somerealnerd

  Money was now finally pouring for John, and this “Reward World” was living up to its name day by day. New drug kickbacks and commissions stuffed his pockets fat. Mar, beyond finally okay with him “tapping that” now and then, scooped up BigMart’s scraps and dumped it all in his p. She was only keeping 20% of the profit and John got to keep the rest. He now had his own business, sort of. Camil—his first real-deal de facto wife—stepped up as his proxy at Hensley’s Haul, flexing her sharp business brain to wrangle his stores and cash. Next up, she was looking at the SubOnly investments, per their old pybook. Vivian? She basically gave John an easy pass to her everything—people, muscle, cash—and of course, herself. Wildest part? Camil, Mar, and Vivian were thick as thieves—sometimes ditching John for girl talk, fancy dinners, and bedroom giggles.

  Tammy, now PR boss at Hensley’s Haul, still nagged John about filming on SubOnly as a side business—until Camil invited her for dinner one day. Third morning after, she stumbled out—grinning, legs wobbly as shit—then hauled her bags to Camil’s that afternoon, moved in. No more film talk after that—just giggles and moans leaking from the house. Meanwhile John dropped 11 pounds staying with them.

  Most days, he still crashed at home, pying that good son to his stepmom Catherine, then having a smoke with stepsis Chloe. “Hey sis, when your company’s up, you’re keeping that ‘tits py' promise,” he’d tease, smirking. Chloe’d puff, face dark, silent—fuck this John, she stewed.

  So where’d his cash go? Chloe got her cut for her start-up, as per their pn. Catherine now had more house funds, never asking Chloe for a pair of fancy heels again. John surely tried slipping some to Miko, but she shoved it back every time, stubborn as hell. The rest? Dumped big into Tyler’s new security firm—John’s idea—profit for Tyler and protection for the dies. Tyler, now a co-owner of the firm, asked John for his business requirements. John mulled it—long and hard—then dropped, “Big guy, Bryce’s thinking back then actually makes sense, to be honest. So let’s just hire gay dudes for security, okay?” Tyler bristled—what the fuck?—but John shrugged, “You’re the top dog—they look up to you. Get me? Win-win for you and me.” Tyler paused, then cursed, “Sly, you dick,” ughing—deal sealed.

  So John’s cash had gone fast, not much left. And Camil slid him a fat-limit credit card anyway, tossing it over with that rich-bitch tone back again, “You spend, I cover—but I’m the one busting my ass for the money, so keep it tight, got it?” Staring at the card, John’s brain lit up—being a sugar baby’s fucking awesome, he grinned, soft life, baby.

  His happy life rolled on,and today was his back-to-academy day. First mission for him: figure out what the fuck Britts was up to, ghosting him hard tely. He hit the school grounds, and Becca was his first face in sight. John had to admit that after all this time not seeing Becca, her ass got fatter, rounder, and perkier—rocking those yoga pants like a goddamn billboard. John froze, eyes glued to that curve, barely blinking.

  Becca, same old cute goofball, caught his stare—smacked her own ass loud, “Hey, Johnny, don’t just stare—give it a couple sps!” Her voice boomed across the cssroom, that thwack echoing, every head swiveling their way—shit, she’s nuts, John thought, pulse kicking. He itched to smack it, but with all eyes burning holes, he froze, awkward as hell. “She’s kidding, just kidding!” he blurted to the room, waving it off. Becca’s face screamed I ain’t joking, jackass—so he leaned in quick, hissing low, “Not now, Becca.”

  Still, she was the perfect one to ask the question—why the hell was Britts dodging him? Becca cackled at the question, “Oh, you really pissed her off this time—she’s furious, says she’s gonna beat your ass next time she sees you.”

  “Did she say why?” John pressed. Becca opened her mouth, then pointed behind him, “She’s here—ask her yourself.”

  John spun—too te. Britts’ foot in bck pantyhose, shoeless, was already flying at his face. He bnked—dodge or take it?—hesitated for a split second, and that made him eat the kick square. Pain fred, dropping him to a squat, hand clutching his nose.

  “What’s your fucking problem, Britts? You hit me, at least tell me why you’re so mad! I love your feet, sure, but not that hard!” he spat, wincing.

  Britts’ gre didn’t budge, “You’ve got some nerve, you prick—you’re out there screwing around daily, fine, but why the fuck did you have to fuck—” Her rant cut short. A timid, polished guy voice broke the mix of joy and tension.

  “Uh, John, can I—can I talk to you for a second?”

  John tracked the sound—Liam, that quiet kid, small, shy as hell. A clean, soft face screaming ‘someone bully me already’ vibes—would be called pretty, but probably not handsome. He never said a word to John till now. Britts’ face shifted, seeing Liam. Her expression got complicated, as if she knew what this was about. Her anger faded and she spped John’s shoulder, “He’s talked to me already, Johnny—hear him out. I’ll deal with you ter.” She grabbed Becca—still gawking, ready for round two—and hauled her off, leaving John blinking, what the hell just happened?

