Spoiled Brat Meets Antisocial Personality

"Do you know who runs this wealthy neighborhood? Get the hell out of here, now!"

The HOA committee chairwoman shrieked, pointing her finger right at my nose. Her twelve-year-old chubby son was gleefully smashing my custom furniture worth over a hundred thousand dollars with a baseball bat, his face lit up with excitement.

I looked at the wreckage scattered across the floor, sighed, then reached into my drawer and pulled out that copy of "How to Be a Normal Person" I'd been studying for three years. I threw it into the trash and put on my antisocial manic personality disorder ID badge instead.

"You're absolutely right, ma'am." I took off my jacket, loosened my tie, and turned my gaze toward the basement at the end of the hallway—the one filled with heavy industrial equipment. "In a community that only speaks the language of power, perhaps we should indeed use some more efficient methods of communication."

The doctor said I suffer from extremely dangerous XYY syndrome combined with antisocial personality disorder.

Last month, I barely managed to secure a conditional release from Texas's highest-security psychiatric facility.

To live like a normal person in Pine Grove Community, I spent every night memorizing the "Normal Human Behavior Guide," including gems like:

"When a neighbor's child breaks something, you should communicate kindly with their parents, not immediately snap their fragile little neck."

"When faced with provocation, the correct response is to reason with them or call the police, not fetch a chainsaw from the basement and chop them into mincemeat."

"Murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal. Important things must be repeated three times in your head."

This morning at seven, the air in Long Island's Pine Grove luxury community was filled with the mixed aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and newly trimmed lawns. Sunlight fell on rows of exquisite single-family villas, hypocritical yet peaceful.

I stood in my yard wearing a nondescript gray hoodie, eyes closed, feeling the faint vibration from my inner thigh.

Buzz... buzz... buzz.

That was the micro heart rate monitor implanted under the skin near my femoral artery. Due to my extremely dangerous XYY syndrome combined with antisocial personality disorder, this was the physical shackle the parole board had fitted me with.

"Current heart rate: 65 BPM. Status: Excellent."

"Arthur, good morning." In the neighboring yard, seventy-year-old veteran George was kneeling in the dirt, carefully weeding his rose garden. It was the only memento left by his wife who had died of cancer.

"Morning, George!" I flashed a brilliant smile in response.

Maintaining good neighborly relations was key to suppressing antisocial personality traits. Besides, George was a good man—when I first moved in, he brought me household supplies, helped trim my lawn, and often shared delicious food he'd made. He deserved my friendship.

George and I chatted casually for a while.

"CRASH! CLANG—!"

Suddenly, harsh smashing sounds came from the end of the street. A heavy off-road motorcycle was speeding along the sidewalk. The little punk on it wore a skull mask and was kicking over trash cans as he went, splashing black sewage all over a woman walking her dog. The woman dared not speak up, quickly pulling her dog away to safety.

That was thirteen-year-old Billy, son of the HOA chairwoman.

"See that? The little beast is making his 'rounds' again," George said, leaning on his spade with a sigh, his eyes full of wariness. "Last week he burned down Mrs. Miller's swing set with a lighter. Even when the police came, they couldn't do anything. Who told us his mom's the HOA chairwoman? Around here, the HOA has more power than the police."

"I also heard this little beast acts this way because his mom deliberately encourages it—to drive us poor residents away, then renovate and flip the community property to sell to wealthy buyers."

George turned to look at his patch of newly bloomed, delicate roses, lowering his voice: "But last night I already paid his mom eight hundred dollars in 'community landscaping donation fees.' Better to lose money than face disaster. Now that I've paid the protection money, surely that little bastard will steer clear of my house today."

As he spoke, the harsh engine roar drew closer. Billy stopped his motorcycle in front of George's lawn. He removed his goggles, looked at George, then at that patch of bright red roses, and his mouth suddenly twisted into an extremely malicious grin.

ROAR!

The throttle suddenly gunned! The off-road motorcycle's front wheel lifted high and crashed into the rose garden like a wild boar! The wide treads spun wildly, instantly exploding dirt, broken branches, and crushed red petals that splattered across George's face.

Not satisfied, Billy deliberately did donuts in the center of the flower bed, thoroughly grinding the last memento of George's deceased wife into mud.

"BEEP—!"

The heart rate monitor on my body suddenly let out a sharp warning. This stupid kid's antics instantly triggered the destructive urges I'd been suppressing for so long!

"Billy! You little beast!" George trembled with rage, struggling up from the muddy water, his eyes red as he roared, "I paid money! I just paid your mother yesterday! I'm going to report you to the HOA!"

"Ha ha ha ha! Go ahead and report me, old bones!" Billy twisted around arrogantly on his bike, whistling. "Your pocket change was barely enough to buy my mom a purse, get it? I'll run over whatever I want!"

Then his malicious eyes turned toward me standing on the other side of the fence. He looked at my perfectly manicured lawn, smooth as carpet, and pointed his baseball bat at my nose, issuing orders as if it were his right: "Hey, you freak with the mental patient badge! Open your gate—this lawn looks nice. I want to practice motorcycle drifting in there!"

The heart rate monitor beeped sharply: 85 BPM.

