tent warningsslurs

  [colpse]Chapter 1: Girls2023 September 29FridayThe Royal College of Saint Almsworth. It’s a bit of a mouthful, so most of the other students just call it Saints. I think that does its namesake a bit of injustice, though. Saint Almsworth—or Arms-Worthy; how awesome is that?—was a great man from what I’ve heard, and it’s only proper that we show him the respect he deserves.

  Not that attending this institution of higher learning was something I saw ing a year ago. I was attending college iates. ly close to where I grew up—I needed space from my dad—but not across a whole o, either.

  And then I got expelled for bullshit reasons.

  My parents were pissed, of course. I hoped my dad would at least sider my side of the story—we do agree ohings that matter—but no dice.

  “I don’t care about why it started if all it amouo was me having an unemployable washout for a son.”

  I fug hate my dad sometimes.

  He was ag as though he might even cut me off until he got some good news. A business associate of my dad’s in the UK told him about a schorship program she’d started a ferior. The Sed Starts program finds young men with less than perfect sounding backgrounds, pulls some strings, and pces them iigious uies around the UK for another shot at a successful life. Starting this year, they were even sidering iional applits. It’s amazing what good you do with a rge enough bank at.

  Grahe program isn’t exclusively for men, but while reading up on it, I noticed the statistics definitely skewed in our favor. The dy bankrolling this thing must actually reize that we’re the o a disadvantage most of the time and want to rebahe scales. Good to know there are some women out there whnize how the world really works.

  As soon as he heard about the program, my dad insisted to his associate that I was an ideal didate, forced an application into my hands, and now here I am.

  I still don’t uand why I got pced at the Royal College of Saint Almsworth in particur, though. The Royal College—OK, I get it now—Saints doesn’t have much going on in the way of engineering or physics, the subjects I inally po study. It does have an excellent psychology program, though, and if I’m supposed to be getting a “sed start”, I may as well use it to study something genuinely iing to me: human behavior and the theory behind the different kinds of delusions people may fall prey to.

  My parents aren’t thrilled by my choiajor—rather, subject—but they begrudgingly accepted my choid even found me an apartment.

  I didn’t move in right away, though. Instead, I spent the summer t Engnd and the rest of nearby Europe. I was treating my time like I wouldn’t have another ce to travel like this for a while. Necessary? No. But fun? Definitely.

  And now I’m back at my apartment. The apartment purchased exclusively for een-year-old me, because my dad has more mohan sense and doesn’t wao “worry about flicts with ahan respectable roommates.”

  Fuck. Every time I think about my old roommate, I just get pissed off again and…

  No. I’m not going back there today. None of what happe spring matters right now.

  What does matter is that it’s Friday evening. And that means no csses—modules—tomorrow and a ce tonight to see how this college parties. I asked around, and I kly where I should go.

  * * *

  Legend is… alright. Or maybe just cheap, at least pared to the other clubs around here. But what it cks in ambience, ood music, or liness, it makes up with girls! There’s so many, it’s like there’s three bachelorette parties going on at once, and while I’m not the only man here by any means, the odds are definitely in my favor.

  There’s one girl in the bar area with absolutely fantastic tits. There’s a tall smoking hot blonde on the dance floor, and what she’s wearing is so much sexier than what the girls bae used to wear. And that red head over there…

  Wait. I’ve seen her around campus a couple times before. Every time we make eye tact, she turns away like I caught her staring or something. The first two times it happened, I thought it was just a ce, but I immediately figured out what was going ohird time.

  It’s obvious she’s got a crush on the Ameri boy, but she’s too shy to do anything about it. I decide to throw her a bone and walk over to say hi.

  “Hey there,” I say.

  “Oh! Hi. Um… rilby hat.”

  “Fedora, actually.”

  “I guess I was mistaken, then.”

  Damn, she’s cute.

  “Don’t worry about it. You know, I’ve seen you around campus a couple times before, and it’s pretty obvious you’ve been cheg me out. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

  Her eyebrows raise a touch just long enough for me to notice. She was clearly not expeg to be called out like that.

  “I’m fttered really, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I already have a girlfriend, and we’re not looking to add a third.”

  Right, a girlfriend. What a waste. And it’s not like I’d ever be happy being a third, whatever that means.

  “Sure, alright, fine. Just try not to lead a guy oime if you have no pns to follow through.”

  It’s clear the redhead wants to say something in response, but before she , we’re interrupted by anirl. This one has short brown hair.

  “Is everything alright here, Steph?”

  I don’t want to risk missing out on another opportunity tonight, so I quickly answer for her, “Oh, we’re fine. Just a little misuanding.”

  The redhead—Steph—gives her friend a look that I have trouble reading.

  “It’s hat you came to che your friend, though,” I say. “Really sweet. A friendship like that should be celebrated. How about I buy you a drink instead?”

  OK, maybe that wasn’t my stro py, but it’s been a long first week of csses, and I did pregame a bit befetting here.

  The brue responds with a simple, “No thanks,” and before I process what’s happening, the tall blonde I saw earlier walks up, snakes an arm around the brue’s waist and says, “She’s taken.”

  Of course she is.

  “rilby, by the way,” the blonde says.

  I very politely respond, “It’s a fedora, actually.”

  Something about our exge causes the bruo crack up ughing. “I’m sorry,” she says between snorts, “it’s just that you’re actually manspining fashion to Paige Adams of all people. I know, I know, these types of hats are usually worn by men, but I guarantee she still knows more about hat styles than anybody else in this building.”