  Liam led John to a dead patch behind the school building—no people around. Fishing his smoke pack from his pocket, John eyed the boy, “Alright, how can I help you—Liam, right?” He lit up, took a drag, then offered one out of courtesy. Liam’s hand hovered mid-air—looking nervous as hell. John caught the jitters, smirked, “It’s okay Liam, smoking’s bad anyway, better if you don’t.” He started pulling the smoke back, but Liam snatched it fast, jammed it in his mouth, and fumbled John’s lighter—clicking, clicking, no fme. What's his deal? John thought, brow quirking. He swiped the lighter, sparked Liam up, then sucked deep on his own—face saying, rex, man, I’m all ears.

  Liam mimicked him—big drag—then hacked hard, coughing, “Uh, smoking’s not allowed in the academy though.”

  John cracked up, “Come on, you want my help or what?” Liam flushed, “Sorry, John—just a bit nervous.” John fshed an easy grin, cutting to the chase, “Rex, man—talk. Who’s bullying you? How do I fix it?”

  Liam blinked, startled—not because John nailed the bullying, but he saw Britts was right: this John was a whole new person, confident and clever. The old log John was everybody’s punching bag—had a life worse than his. Britts’ tales of this new John never really clicked for him till now. He shook the thought off, then steadied, starting to tell his story slow.

  He was a geek—nerd, whatever. He himself never cared what they called him—loved his own little world, and had great fun with himself . Problem was though, that made him an easy target for bullies—always had. Growing up, it was small shit: cash grabs, errand boy gigs, cheap ughs. Worst case? A few sneaky punches, “loser” tossed around—then they’d leave him alone. Liam fought back a few times, but he was too small, zero chance. But it never got too bad like what happened to old John, so he shrugged it off—scrapes, not scars. Then academy hit, and Philip—that tall, jacked captain of the basketball team rolled in.

  John cut in, “Hey, Liam—forget about this Phil guy. Names don’t mean shit. Can’t remember that many. Just call him ‘the fucker.’” Liam paused, “But it’s not just him.”

  “Then it’s Fucker A, B, C, D—line ‘em up.”

  “Alright—Philip, uh, sorry, Fucker A—he’s… he’s a horrible piece of shit,” Liam pressed on, voice dipping, cursing for the first time in their conversation.

  Fucker A—built like a tank, sports star glow—had been hot shit his whole life. Girls, clout, the works. But then academy life hit, and Anthony’s shine blinded everyone—Fucker A’s chick-chasing dreams tanked hard. Before then, he’d ruled as the top-dog alpha; here, he was just some guy under Anthony. That drop fucked with his head bad. Violence became his outlet—him and his posse turned Liam into a punching bag, as nasty as it could be. Three cracked ribs, right arm snapped twice, concussions—mild, medium, too many to count. Worst part? The bastard timed it—fresh bruises before old ones faded, keeping Liam a walking wreck, always purple and busted.

  Liam’s single mom found about this. She came to the academy, demanding the staff to step up and put an end to this. And Fucker A finally backed off.

  Liam felt real joy—Mom fixed it. He’d leap home those days, and she’d be beaming too—unusually chipper—dropping hints like a young girl in love, “Got good news, Liam—when the time’s right, you’ll know.”

  John sucked in a hard breath, cutting Liam off, “Hold up, man—stop. I… I think I get it. You… what do you want me to do?”

  Liam’s face went bnk—dazed. He waved a shaky hand at John, asking for another smoke. John fished out one, lit it for him, and waited, eyes steady—it’s fine, man. Take your time.

  Liam didn’t answer—took a deep drag instead, smoother now, like he’d cracked the habit. “John, you’re not curious how he pulled it off? My mom—she was actually happy at first, thought she was in love.”

  John cmmed up. Of course he could crack the trick, but he didn’t want to say it, at least not in front of Liam, a victim of these tricks he usually pulled. He shook his head slow—keeping his mouth shut. Liam saw through him, though, “John, I won’t judge. Britts told me how you pyed her head at first, got her hooked. But she said you treated her right—never forced her to do anything she didn’t want.”

  Another drag, smoke curling, “And after today, I believe it—you being nice to me like this? Faking you’re some bullied kid, while being my bully, to get my mom into bed? That’s not your game.”

  John froze—is he reading me?—no words, just stunned. Liam was sharper than he’d pegged.

  “So, John, I’m asking for help. Things’ gone bad—really bad. It was just Philip at first. My mom, a victim, forced herself to take him, thinking at least he won’t touch me again. But then he put this fucking idea into my mom’s head that the only way my mom could help me, as a broke woman, was whoring herself out—let people creampie her, so she could charge for it.”

