For decades, teens have been reprimanded for even the slightest thought of suicide and sexual intercourse, and yesterday, a choir of high school protesters lit up the drab courtyard of their school with long, wavering banners, projecting the name of their radical organization amongst spectators, reading “Angry Teens for Sex and Suicide”.
“We are sick of being marginalized. Teens can commit acts of sex and suicide, and when we do, we’re called something akin to the devils ilk.” Proclaims head of the organization, Rich Yichster. However, being denied donations to further their campaign, and being denied “figurative equal rights”, they’ve taken a more aggressive measure to secure their recreational club’s position in history. For thousands of years, recreational clubs have overhauled ancient dogmas and changed political climates with fiery words and poor quality megaphones. Today, I hadn’t bat an eye-lash as the concerned tone of the news reporter enlightened me with a sense of peril, as he began to explain that the barley populated “Angry Teens for Sex and Suicide” club had begun a strike within a classroom, refusing to leave until they’re allowed the proper means to convey their message. This reporter decided to get special insight on these developments, casually strolling down the school hallways, hearing the rubber of his dress shoes peel off of the plastic floor, his nerves tightening with the distance between him, and the classroom closing. My knuckles hit the door; I slowly paced myself, not wanting to alarm them. The blinds smacked against the glass plate within the door, as shifty eyes were shoved against it, peering through.
“Hello, I am Bagels W. McPhag of Fawx News. I’ve come to provide you fellows with coverage.” A smile, perhaps of relief, painted their face a brighter shade than before. The kid invited me in, the liveliness in his eyes brought them to a glow, and I felt a heart-warming sensation jump through me, such that I’d perhaps given these youngsters a sense of justification for the indignities they felt. I sat in the corner, simply observing as I clutched my notebook, readying my pen like I would a chop-stick. The rows of desks filled with students, clumps of them nude, their bodies shimmering with sweat, simmering under the flame boiling their minds as they motioned to the tribal pulse of their sex, the air moistened by a constant flow of body heat also nuanced with a hormonally charged odeur de sueur. Their eyes sparked with a gradual thirst, feverishly penetrating their female mates who assumed a supine position, sitting up with their arms behind them, and I thought, watching them jump as the males reached the depths of their watering womanhood, with cute shrieks escaping their tender lips when they had, how any of this was truly relevant. I zoomed out, and took note of an even larger image, all of them squirming like a pile of slithering snakes. Sprinkled throughout the room were lone, musing gentlemen and women, one in particular with a gun’s barrel nuzzling his temple, his lips breaking apart to utter “tick” with each click sound, which penetrated the silence and soft sighs rolling through the air, “tick.”, he said, releasing his finger from the trigger. In the corner, lay a mass of tangled corpses, some bloodied and ravaged, others faded and calm. The protest for the “Angry teens for Sex and Suicide” ended, as I’d doubted, unsuccessfully. Teens inside killed themselves, and had sex – an event staged seemingly for the sake of committing suicide and having sex. Bodies were hauled off in ambulances, some even a dark pick-up truck [reports unverified], and students were charged for sexual misconduct in a public place. Nothing was achieved but gratification. And perhaps, just perhaps, this is the fuel for a head-strong movement, propelled by recreational clubs, which may one day change the tempo of America’s ever beating heart.
“We are sick of being marginalized. Teens can commit acts of sex and suicide, and when we do, we’re called something akin to the devils ilk.” Proclaims head of the organization, Rich Yichster. However, being denied donations to further their campaign, and being denied “figurative equal rights”, they’ve taken a more aggressive measure to secure their recreational club’s position in history. For thousands of years, recreational clubs have overhauled ancient dogmas and changed political climates with fiery words and poor quality megaphones. Today, I hadn’t bat an eye-lash as the concerned tone of the news reporter enlightened me with a sense of peril, as he began to explain that the barley populated “Angry Teens for Sex and Suicide” club had begun a strike within a classroom, refusing to leave until they’re allowed the proper means to convey their message. This reporter decided to get special insight on these developments, casually strolling down the school hallways, hearing the rubber of his dress shoes peel off of the plastic floor, his nerves tightening with the distance between him, and the classroom closing. My knuckles hit the door; I slowly paced myself, not wanting to alarm them. The blinds smacked against the glass plate within the door, as shifty eyes were shoved against it, peering through.
“Hello, I am Bagels W. McPhag of Fawx News. I’ve come to provide you fellows with coverage.” A smile, perhaps of relief, painted their face a brighter shade than before. The kid invited me in, the liveliness in his eyes brought them to a glow, and I felt a heart-warming sensation jump through me, such that I’d perhaps given these youngsters a sense of justification for the indignities they felt. I sat in the corner, simply observing as I clutched my notebook, readying my pen like I would a chop-stick. The rows of desks filled with students, clumps of them nude, their bodies shimmering with sweat, simmering under the flame boiling their minds as they motioned to the tribal pulse of their sex, the air moistened by a constant flow of body heat also nuanced with a hormonally charged odeur de sueur. Their eyes sparked with a gradual thirst, feverishly penetrating their female mates who assumed a supine position, sitting up with their arms behind them, and I thought, watching them jump as the males reached the depths of their watering womanhood, with cute shrieks escaping their tender lips when they had, how any of this was truly relevant. I zoomed out, and took note of an even larger image, all of them squirming like a pile of slithering snakes. Sprinkled throughout the room were lone, musing gentlemen and women, one in particular with a gun’s barrel nuzzling his temple, his lips breaking apart to utter “tick” with each click sound, which penetrated the silence and soft sighs rolling through the air, “tick.”, he said, releasing his finger from the trigger. In the corner, lay a mass of tangled corpses, some bloodied and ravaged, others faded and calm. The protest for the “Angry teens for Sex and Suicide” ended, as I’d doubted, unsuccessfully. Teens inside killed themselves, and had sex – an event staged seemingly for the sake of committing suicide and having sex. Bodies were hauled off in ambulances, some even a dark pick-up truck [reports unverified], and students were charged for sexual misconduct in a public place. Nothing was achieved but gratification. And perhaps, just perhaps, this is the fuel for a head-strong movement, propelled by recreational clubs, which may one day change the tempo of America’s ever beating heart.
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