Captain Brock

VERSE 1

He’s never had a cigarette a day in his life

But he smoked a whole football team in just one night

He’s the Captain of the Cougars, the team and the ladies

And every cheerleader wants to be his only sugar baby

Every freshman is trapped in their own school locker

He put them there and tape gagged the shit-talkers

He’s got an A in everything without lifting a finger

When it’s baseball or babes, he’s a home run swinger

CHORUS 1

His name is Captain Brock because of course it is

He’s the King of the Straights, the King of the Cis

But if he’s the King, then who’s the Queen?

Homecoming, no-homo is what he means

VERSE 2

He’s got bullycide and beef on his inflated resume

The boss man looked at him and said, “No way!”

So he sued the company for everything they’re worth

Wiped their NASDAQ symbol right off the earth

What’s next for Brock: President or Dictator?

He could stuff the lockers full of more freshman haters

Except they’re not called lockers after school

They’re called prison cells under the iron rule

CHORUS 1

His name is Captain Brock because of course it is

He’s the King of the Straights, the King of the Cis

But if he’s the King, then who’s the Queen?

Homecoming, no-homo is what he means

VERSE 3

And then the day came where karma fucked him over

His cancer just ensured that he never saw October

They buried his ass on Halloween night

All the beardos and weirdoes breathed a huge sigh

They can disco dance with the werewolves and vamps

At a Rammstein concert with ball gags and loud amps

The harvest moon never looked so beautiful

Keep the good memories, they’re forever reusable

CHORUS 2

His name is Captain Brock because of course it is

But you’d be forgiven if you forgot about his sins

Are you coping with trauma or was he just mediocre?

It’s a little bit of both, aren’t you glad this shit is over?

Cookie-cutter muscle-heads may write our history

But they don’t have a future with you or me

They can’t blame it all on the myth of Cancel Culture

They can blame themselves for being greedy vultures

Incelbordination, Chapter 13

Oswald had no earthly clue how much time he spent underneath the hood. He could have fallen asleep for all he knew. He could have had more concussed visions. But when the hood was removed, a dot matrix danced across his field of vision while his weary eyes adjusted to the light. He even took deep breaths just to make sure he was still alive. But just because he was alive, didn’t mean he wasn’t already in some kind of hell. Except Antero Magnus didn’t call it hell. He just called it a “favorite hideout”.

The dim lighting revealed a broken down abandoned warehouse with crates stacked as high as the eye could see, warped wood all around, and the most important feature, three chair bound human beings with hoods over their heads. No matter how vigorously the captives struggled, their ropes only seemed to get tighter. Moderating this kidnapping was Antero Magnus himself, drumming his fingers across the back of the middle captive’s chair. “Leave us. Don’t get caught,” he told his henchmen, who were happy to oblige.

Oswald’s bloodshot eyes still pounded in his skull as they adjusted, but his vision was clear enough to take in the horror of Antero gazing at him with those ice-cold cyan eyes. “What do you want this time? You do realize that the police are probably looking for you…”

Antero put a finger to his own lips and shushed his “buddy”. “Relax, Oz-Man. Nobody’s coming to rescue you or these three jack-offs I have here. Remember how I told you we don’t use the same meeting place twice?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I’m glad you asked that, Oswald, I really am. As one of my boys told you prior to busting you out of jail (you’re welcome, by the way), you have a decision to make. Do you want to let this world walk all over you or do you want to stand up for yourself?” Oswald tried to speak, but was once again cut off by Antero. “Ah, ah, ah! Before you answer that, allow me to reveal the people who will have a strong influence on your decision. Three people who don’t know what love is, yet they somehow believe they’re actually closer to you than a stranger.”

Antero proceeded to remove the hoods from his captives. On the far left, the blubbering muscle jock Wacey Judge, who didn’t look so tough with his mile long sad face. In the middle, there was Valerie Sand, who like her counterpart had a hard time keeping it together. And then on the right, Nikita Johnson, who was sporting a black eye not unlike the one Jessica had earlier in the evening. Oswald didn’t know whether to look at these three people in disgust, fear, or disturbance. His mind swirled for more reasons than having a fucked up brain.

“You see these three normies?” said Antero as he spread his arms out for display purposes. “Their lives are in your hands, Oswald. You can’t see it right now because the warehouse is so damn dark, but underneath their chairs are trap doors which will lead them to a cold, watery death. The chains attached to these trap doors are by your feet. If you so choose, you can pull those chains and finally stand up for what you believe in.”

“…You’re insane!” whined Oswald.

“No, little man, you’re insane!” snapped Wacey. “You think you have the right to kill me because of some friendly ribbing? Come on, man, that’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Friendly ribbing, my ass!” shouted Oswald, his hand firmly on Wacey’s trap door chain. “You’re the whole reason why I needed to learn how to fight in the first fucking place! Do you have any idea how close you came to killing my ass?! It’s too late for apologies, you meathead! Time to die!”

