Daddy loves me, this I know...
It was a sweet little setup. A long game, with a honey of a payout. Never have been able to do it without Deacon's seed money. You got to pay a little to steal a lot, after all, and the UNC endowment is a whole hell of a lot. Six months from the finish, and the dumb shits don't see it coming, not from a sweet little eager undergrad like myself. Classes are interesting enough, if you like that sort of thing. Papers and books and everyon'e so disgustingly eager. The most duplicitious things around here are blowing profs for grades, spiking drinks for sex, and introductory credit cards, and I want to fucking gag. Woo Girls and Yeah Guys as far as the eye can see, yipping and shrieking in drunken ecstacy, mongrels mating. These people are pathetic.
The house in Cary wasn't for Christine Farrell. Or Tina Jamison. Dara Hendricks owned it, but a dozen women lived in that closet, left the house in varying bits and pieces. None of them had ever seen this man before, but he sat in the living room, and didn't so much as smile. His tones were cool, clipped, and she'd replay them for months after, remembering the cadence of words in which he laid her plans out for her and neatly knocked them down. The failure stung, that someone had uncovered these things to the degree where denial did more harm than good. He didn't respond to any opening gambits to negotiation, a smooth stone wall that her subtle advances slid off. No buyoffs except one. Heart's blood and service.
I don't know what's going on, just that it's a dream come true. Here we are, dark and dead, and it's wonderful, fucking glorious. The long play has new meaning now, and we're eager to get to work. There's never been another monster like me, and there never will be. I'll make you proud, and you won't even know it.