You knew damn well what you were getting yourself into when you found yourself hanging with the Bowers Gang. They were teenage boys, loud and brute, violent and threathening, psychotic and sheerly sadistic.

But that was fine, because you were rotten yourself. A whore, that's what the rumors about you said, a slut was what passed from mouth to mouth. But you didn't care because It was damn true, just not in the way the people thought. And those rumors where what lead you to their messed Up group.

You wore thight clothes, provocative, you were flirty and had a filthy and dirty mind. You had fucked, with girls and boys, and your lips were painted in the desdliest shade of red.

That's why you were his favourite —Patrick's favourite —. You didn't give a fuck about anyone and you shared his dirty mind. He was a psycopath with no sense of guilt, he believed he was a Good that could control every toy displayed for his entertainment.

Right now, you were laying on the couch, —more like laying on top of Patrick —. He was sitting with his legs spread, a cigarrette on his cracked lips, his other arm resting on the armrest of the couch while you were on his lap, legs over the couch and your back against the armrest he was using, using his arm as a pillow while your eyes lazyly traveled through the pages of one of his porno magazines.

The rest of the group was doing something else. Henry was furiously yelling at Belch while they both played some shooting game on the TV (Belch was so obviously better than Henry at this), and Victor was just sitting on the floor next to Belch drinking some cheap booze, looking at Henry as he cursed at the pointscore in the screen with an unbothered expression on his face. Violence, porn, sex and drugs were very usual on the Gang.