Virginia Tech: A Cho-ose Your Own Adventure
It would be stupid to hang around here after killing two people. The police might already know who you are and be on the way to arrest you. You figure your manifesto, while it feels incomplete, is probably good enough to get the point across. Besides, maybe it would be good to leave a few question marks after this is all over. The question mark is your moniker after all.
You leave your room and take the stairs all the way to the basement, then leave through the service exit which you figure will be unguarded. As you move around the building, you are careful and look for police cars. Even though it's been about ten minutes since the shooting, you don't see any cops or hear any sirens. They must be slow to react to stuff like this. While you're sure you could handle a few campus cops, you also don't want to waste your bullets during a shoot out with them.
Convinced that the coast is clear, you start walking away from the dormitories at a brisk pace, but not too fast to raise attention. You cross over the drill field, heading towards the lecture buildings. You feel strangely relieved once you get there and feel like you might be able to blend in.
You get outside of Norris Hall and sigh. You still have about half an hour until the first classes begin. No sense in starting your rampage now with just the sparse crowds of early morning risers. There's an espresso cart outside the hall. Since you're still ravenously hungry, you figure you could get some coffee and a pastry to pass the time away. With time to kill, you figure you might as well get a last meal in.
You walk up to the cart. There's a girl with dreadlocks and a BUSH LIED PEOPLE DIED T-shirt busy setting up the flavored syrups. "What can I get you, sweetie?" she asks.
"I want a mocha and lemon scone," you say gruffly.
"Comin' right up!" she says perkily. You wait while she steams the milk and pours a couple of espresso shots into a cup of chocolate. In the meantime, she pulls out a lemon scone with a piece of wax paper and hands it to you, sets the cup on the ledge of the cart and says, "That'll be four dollars and fifty cents."
You check your pants and realize, in your rush to get going you forgot your wallet. "Um, I forgot my money."
The espresso girl frowns. "Well, if you want I can keep this here while you go and get some."
"I can't. I got something I gotta do soon. Can't you just let me have it? I'll pay you back, I promise," you say, knowing there's no chance of that happening.
"Sorry," she says. "The guy who owns this cart doesn't let me give out freebies. I wish I could help you out."
Your hands clench. You're starting to get angry. "Just giving the fucking mocha bitch!"
The espresso girl shakes her head. "What's your problem? That wasn't necessary. Why are you being so un-mellow? You need to go smoke some herb and chill out, patriarch..."
You're in no mood to argue with a hippy, especially when you've got guns. You pull them out of your vest and immediately open fire with both barrels blazing. The hippy espresso girl takes about seven rounds in the chest before she falls behind the cart.
Circling the cart so you can get a clear shot to finish her off. Both of her lungs are perforated, but she still manages to cough out, "D-dude. This is ill," before you unload the rest of your bullets into her head. Her matted hair is pretty much the only thing keeping chunks of her skull from splattering all over the pavement.
Both of your guns lock empty, but you notice an ominous hissing noise. Apparently, one of your bullets ricocheted off the sidewalk and punctured the natural gas cannister the espresso machine uses to heat the water. The hissing turns to a chug-chug sound as the pilot light sputters, then sets the pressurized gas alight, causing the espresso cart to explode in flame.
You are engulfed in the fireball, but for a moment, you don't think you're seriously injured (you are not aware of the broken piece of the steam wand jutting out of your shoulder and leaking your blood). However, your vest has caught on fire. You hear a loud pop and realize all your ammo magazines are in there. Oh shit...
You try pulling the vest off, but it's too late. The bullets are cooking off in a chain reaction now, blasting chunks of flesh off you. You dance around in front of Norris Hall like a string of Chinese New Year firecrackers.
By the time all fourteen of your magazines have exploded, you are dead, collapsed on the sidewalk a smoking bloody pulp that's barely distinguishable as human.
So much for your rampage, slope.
You leave your room and take the stairs all the way to the basement, then leave through the service exit which you figure will be unguarded. As you move around the building, you are careful and look for police cars. Even though it's been about ten minutes since the shooting, you don't see any cops or hear any sirens. They must be slow to react to stuff like this. While you're sure you could handle a few campus cops, you also don't want to waste your bullets during a shoot out with them.
Convinced that the coast is clear, you start walking away from the dormitories at a brisk pace, but not too fast to raise attention. You cross over the drill field, heading towards the lecture buildings. You feel strangely relieved once you get there and feel like you might be able to blend in.
You get outside of Norris Hall and sigh. You still have about half an hour until the first classes begin. No sense in starting your rampage now with just the sparse crowds of early morning risers. There's an espresso cart outside the hall. Since you're still ravenously hungry, you figure you could get some coffee and a pastry to pass the time away. With time to kill, you figure you might as well get a last meal in.
You walk up to the cart. There's a girl with dreadlocks and a BUSH LIED PEOPLE DIED T-shirt busy setting up the flavored syrups. "What can I get you, sweetie?" she asks.
"I want a mocha and lemon scone," you say gruffly.
"Comin' right up!" she says perkily. You wait while she steams the milk and pours a couple of espresso shots into a cup of chocolate. In the meantime, she pulls out a lemon scone with a piece of wax paper and hands it to you, sets the cup on the ledge of the cart and says, "That'll be four dollars and fifty cents."
You check your pants and realize, in your rush to get going you forgot your wallet. "Um, I forgot my money."
The espresso girl frowns. "Well, if you want I can keep this here while you go and get some."
"I can't. I got something I gotta do soon. Can't you just let me have it? I'll pay you back, I promise," you say, knowing there's no chance of that happening.
"Sorry," she says. "The guy who owns this cart doesn't let me give out freebies. I wish I could help you out."
Your hands clench. You're starting to get angry. "Just giving the fucking mocha bitch!"
The espresso girl shakes her head. "What's your problem? That wasn't necessary. Why are you being so un-mellow? You need to go smoke some herb and chill out, patriarch..."
You're in no mood to argue with a hippy, especially when you've got guns. You pull them out of your vest and immediately open fire with both barrels blazing. The hippy espresso girl takes about seven rounds in the chest before she falls behind the cart.
Circling the cart so you can get a clear shot to finish her off. Both of her lungs are perforated, but she still manages to cough out, "D-dude. This is ill," before you unload the rest of your bullets into her head. Her matted hair is pretty much the only thing keeping chunks of her skull from splattering all over the pavement.
Both of your guns lock empty, but you notice an ominous hissing noise. Apparently, one of your bullets ricocheted off the sidewalk and punctured the natural gas cannister the espresso machine uses to heat the water. The hissing turns to a chug-chug sound as the pilot light sputters, then sets the pressurized gas alight, causing the espresso cart to explode in flame.
You are engulfed in the fireball, but for a moment, you don't think you're seriously injured (you are not aware of the broken piece of the steam wand jutting out of your shoulder and leaking your blood). However, your vest has caught on fire. You hear a loud pop and realize all your ammo magazines are in there. Oh shit...
You try pulling the vest off, but it's too late. The bullets are cooking off in a chain reaction now, blasting chunks of flesh off you. You dance around in front of Norris Hall like a string of Chinese New Year firecrackers.
By the time all fourteen of your magazines have exploded, you are dead, collapsed on the sidewalk a smoking bloody pulp that's barely distinguishable as human.
So much for your rampage, slope.
