Death of a Fuckboi
Warning: This story contains violent, graphic content.
Sergio had gotten kicked out of two nightclubs and was starting to get pissed off.
He stumbled down the road, under the orange street lamps, in the ungodly humidity of a Miami night. Patches of sweat formed on his black-and-purple Armani suit. Dog shit clung to the soles of his shoes. The expensive cologne he’d doused himself in had mostly worn off. Whatever was left had mixed with his sweat, creating a sickly sweet odor. The boy was not in a good way.
There were still a few clubs he could check out, but he was no longer in the mood. He’d had it with these women who wouldn’t give him the time of day, who’d shriek when he gave them a “friendly squeeze,” as he called it. You’d think these girls had never been in a nightclub before.
Sergio seethed at these women. To him, they were selfish creatures, who used their beauty to manipulate and exploit and tease young men. All he wanted to do was talk to them, buy them a drink, dance with them, show them a good time. If they’d only give him a chance, they’d see what a sweet, intelligent, nice guy he was.
But they never would. They were too shallow.
Sergio thought they’d all probably end up with big dumb assholes who’d beat them. And he wouldn’t have an ounce of pity for them.
