That pickle-dicked sewagepilot…that poo-stained crackworm … that son of a… biscuit eating bulldog. Next time Macadrian laid eyes on that prank playing dunce, she was going to stab him in the jaw. She was going to rip his so prized jewel and feed them to him through a straw. His prank were friggin’ hilarious, but not when you were the victim. Now it was just humiliating. God, she was definitely knew what her History teacher was feeling like when he found his door painted pink. Pink primer so he couldn’t just wash it or scrub it off, no painting pink was just too normal… for her brother. Too typical. Why couldn’t she have had a normal brother, one that she could boss around and horse around with? Not one that provokes broken ribs. Not one that she was now going to have to bury alive 9 feet under. Nine not six, six was way too normal and common for Maxim.

Macadrian slumped against wall and screamed as she pulled at her disgustingly colored hair. It was a second-rate prank for Maxim, one that she herself had played on some back stabbing girls long ago. Even their meek brother, Mac had played it on one of the homophobes at their old school. It wasn’t an unwritten law not to pull a hoax on each other, but this was just foul. It wasn’t even a mildly attractive pink, Macadrain hair was now dyed uneven, nauseating, repulsive bright neon pink. Oh, how Macadrain hated the revolting color pink. And Maxim knew that. She had been trying to grow out her hair from its original chin length. It had grown to almost past her shoulder when she decided to dyed it a light brown to match her eyes. She should’ve check it to make sure it was the right colour, her brother was on a streak and her carelessness was know publicized as this hideous coloured hair.

She had tried so hard to rise out the colour, even contemplated using bleach when she decided to search for her pound of flesh. She had ran out in a pair of gray slacks splattered with paint blotches that she stole from her Mac and a tight purple tank top. She didn’t think about her appearance or how her new coloured hair clashed with the shade of violet she was wearing which was a first. She had came across a group of people she knew and hid. Macadrain never hid, had too much pride to, but here she was in the Pelligrini Gallery conceal from the public eye.