“No, stop!” pleaded Valerie. “Oswald, think about what you’re doing here. Look, I don’t condone what Wacey did to you. But if you kill him, there’s no turning back from that. The police will find you and lock you up for life. You’ll never have the chance to be the successful writer you’ve always wanted to be.”

“I wasn’t going to be a successful writer anyways, you little shit!” belted the dwarf, dropping Wacey’s chain and picking up Valerie’s. “Ever since I’ve signed up for college, you’ve done nothing but hold me back. I’d be lucky to graduate at all under your tutelage. You don’t see greatness in me. You don’t see greatness in any of your students, for that matter. We’re all just one big shit puddle of mediocrity to you! “

“That’s not true, Oswald!” cried Nikita, who then winced in pain from her fresh black eye. “She gives you those critiques because she wants you to be the best you can possibly be. I know this because I’ve gotten harsh critiques too. If I’m not immune to it, why should you be? Are you really going to kill your teacher over a bad grade?”

Oswald dropped Valerie’s chain and wasted no time in gathering Nikita’s slack. “No, I’m not going to kill my teacher. I’ll kill you instead! Here I thought Valerie was holding me back when it was you who turned me in to the police in the first fucking place. All for what? Because I don’t conform to your idea of what it means to be healthy? Newsflash, bitch! I’m not healthy. I’m sick! I’m so fucking sick of this goddamn world!”

“Yes! That’s what I like to see,” exclaimed Antero while throwing his hands in the air. “Passion! Energy! Emotion! Oh, this is better than going to the movies. Go ahead, Oz-Man, pull those motherfucking chains and prove your loyalty to Incelbordination!”

“Yeah, man, what are you waiting for?” blubbered Wacey. “Quit making us wait and kill us already. It’s not like we’re ever going to get out of here alive anyways.”

“Damn it, Wacey, shut the fuck up!” roared Nikita, putting the muscle jock in his place. She turned her attention back to Oswald with tears mounting in her swollen eyes, a sight the dwarf couldn’t help but feel for. “Listen to me, please. I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but I want you to know that…you are loved.”

“Oh please, spare me the bullshit!” yelled Antero while slapping Nikita upside the head.

“Shut up and keep your hands off of her, Antero!” snapped Oswald. “I want to hear what she has to say.”

“You heard the man,” mocked Antero. “Or should I say manlet. Go ahead, Nikita Johnsonville Brats, let’s see if you can talk yourself out of this shit.”

With all eyes on her, she took her time to catch her breath and steady her tears. She even formed a warm smile for Oswald as she spoke, to let him know her feelings were genuine. “Oswald, someone out there loves you for who you are. It doesn’t even have to be romantic love. It could just be a loving friendship. If you put yourself out there, someone will find you. This world is only a bad place if you make it that way. And it’s an even worse place if you let people like Antero tell you it is.”

Folding his arms impatiently, Antero sarcastically asked, “Are you done yet, princess? Good, then shut the fuck up and prepare to die. Go ahead, Oz-Man, pull the chains and let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ll grab a bite to eat at McDonald’s afterwards, maybe catch us some underage pussy.”

When Oswald furrowed his brows and lifted all three chains, the captives yelped in horror and cried once again. Valerie mouthed the word “please” over and over again in a last ditch effort for her life to be spared. Wacey tucked his chin either in shame or because he was too “manly” to let a midget see him cry. Nikita once again smiled warmly at Oswald as if she meant everything she said.

Three “strangers” whose lives were in his hands. One tug of the chains could put an end to his misery. Revenge could taste as sweet as cherry pie all over again. Antero was practically salivating at the idea of finally converting Oswald to his side. But in the end, the dwarf had no choice but to drop the chains and curl into a ball to cry his own eyes out. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, guys!” he sobbed. “I can’t do this anymore! I want to be loved! I want people to care about me!”

All three captives breathed a sigh of relief while Antero shook his head and slowly approached the dwarf. The Finnish-Swede terrorist knelt beside Oswald and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “There, there, little guy. It’s okay. I understand if you can’t do it.”

Oswald lifted his face and gave a small smile of his own. “Really? You mean it?”

“Nah, I’m just kidding. You’re a puss-bag,” said Antero before kneeing the dwarf in the forehead and sending him instantly into dreamland. From there a cacophony of noises swirled in Oswald’s brain. He couldn’t decipher whether or not they were the captives’ screams, police sirens, or just a bunch of bullshit from his head injuries. If this was the day he would die, he could die knowing at least one person in this world loved him.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 27

It took fifteen seconds of staring at his own Nikes, but Craig Dunham finally said what he needed to say: “Look, Scott…I’m probably the last person who should be asking you for help right now. You threw a garbage can at me only a few months before. Hell, you probably feel like doing even more than that, maybe deck me a good one on the chin. But…I didn’t ask for this appointment for nothing, I swear to god.”

Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”

Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”

“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”

“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”

“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.

“Is your dad religious?”

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.

Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”

With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”

“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”

Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.

“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”

“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”

After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”

With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.

“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.

“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”

“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”

“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.

“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.

Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.

The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.

Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”

Silent Warrior, Chapter 3

Wandering through the high school hallways might as well have been an intercity marathon for Scott George. His legs felt as though they were tied to cinder blocks. His head hung low enough to obscure his vision. His breathing was shallow and measured. All he could muster up for dialogue was the occasional zombie groan. Exhaustion hit him like a baseball bat to the skull. Hell, any deadly blow would have been a welcome addition to this hellish day.

By the time he dragged his lifeless corpse into Tom Simpson’s history class, the teacher was already scribbling notes on the chalkboard and the rest of the students were either goofing around or filing in. As always, Scott took a seat in the back of the classroom and tucked his head low, which was a favorite tactic of his for avoiding Mr. Simpson’s attention. Scott rubbed his temples as a way of clearing up his blurry vision, but it was all for naught. Perhaps a trip to the vending machine before class for a Dr. Pepper would have woken his ass up. Too little too late. The buzzer blasted throughout the school to signify the first class of the day.

“Alright class, settle down! Take your seats! It’s time for the lesson to begin,” said Mr. Simpson in with Shakespearean authority. The students did exactly what he said, but there was still the occasional snicker from one or two of the quarterbacks. The history teacher straightened his flat black hair, moustache, and glasses before clearing his throat and officially addressing the class.

“Now then, when last we were together, we were on the topic of slavery in the United States. In 1843, the settlers…” To Scott, all of Mr. Simpson’s words started blending together and cannibalizing each other to where he was merely background noise on a TV. No different from a used car salesman. No different from a televangelist begging for cash. No different from a politician giving a boring speech on campaign finance reform (if that’s what it was called).

Scott could feel his eyelids growing with heaviness. No matter how hard he pulled them open, blurry vision would cloud his consciousness. The crescendo of exhaustion came in the form of an uncovered yawn that opened his mouth as wide as a Pink Floyd the Wall movie poster. What a familiar piece of cinema to him.

The thunderous pounding on his desk jolted Scott awake and quickened his pulse to at least a thousand beats per minute. Somehow Mr. Simpson had teleported to the back of the class and stared him down with malicious intent. “If you’re going to yawn in my class, cover your mouth first. Nobody wants to see what’s inside of that thing.” As Mr. Simpson made his way back to the chalkboard, Scott’s muscles tensed as the other students gave him mocking smiles.

“As I was asking you all,” said Mr. Simpson. “Does anybody have an example of what a slave’s living conditions were like?” The class was silent. “Anybody?” Still silent. “Oh, Mr. George, how about you?”

“I…uh…” Scott’s lips quivered as he struggled to find his words. “I didn’t raise my hand.”

“I really don’t give a damn where your hand was, Mr. George. I asked you a question and I expect an answer. Your grade depends on it,” lashed Mr. Simpson, to which the other students snickered at Scott again. The introverted student felt his cheeks warm up like a coffee pot as he struggled for more words. “Out with it, Scott!” belted the teacher.

“They slept in….shopping carts?” Scott mentally kicked himself so hard that he could have been a professional Muay Thai fighter in another life. Another possible occupation would have been comedian since the entire class burst into laughter and Mr. Simpson held his temples between his thumb and forefinger.

“No, no, no, no, no!” rambled the teacher while throwing his chalk to the ground. “The slaves did not sleep in shopping carts! When I first said at the beginning of the semester that class participation counted towards your grade, I did not mean giving foolish answers that you clearly pulled out of your posterior! Try again!”

A sea of chuckles and hateful smiles spread out across the classroom and Scott George was the captain of his own capsized boat. He drowned in embarrassment and anger rolled into one as his entire body heated up even faster. Mr. Simpson wasn’t even close to being as hideous as Aloysius Striker, but Scott kept his vengeful response measured anyways. “I guess that’ll be the last time I speak up in class.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’re willing to take a C or a D because you gave one stupid answer? Is that how you got to the senior level of this school? By giving up easily?”

“The truth is!” belted Scott, silencing the classroom gigglers. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I gave you a better answer like sleeping on mesh beds. It wouldn’t have meant a damn thing if I told you that’s where the phrase Nighty-Night, Sleep Tight came from. You know why? Because you wouldn’t have taken my answer seriously anyways. Anytime I’ve given you an answer, all you said was Okay and then left me hanging. And why aren’t you doing anything about these laughing pieces of shit?!”