  John felt this deep anger fueling in his chest. He didn’t want to listen to the rest of the story anymore, but he decided to let Liam finish.

  “So my mom started to take birth-control pills, to take his crew, Fucker B and Fucker C. That Fucker A Philip, took the money, and not really giving my mom any. My mom finally realized she’s been conned, all along. She wanted out, and then all his crew, including himself, showed up—did it together, filmed it, used it to shut us up and force my mom to keep doing what they want. But I still took her to my aunt’s after. She’s staying there for now. She's wrecked, crying herself to sleep every day. And the thing is, she can’t stay there forever.” Liam’s face twisted—self-bme, rage, grief piling up, ugly and raw.

  “The time they did it together, they kept saying no matter how loud my mom screamed, no one’d hear, because poor fuckers like us stuck out in the boonies.” Liam’s voice cracked, teetering on colpse—hand shaking, smoke wobbling. “And they…they made me watch, and kept telling my mom this was the only way she could fix my problems as a broke bitch.”

  John didn’t know how to patch that mess—frowned hard, sucking his cig, this is really fucked up.

  John broke the quiet first, “I’m really sorry about what you and your mom are going through. So tell me, what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “I just want them to stop—leave us alone, delete that fucking video, let us move on. I begged Britts to help—thought since she used to run with bullies, they’d listen. She tried—but nothing. Said you would definitely have a fix.”

  Liam’s words finally lit John’s blood—head pounding, you fucking kidding me? He itched to sp him awake. He thought he would hear some me-ass vanil fixes from Liam: call the cops, lock ‘em up; hire some muscle, beat ‘em up. Understandable, Liam seemed to be brought up right and normal. But “stop bothering us” after all this shit? John’s face twisted—rage bubbling, that’s not what you should ask, Liam.

  Liam caught the shift—snapped loud, “You think I don’t wanna hit back? But how? Every time I tried to fight back, they smashed me harder! You were bullied too—don’t you get it? I’d take it if it was just me—but my mom’s in this now! What if they pull some worse shit on her?”

  John stayed mute—tossed his cigarette, stared cold, eyes slicing like Liam was a fool.

  Liam kept erupting, “I know you’re not a log anymore—but we’re still both fucking nobodies! Philip? That Fucker A’s got cash, connections—shit happens, he walks! Why else you think I’ve been busted up this much and he’s never touched?”

  “Run then, leave here, never come back, and pray they can never find you again,” John spat, conversation’s done—his disgust thick, this Liam’s hopeless. He turned to leave.

  Right then, a thick, booming, masculine voice rolled in, “Hey, ain’t that Liam? Where’s your mom, man? She’s been dodging me—I miss her bad.” Two other guys snickered behind it, “Last time, us three had a bst. She don’t come py again soon, that video’s hitting the web.”

  John’s gut was already churning—pissed from Liam’s answers, nowhere to unload. Now these scumbags stroll up? Perfect.

  “Go ahead, dumbass, post it. You lose your leverage. It's not even a good one if you ask me. That's a fucking rape. It’ll get fgged and yanked anyway. Won’t st an hour on SubOnly. Liam can then call the cops and bag you, and you are the dumb fuck who posted the evidence online yourself. So do it, pussy—don’t bitch out.”

  The trio froze—John’s words nding like a brick. Philip, the ringleader, squinted, clocking him, “Well, well, well, shit, ain’t this log John? Heard you’re hot stuff now—bagged Britts and all. Just proves Anthony’s a fucking loser. I’m still the baddest motherfucker here. Don’t get comfy though—Britts’ll be mine soon.” He flexed his bicep, smirking—check this out, losers.

  John didn’t even gnce—pointed at him, speaking to Liam, “So this is Fucker A?” Before Liam could get a word out, Philip snarled, “Who you calling that, you fucking log? I’m gonna fuck you u—” Mid-sentence, John unched—whole body springing—one fist smming Philip’s liver. Philip’s eyes bulged, knees buckling, hitting the dirt with a groan, dry-heaving hard. His two goons locked up—too spooked to twitch.

  “Next time, drop me first, and then do that pep talk. This ain’t a basketball game.”

  John then shook out his hand, turning to Liam, “Well, Fucker A’s built like a damn ox though—my knuckles sting.” He dug into his jacket, pulling out a taser. He picked it up after Mar zapped him st time, handiest shit ever, he’d decided.

  “Look, Liam. Thing is, we’re human, and using tools sets us apart from other animals. So you don't have to be big, you just need to learn the tools.” That signature shit-eating grin of his crept up as he said it. Liam still stood there, dazed, but John shoved the taser at him, “Take it, give it a try, have some fun. Window’s short though. He gets up, you’re screwed. Zap him, he’ll be down for a while again—we py however we want.”

