overall, you got an F. Oops! Imagine if your parents learned that you never studied five minutes since you got here.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to study. I’m Genevieve Van Sant!” I rolled my eyes in return. “Thank you, I know your name. In fact, I’ll remember you and Jacob Lavigne forever . . . along with the hundreds of others who’ve made the unfortunate mistake of getting my attention.” And speaking of attention, I suddenly heard someone – another guy – talking outside the door. It had to be Jacob’s roommate! I determined that he was on a cell phone as I grabbed a nearby baseball bat and conked Genevieve. I turned off the lights and waited. He started to come into the loft. As I saw his hand pawing for the light switch, he quickly stopped. I really didn’t want to kill an innocent. “What?! You serious?! I left my shit at your place?” He groaned. “No, I’ll come back. My term paper’s in that folder. Due tomorrow – first thing!” A pause. “Sure, babe, I’ll spend the night.” The roommate pulled the door closed. I locked it up again and waited a bit before turning the lights back on. As Genevieve began to stir, I walked to her and slapped her. When she fully woke up, she shouted curses and struggled to free herself. Eventually, she stopped struggling and glared at me. I said to Genevieve, “Since you seem to think you’re so entitled . . . since you’re Genevieve Van Sant, I’m going to kill you second.” Genevieve snapped, “You won’t kill us. You’re a Criminal Justice prodigy who helps the police solve cases.” I raised my finger. “Being a college student and a police intern is my day job. I’ve been doing my night job since I was ten years old. Ironic, huh? I’m a police detective trainee . . . who’s also a serial killer. Sure, I could turn you both over to the police. But knowing your parents, Genevieve, they’d hire a top-notch lawyer for you – or pay off the judge. You’d be free again, continuing to feel you’re entitled. And your boyfriend would rot in jail, because your parents won’t give a shit about him. And . . . Professor Simmons would still be dead and tarnished for a crime he never committed.” “Fuck you!” she screamed at me. “You’re nothing! Nothing! I’m Genevieve Van Sant! You’re fucking nobody!” I moved to my instrument table and picked up a big, sharp knife. I moved to Jacob. “Now, Jacob Lavigne . . . let the punishment fit the crime!” Using my knife, I disemboweled Jacob. He didn’t feel much since I roofied him – with one of his own roofies. I make such a mess when I play. I turned to Genevieve. “And your fate?” I showed her the newspaper again. “Here’s a hint. It’s already around your neck.” Genevieve shook her head quickly. “Noooooo!” “You ruined a good man’s life!” I reminded her. “You broke up a wonderful marriage. You have no remorse whatsoever. Want some irony? I myself feel no emotions. But you do . . . and you are so horrible.” She saw that I was ready to kick the chair out from underneath her feet. Her wrists and ankles were securely zip-tied. Genevieve shrieked, “You crazy bitch! I’m Genevieve Van Sant! My parents will find you! They’ll kill you!” “Do you know how many people have told me that?” I asked. “You’re not the first rich person I’ve killed, and you certainly won’t be the last. I just killed a rich couple last week, and they had it coming for quite a while. But you are, without a doubt, the stupidest girl I’ve ever had to date. Weren’t you listening? I just told you, I don’t feel emotions. But I have a name, too. I’m the Angel of Death. I’m guessing you don’t read the newspapers, since you probably can’t even read anyway. And now, Genevieve Van Sant . . . let the punishment fit the crime!” I kicked the chair out from under her. Her eyes bulged, and she tried to squirm. Her face turned red as she struggled to breathe. Soon she just hung there. After a few more minutes, I took hold of her wrist. No pulse. The police would find the evidence easily. The boyfriend’s smartphone, the homemade confession porn video, and the pictures will be quite sufficient. I took a shower to wash Jacob’s blood off of me and put on fresh clothes before leaving the loft. I would take my soiled clothes with me and make my usual anonymous phone call to the Strickfield Police Department to tell them where they could find the bodies. The next afternoon, I was on-scene as part of my police internship. Jacob’s roommate was there, just babbling away. I think what got his attention was the message on the wall that I left for him, written in Jacob’s blood. JUST BE GLAD YOU DIDN’T TURN ON THE LIGHT!!!!
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