  “And it is a trilby,” she tinues. “Knowing the difference ractically a meme a few years back.”

  “Thanks for the backup, Christihe blonde—Paige—says.

  “Of course, Babe.”

  “Oh fuck off,” I say. “If I’d known this pce was full of rude dykes, I’d never have e.”

  I must have been talking a bit louder than I thought I was, because several of the club’s other patrons have stopped what they were doing to stare at us.

  “Yeah, yeah, I get when I’m not wahis pce sucks anyway.”

  Having stated my iion to leave, I raise a finger in the air aoward the door.

  Half an hour ter, I’ve exited my ride share and stumbled into my apartment. I toss my fedora—trilby, whatever—on the cheap kit table I bought and flop on to my bed. I’m so fug pissed, and drunk, that I don’t betting undressed.

  My st thought before falling asleep is that there’s no way I’m going back to that shit hole weekend.

  2023 October 4WednesdayFuck. My head feels like somebody is driving a stake through my eyes, and the bright lights above me aren’t helping. Where the hell am I, anyway? And why aren’t I in my own bed instead of on this shitty cot?

  Last thing I remember is starting to head toward my apartment Tuesday evening to do some studying, but I don’t remember getting there. I’m certain I didn’t do any drinking st night.

  I take a look around. It looks like I’ve been thrown into a jail cell. Three crete walls surround me, and the fourth wall looks like it’s made of gss.

  And what the hell am I wearing? I’m in some kind of itchy green dress, and whoever put me here didn’t even have the decy to leave me in my boxers.

  “Hello?” I yell. “Where the hell am I?”

  An inter system somewhere in my cell shrieks to life, and a woman starts speaking. “There’s a banana and a cereal bar on the floor he door. I suggest you eat. Leave the empty food tray by the door when you’re done. Oh, and don’t scratch your stomach.”

  The intermediately clicks off. I guess she didn’t have anything else to say.

  What was that about my stomach? Don’t scratch? I pull the dress up a bit and notice a small bump with a darker spot in the middle. Did they stick me with something? What the fuck?

  Between the headache and a huhat’s getting more and more difficult to ignore, I’m having trouble thinking straight. I figure things ’t get any worse than they are right now, so I eat the little breakfast they gave me, put the empty tray by the door—no sense in further pissing off whoever’s holding me here—and y back down o.

  * * *

  I must have fallen back asleep, because the food tray is gohe ime I look at the door to my cell.

  After what I think is another hour—there’s no way to tell how much time is passing in here—a woman with half her hair buzzed off es up to the door with aray of food. She’s dressed surprisingly nice for a jail guard, wearing a long dress and heels of all things. She pulls a psticky looking gun from a pocket in her dress.

  “Step away from the door so I give you your lunch,” she says.

  “Wait! Where am I, and what the fuck is going on in here? I know I didn’t do anything wetting locked up over.”

  She quietly snorts at that st statement and says, “Somebody else will be here ter who answer your questions. Now, unless you want a jillion volts of electro-death for lunstead of this vegetable soup, I have to insist you step away from the door.”

  This bitch seems crazy, so I do as I’m told. She presses her thumb against a little box o the door’s handle, opens the door, and drops off my lunch. Then, she quickly closes the dain with a loud clid walks away.

  After I’m sure she’s gone, I walk over to pick up the tray holding my lunch. I have to admit, the vegetable soup is surprisingly OK.

  2023 October 6FridaySurprisingly OK food is about the only thing this pce has to offer. Other than ying on my little cot or squatting over a etal toilet, there’s nothing to do. There’s no TV, no books, not even anybody else to talk to except the bitches that bring me food, something that is seriously weird now that I think about it. Jails aren’t usually run exclusively by well-dressed women.

  I tell by looking through the gss wall that my cell lies in a hallway, but opposite the cell is just a crete wall. There’s no way to tell how many, if any, other cells there are.

  Based on the meals they’ve brought me and the dimming of the lights, I figure I’ve been here a little over two days, meaning it’s Friday afternoon. I’ve only been at Saints for two weeks, and it’s already looking like I’ll have to py catch-up on my csses again.

  Fuck. It’s been two whole days and they haven’t even told me why I’m here. I’m not iates anymore, but I’m pretty sure I still have shts.

  “This isn’t funny anymore,” I yell. “At least tell me what I’m doing here or when I leave.”

  A few mier—or hours; I’m so fug bored I ’t tell the differenymore—I hear the click-cck of a woman’s heels. They’re being piped through speakers, but I get the impression that somebody is walking down the crete hallway outside my cell. I sigh and take my normal position in the er opposite the door. At least some dinner ought to help stave off the boredom for a bit.

  The woman—no, the girl; she looks like she’s still in her early 20s—who walks up to my cell is dressed even han the ones who usually bring me my meals. And while her eyes make it obvious she’s wearing makeup—I guess she wanted her eyeshadow to plement the dark blue dress she’s wearing—it’s not overwhelming like she’s pnning a night of clubbing. It’s like she’s dressed to impress but not to flirt.

  Two other things stand out about this girl. One, she’s siderably shorter than the women whht me my meals before, and two, she’s not actually carrying any food with her.

  She stops in front of my cell door and looks me over. She doesn’t look frustrated or tired like some of the others. Instead, her mouth is angled in a slight smirk.

  “Joseph Thompson,” she says, “my name’s Bethany, and I hear you’ve been a very naughty kitten.”