The anatomical instincts in my brain began to whisper: [His third cervical vertebra is underdeveloped. Grab his chin and apply fifteen pounds of lateral torque—in 0.3 seconds, he'll be a quadriplegic.]

"No, Arthur, you promised to be a good person!" I chanted to myself internally.

Then I took a deep breath, looked at the spoiled brat, and said in a completely flat voice: "Fuck off."

The brat was stunned, then flew into a rage and charged over, throwing a punch at my face. "What did you say?!"

I froze, then smiled. You threw the first punch.

BAM!

Almost without looking, I kicked the spoiled brat flying. He crashed straight into his motorcycle, and the impact even flipped the bike over.

Just then, a pristine golf cart smoothly stopped at the edge of the lawn. Billy's mother—Elizabeth, current Pine Grove Community HOA chairwoman—stepped out carrying an iced americano.

She wore a perfectly tailored Chanel suit, her sharp gaze passing over the groaning George to land on her son.

"Oh! Baby!" She let out a piercing shriek, rushing over. After confirming the brat wasn't injured, she pulled out a wet wipe from her purse and carefully cleaned the mud spatters from Billy's cheeks.

"Elizabeth!" George's lips went purple with rage as he pointed at his roses ground to pulp. "Your son nearly broke my arm! And he destroyed my wife's roses!"

Hearing this, Elizabeth slowly turned around. The worry on her face instantly vanished, replaced by condescending disgust.

She pulled out a thick citation book from her Hermès bag and let out a cold laugh: "Mr. George, according to HOA regulation 16, privately planting unapproved thorny plants is strictly prohibited in the community. Not only does this trash affect our community's elegant appearance, it also scratched my son's beloved bike."

She tore off a citation and threw it at George's face like garbage: "Minors are not liable for charges, but I'm now issuing you a three-thousand-dollar violation fine. You have three days to pay in full, or the HOA's legal team will force a foreclosure auction of your house."

George clutched that flimsy citation, trembling all over, unable to say a word.

Then she whipped around to glare at me.

"What the hell are you? Some freak with a mental patient badge living here on government welfare!" Her shrill voice echoed throughout the street. "How dare you hit my son!"

"Because he deserved it," I replied matter-of-factly, as if answering what I'd had for breakfast.

The psychiatric treatment had been somewhat useful—I'd only kicked the brat flying instead of stuffing his head into the wheel spokes and grinding it up.

Elizabeth was stunned, then broke into a cold smile. "Fine, fine, fine!"

Without hesitation, she pulled out her walkie-talkie and pressed the general broadcast button: "Security team! Get to Arthur's house immediately! Someone reported this lunatic is storing prohibited chemicals. According to HOA regulation 42, emergency safety clause—go in and search now, immediately!"

In less than half a minute, six towering black security guards carrying batons and breaching hammers charged around the corner.

"You don't have a search warrant! This is illegal trespassing!" George shouted desperately.

"In Pine Grove Community, I AM the law!" Elizabeth arrogantly raised her chin.

The lead guard didn't take me seriously at all. He raised his breaching hammer and smashed it down hard on my expensive security door's fingerprint lock.

"BANG!" The lock exploded, and the guards swaggered in, kicking the door open.

"Beep beep beep—!"

My heart rate monitor began emitting sharp beeps. 110 BPM.

My psychiatrist had instructed me that in this situation, I should immediately call the police, then hide in a safe corner and do deep breathing exercises to control myself.

So I gave up resistance and very obediently followed the guards into my own house.

The first-floor living room quickly became a looter's carnival. My hundred-thousand-dollar custom leather sofa was slashed to ribbons with batons, the massive curved TV was smashed with a black hole through it, and my collectibles on the wine cabinet lay shattered across the floor.

Elizabeth stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching this one-sided bullying with malicious glee.

I stood quietly in the entryway. I wasn't enraged, wasn't hysterical—I remained extremely calm. Because I was calculating.

[Lowering the house-wide bulletproof steel plates and completing physical lockdown: 1.5 seconds]

[Getting to the tool room for that modified pneumatic nail gun: 3 seconds]

[Turning these six lively security guards into puzzle pieces: approximately two and a half minutes]

Just then, the spoiled brat who'd been watching the show from behind seemed to find furniture-smashing too boring. His gaze passed through the chaotic living room and fixed on the pure steel hidden door at the end of the kitchen that led to the basement.

That door had no handle, only a red warning sign—"EXTREMELY DANGEROUS."

While everyone's attention was on the destruction, this thirteen-year-old little devil's eyes flashed with excited greed. Like a nimble viper, he quietly slipped away from the crowd and headed for the basement.

Watching his retreating figure, my eyes flickered, but I made no move.

There were no prohibited chemicals down there. The cold storage below only contained the high-concentration sedatives that my doctor had repeatedly insisted I safeguard—the only thing that could suppress my murderous instincts.

"If the sedatives are damaged and you happen to have a psychiatric episode, you could very likely kill someone!" The doctor's warnings still echoed in my memory.

I raised my hand toward my pocket and quietly placed my copy of "Normal Human Social Survival Rules" on the nearby table.

Fuck being normal.