[Incomplete] The Mad Dog

Transfer students are always trouble. That’s what Twenty thought, anyway, until he heard the transfer student was a girl. He sighed with relief. “Well, we got lucky. New kids don’t respect the authority here,” Twenty muttered to his circle. “Y-you’d show ‘em whose boss no matter, though” one of them said. Twenty looked over. It was Greasy with his maniacal grin. Really he was just a glorified yes-man, but his delinquent look put him right at home with the circle, and Twenty liked anybody who boosted his ego. Greasy wasn’t named so for his slicked-back coal hair, but for the perpetual coating that gleamed off of his face. One time a teacher had given him detention for lying to her, mistaking the oil for a nervous sweat.

Twenty looked around. He kept his circle tight. There was Cee, the only one of them who had been outright expelled. Cee wasn’t a ‘bad kid’ like the others, but he was a true nymphomaniac, and his looks reflected it. His hair was wavy and bright blond, and piercings covered his ears, nose, eyebrows, and… well, one can imagine what else. When it got out that he had not only been sleeping with the male choir teacher, but doing some… atypical sexual acts, the choir teacher smoothed things over with the administration at the school before having Cee thrown out and prosecuted for sexual assault. The evidence was completely circumstantial, and as a model prisoner, Cee was released after a couple months. His nickname for the C-note spread around the whole school because he had, in the words of the choir teacher, “the perfect pitch.”

Next Twenty’s gaze turned to Splat, who made the best throw-ups in town. None of the others were any good at graffiti, but they all admired his skill. Even if there were other artists who could do better with time, Splat was infamous for having tagged a full train car while it was moving. Most of the graffiti gangs wanted his head though, since he had no regard for others’ works, no matter how good they were. Twenty caught him on the run and was amused enough by how inflammatory the guy was that he kept him around, on the condition that Splat take showers more frequently than “when he had time.”

Finally there was Khan, the Russian. Twenty knew Khan through their fathers, which automatically placed him as serious trouble. The rumor around the school was that Khan’s father was a retired agent for the KGB. Twenty knew there was no such thing as retirement from a position like that. Which meant either the CIA was giving him asylum for something top-secret, or the CIA was trying to eliminate the ‘target’ and anybody remotely connected to said ‘target.’ Whatever Khan’s father did, Twenty’s father had taken Khan under his ‘services’ for protection. Not like he needed any such protection with some of the martial arts that he knew and his simply enormous stature. Some of the others wondered whether Khan was actually bald or if he just kept his head shiny, but nobody dared ask.

If Khan was the best at individual combat, then Twenty was the best at war games. Even if he hadn't been the illegitimate son of the head of some major “organization,” Twenty had the intuition to strategize how to bring anyone he wanted to their knees. His nickname reflected his scary generosity: Twenty never accepted change, and only carried twenty dollar bills. Bartenders would give him nervous glances when he left them such high tips, and any run-ins with the police were thwarted when they found a roll in their shirt pockets. Twenty dressed for funerals every day, half to look well-dressed and half because it frequently was somebody’s funeral that day. His father had sent him to public school in an attempt to keep the boy’s profile low, but he was hell-bent on inheriting his father’s throne over any of his half-brothers.

Unlike the others, Twenty was never without “arm-candy” while in the public eye. (Not that Cee couldn’t have had any girl he wanted, but he showed no such interest in women.) Most of the women looked to be nearly a decade older than he, but between his mature dress and mannerisms, nobody raised an eyebrow. Twenty insisted all of the women pined after him from attraction rather than money, which was entirely possible. His plethora of magic card tricks and equally spellbinding (but seldom) smile was enough to woo anyone he desired.

Transfer students were never good, though. When Khan transferred, there was a great duel of Khan’s overwhelming strength and physical prowess and Twenty’s mind games and tactics. Neither backed down till Khan found himself with Twenty’s .45 to his head and Twenty’s neck felt the cold blade of a knife held by Khan’s meaty fist.

The day after learning of the transfer student, Greasy handed Twenty a profile card with a large “A P P R O V E D” stamped across it. It showed the picture of a demure girl with long, straight hair. Sarah White, born January thirteenth, 1995. Twenty smiled. He liked how resourceful "“scrappy,” he called it" Greasy was.

That evening Twenty was troubled. He sifted through document after document but found no record of a Sarah White matching her appearance or age. Social media, family history, nothing. In fact, the only government document in the NSA’s entire database was that of the “A P P R O V E D” card for her application to the school. No phone calls, internet search history, anything. It seemed Sarah White was a ghost, and a ghost who would be in his school at the end of the weekend.

Saturday morning Twenty found Splat waiting outside his door. Something was certainly amiss.
“What is it that could trouble you, Splat?”
“It’s… It’s the trains. You should come see.”
“I’m a busy man. Tell me what it is.”
“Fine, but you must come look.”
Twenty was worried now. Splat could be crass and informal at times, but never had he demanded a thing from Twenty. Even when his own life was on the line Splat never made any demands and only kowtowed for Twenty’s appeasement. As they began walking, Splat started,
“Last night I caught the last train of the evening headed back to the station, so I can tell you for sure this happened all overnight.”
“Yea. Tell me what it is, Splat. I don’t have time.”
“We’ll be there soon.”
Twenty lived on his own in a two-story home, but it wasn’t in the most wealthy part of town. The train yard was easily five minutes on foot. He followed behind Splat’s slinking gate, on the lookout for cover and a weapon if this were to be some kind of ruse.

At last they reached the station, and Twenty’s eyebrows flicked up over his sunglasses. A crew was already out to hose down the cars, but every single train had been covered in the same tag, over and over. In fact, the buildings in the train yard were covered in it too, even on the second and third floors. White. Sprayed completely white, with a stylized black outlined design spelling “White.” Twenty’s heart plummeted. It had to have been her. Sarah White.

Twenty didn’t make phone calls. People could listen in. But when he returned to his house, Twenty dialed a number. It rung three times before the other end picked up. A friendly, soft baritone voice answered,
“Marvin. What do you need?”
He grimaced. There was good reason he threatened the school administration at gunpoint that his name be registered as Twenty.
“Model prisoner.”
“You know I don’t study your secret codes. Tell me it plain, the CIA won’t care ‘bout this one.”
“We’ve got a bad transfer student.”
“How bad?”
“She’s got the resources to listen to this call, I bet.”
“You’re paranoid. I know you better than anyone, Marvin. Lemme give you a challenge, as your father. I challenge you to be this new girl’s friend, right from the start. No proof in combat or chess or however you test people. Just become her friend, okay?”
“…”
“That’s an order from your father. Treat her like… like you treat Tabatha.”
“I stopped seeing Tabatha.”
“Well that’s too bad. Treat the new girl like you treat your women. And in the good way, too.”
“Goodbye.”
“Be sure to call"“
Twenty hung up. He couldn’t stand the old man’s manners. The cheery demeanor and comfortable informality was just a way to take people off guard. He’d see his father on the job, talking about the weather while holding an assault rifle to someone’s head. It was frankly terrifying. Twenty by far preferred being the stern, aloof leader rather than the two-faced friendly one.

Sunday passed far too quickly for Twenty’s liking. Be her friend? Be her friend? How could he? It was madness. He slept with an eye open and a gun on the bedside floor. Monday morning began calmly, as did any day. Twenty grounded himself. No nerves. He would become White’s… friend. Her friend.

Author's Note

Experimenting with over-the-top romanticized characters and a superhero-esque type of world.