Bully

Bully, by Jim Schutze: A fat teenage girl lies naked on her bed, fantasizing about the semi-nude male hunks pictured on the posters which adorn her white trash bedroom walls.  The horny chubette aches to have a real flesh-and-blood boyfriend.  Unfortunately, she gets one.  A boy named Marty.  Marty has sex with her.  And beats her.  And ridicules her about her weight.  But the fat girl loves Marty.  She blames Marty's less-than-gentlemanly behavior on Marty's best friend, Bobby.  Bobby is even more of a bully than Marty.  Bobby and Marty *pump iron* together in a gym.  Marty is Bobby's punching bag when Bobby is having a steroid-induced homo-erotic rage—which is about every other day.  Bobby abuses Marty, Marty abuses fat girl.  Light bulb goes on in Fatty's head: what if Bobby was dead?  Then it would be: Marty and Fatty sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, or so Fatty reasons.  So Fatty sets about assembling a *dream team* of mall rat killers: Marty, Mortal Kombat arcade slacker, two white trash teen girl prostitutes who whore for CDs, clothes and movie money, and a high school drop-out gangsta-wannabe who has to sneak out of his bedroom window the night of the murder (so mom won't get mad).  The juvenile delinquent posse gather at the local strip mall Pizza Hut to plan the murder—with only Fatty & Marty really taking it seriously.  The others, well, one of the teen prostitute girls "was excited.  Bobby was an asshole.  It was like witchcraft.  It wouldn't really happen.  But it would be fun" (p.97).  But then the murder really did happen, and Bobby's body was left for gator food in a South Florida canal.  When the nitwit punks were (quickly) caught by the police, none of them seemed to realize that, like, murder was a biggie.  Fatty was especially appalled that she had to stay in jail: "Why am I in here?  How come I'm not out?" she asks her lawyer.  He replies: "You are in here on a capital murder charge."  To which Fatty responds: "So what?  I mean, I've been in here for three months.  I've done the jail thing.  So what's the point in just keeping me here?" (p.250).  This true crime classic (which was later decently filmed by American teen connoisseur Larry Clark) thoroughly documents the total depravity of American youth: imbecilic creatures of pure carnality, for whom life has no value, and its only meaning is found in materialistic and hedonistic pursuits.