You run into an unwelcome individual along the way.

The walk from your house to the college is roughly a mile, so you get walking. You consider that you could probably manipulate somebody driving along in a car to give you a lift, but decide against it; normally, you'd be grateful for any way to avoid the trip, but after what happened today, ideas and possibilities continue to race through your head. You've always left for school early in order to avoid potentially encountering certain people along the way, people who had the tendency to make an already shitty day far, far worse.

But today... today you have a weapon. And, wouldn't you know it, as you're walking along, you suddenly feel a sharp smack against the back of your head, and a voice that you've learned to hate and fear: "Hey, loser," it says. You stop, and turn around to face the person who hit you: Brett Peterson, a thoroughly nasty asshole who has bullied you throughout your entire life. He wears black jeans and a puffy blue winter jacket, not to mention a malicious sneer that seems to be permanently etched into his face. His hair is short and blond, nearly crew-cut, and he stares at you with his beady eyes.

"Hey, Brett," you reply quietly, staring intently at the ground, trying to play-act as your usual scared, submissive self.

"'Hey, Brett,'" he repeats, mocking you. "What are you doing? Going to your nerd school?" Brett didn't attend any sort of school after (amazingly) graduating high school, and it was understood throughout the town that he didn't need to. His father owned a large construction company, one which had been passed down throughout their family for generations, and which Brett would certainly inherit when his dad retired. They certainly weren't rich in any real sense of the word, but they were well-off enough that no matter how stupid, cruel, and incompetent Brett happened to be, he'd probably still be set for life -- and he knew it.

You don't say anything to his mocking rhetorical question; you just turn to start walking again, continuing to look down. "Hey!" he says, walking alongside you. "Hey, nerd, I asked you a question. What, you think you're too good to talk to me?" This is all shit you've heard many, many times before, and usually you've done your best to tune it out. Brett might hit you a few times, maybe throw some stuff at you, and eventually grow bored and leave. But not this time. You can't help but let loose a small grin as you walk.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" he taunts. "You think this is funny?" This only makes your smile grow wider, which just makes Brett angrier. Another smack upside the back of your head, and now you've stopped completely, a laugh escaping your lips. You glance up and look at him; he's more baffled than you've ever seen him before, and maybe even a little scared at your unexpected reaction.

"Brett," you begin, and he actually takes a small step backwards. Your voice is completely different than he's ever heard it before: confident, authoritative... sadistic. "Slap your own face, as hard as you can." Tap goes the device on your arm, and there's a sharp crack as Brett wallops himself across his own cheek.

He turns back to look at you, in utter astonishment. "Wh... what the fuck..." he begins to say.

"Do it again," you command. Tap... crack. There's a big, red welt on his face now, and he looks absolutely baffled and terrified at what is taking place. That's interesting, you observe detachedly. Other times I've used the device, people's minds came up with justifications for why they were behaving. I guess his mind can't come up with any reason for why he's beating himself up.

"Please," he pleads, almost whispering, and you can see glistening tears in the corners of his eyes. If you were a better person, you might even feel a bit bad for him. You might even let him off the hook.

But you aren't a better person. Not with him, and not today. You're going to make him pay for years and years of **** and torment. You lean in close to Brett's face, staring straight into his eyes. "Now, listen closely," you order him. "I want you to get lost, and go fuck yourself." He looks back at you for a second, nods, and silently turns and walks away from you, in the direction you came. You stand there for a minute, watching him recede into the distance. Then you turn around and continue on your way to the campus, whistling "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" as you go.