  Liam grabbed it—hands shaky—still deciding whether to do it or not.

  “Come on, Liam. How hard would it be? You just put it on him, click a button, and he’s all yours. But I suggest you do it on his balls.” John pressed, while his mind echoing, you must do this yourself, Liam, or you are fucked by him for the rest of your life.

  Still, no move from Liam.

  “No wonder your mom thought she was in love, cause her son’s fucking pussy.” John finally said something harsh to Liam, hoping it would provoke him into some actions.

  That did it, Liam yanked Philip’s pants off, brutally shoved the taser onto his balls from behind, and zapped him for a full five seconds. The taser hit, and Philip flopped, twitching like a fish on dirt. Fucker B and C got shocked—legs pumping, gone from the scene.

  “That’s a good one! But shame, your audience bailed,” John shrugged, palms up.

  “Au-Audience?” Liam stammered—brain gging, still reeling—but something clicked, a gear turning slow.

  John skipped the audience bit, tossing out a curveball instead, “Uh, Liam—how you holding up hydration-wise? I haven’t had a drop since morning.” He stepped over to the twitching Philip, grabbed his jaw, yanked hard—pop—Philip’s mouth hung sck, chin drooping useless.

  “Uh, what’s this for? I’ve had plenty water today,” Liam said, blinking.

  John smirked at the grounded Philip, dusting his hands, “I learned this trick from a buddy—says the army uses it to crack guys in interrogation.” Course, that buddy was Tyler.

  Liam stared, lost as hell, taser limp in his grip—waiting for John’s next move. John stared back—Philip’s twitching slowed, and Liam, after a beat, zapped him again—bzzzt.

  Now we’re talking, Liam.

  John grinned, lighting a fresh smoke, “Use your imagination, man. He’s the basketball captain, right? So py basketball with him. Take a shot.”

  “Shot? What do you mean?” Liam blinked, clueless.

  “Look, his mouth’s wide open, perfect hoop. Shoot some baskets. I got it wide open for you, so he can’t shut it now,” John said, chuckling through his drag.

  “Uh… shoot what?” Liam still wasn’t tracking. John didn’t answer—just showed him. Plucked the cig from his lips, lined it up, and flicked—a clean arc, nding square in Philip’s dry, gaping mouth. No spit to kill it—the ember glowed, smoke curling up from his throat.

  “Hey, Liam—Fucker A’s mouth might be toasting. Toss something in, put it out,” John prodded, come on, it’s so obvious now.

  Liam frowned, “But there’s no water here?”

  John’s patience was running out, “Didn’t you just fucking say that you had plenty!? Move it—I’ll film it. And chill, I won’t catch your junk in the vid.”

  Liam bnked—wait, what?—eyes darting to John. John nodded, grinning—phone up, lens locked on Philip’s twitching, smoking mug.

  Click—something snapped in Liam’s head again.

  The video rolled—a pale yellow stream arced toward Philip’s mouth. On the ground, Philip squirmed to dodge, but his zapped body betrayed him—twitching harder, helpless. The stream chased his lips—wild, jerky—missing half the time, spshing his face, soaking him sloppy. Then a sharp voice cut through, “Hey, Fucker A, my buddy here’s just a rookie, let him practice fixed shots first.” A boot then smmed onto Philip’s forehead—pinning him still. The stream steadied, sliding from his nose to his mouth—pooling fast, gurgling like water hitting water, mixed with choked gulps. Then—boom—huge ughter erupted. The stream wobbled, drenching Philip’s face again—wet chaos.

  They strolled off, cackling—Philip sprawled behind, hair, face, neck dripping, pale yellow trickling from his mouth. He’d live, physically, anyway.

  Farther out, Liam grinned, buzzing, “Today was a fucking bst—so now they’ll stop bothering us?” And John’s smirk froze—snapped back to reality.

  “You still don’t get it, do you? There’s no ‘stop bothering us.’ Even if they quit, someone else’ll step up,” John said, hoping Liam would wake up from his naivety.

  “Who else?” Liam asked, brow scrunched—lost.

  John’s patience ftlined—fuck this—and he switched gears to hammer it home. “Here’s the deal, Liam. I’ll help—get your Fucker A, B, C sorted, but just the guidance, not grunt work. I’m not jumping in again like today, max I’ll do is bait ‘em for you. Pick up my tricks, you’ll own those three fuckers easy, and you’ll forget about that stupid ‘stop bothering us’ crap, hopefully for the rest of your life.” He paused, that dumb “who else” question still echoing in his head.

  “Well, Liam, thing is, I don’t help for free,” John’s tone hardened, cutting through.

  Liam waited—braced for the catch, but John’s next line iced his spine.

  “Once it’s done, I’m having your mom too.”