Mr. Simpson wagged his finger at Scott and said, “Watch your language with me, young man. I don’t care how justified in your opinion you think you are; it doesn’t excuse such disgusting speech.”

“Disgusting speech?!” snapped Scott as he smacked his palms on the table. “Your students are fucking laughing at me and you’re calling ME disgusting? Is this how you treat all of your introverted students? By humiliating the shit out of them?!”

“Two things, Mr. George” sneered the teacher while folding his arms across his blue flannel shirt. “One, if I catch you using those words again, you’re getting thirty minutes of detention after school. And secondly, you can’t use some pop science personality test to justify not speaking up in class like you’re supposed to. All you had to do was give me a reasonable answer and instead you said shopping carts! Shopping carts! For god’s sake, Scott, get it together!”

“Yeah, Scott, get it together!” said a football jock off in the front corner, which earned a round of hideous laughter from the other students.

Every immature cackle sent a surge of lava hot adrenaline through Scott George’s body. His stomach twisted in painful knots. His head ached worse than a football concussion. His vision glowed bright red as he scanned the room for his first victim. He didn’t have to look hard to find his next form of pyromantic speech. “Shut the fuck up and stop laughing!” he screamed before shooting to his feet and throwing a garbage bin at the jock.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Mr. Simpson snapped, shutting the class up immediately. He pointed at the mocking football player and said, “I’ll deal with you later. As for you, Mr. George, I told you exactly what was going to happen if you swore again, so try not to be too surprised by the consequences. Thirty minutes of detention after school with me!”

“Like I’m going to show up!” said Scott as he sat back down and folded his arms.

Mr. Simpson’s face molded into weaponized anger as he marched towards Scott, placed his hands on either side of the desk, and stared directly into his introverted student’s puffy eyes. With a calm, yet sinister tone, he said, “Believe me, Mr. George, you will show up today after school. We’re going to clean up this classroom together. We’re going to spend some quality time with each other. And if you don’t show up to detention…a laughing football jock will be the least of your worries. Do you understand me, Mr. George? Do you catch my drift? Or do you need to recharge your introverted batteries and think about it some more?”

Scott spent the rest of the class trying to control his mild shivers. The rest of the class had nothing to laugh at anymore as they too stared on with trepidation. Mr. Simpson marched back to the chalkboard, scribbled some more notes (with a new piece of chalk), and glared at his students. “Since none of you feel like giving me the answers I need in a typical conversation, perhaps you’d be willing to do so on a pop quiz. Take out a piece of paper and a pencil. There are twenty questions on this assignment.”

Scott’s shivering intensified gradually as the other students glared at him with a sarcastic “Thanks a lot” stare. He couldn’t even hold his pencil and paper still as he took the pop quiz. Some of his answers looked reasonable while most looked like chicken scratch. He hurried through the questions so that he could curl back into his corner faster. He wished the buzzer would hurry up as well. Oh, what he’d give to lock himself in a bathroom stall or a janitor’s closet. What he’d give to release the tears that built up within his system. He’d give his left nut if it meant he could punch the shit out of Mr. Simpson until the end of time. Blood and tears were a tastier and more intoxicating cocktail than the finest of wines.

But before that fantasy could come to fruition one of these days, there was the ever looming timestamp in his mind of thirty long minutes. Thirty minutes of mockery. Thirty minutes of agony. Thirty minutes of hatred. The mental timestamp should have just read five minutes, because that was all Scott George needed to blow his stack and go into a rampage. Five minutes alone. What a glorious usage of time. Maybe he wouldn’t show up to detention just to spare Mr. Simpson the beating he rightfully deserved. Such a noble act of consideration from a guy whose blood boiled like a cauldron.

B-Shirt

Malcolm Draper leaned against the boys’ locker room door while fingering the zipper handle on his closed up jacket. He dared not pass through the gates of his own personal hell, but the buzzer was about to ring and being even a second late to class would have resulted in draconian detention, which was weird because the gym teacher never seemed to be around when it truly counted.

The sequence of the past few weeks counted a lot for Malcolm. The fact that his last name Draper could be modified with an I instead of the first R lent itself to some cruel traumatic jokes echoing throughout his brain. He could hear the deep-voiced jocks shouting, “Diaper boy!” and “Dirty diaper!” within his own personal recesses. They even came up with a clever rhyme: “Draper-Raper”.

Immature insults by themselves carried no weight to Malcolm. But in multiple bursts throughout his entire day, even during important moments like exams and quizzes, it was the psychological equivalent of taking a series of sharp jabs from a heavyweight boxer. The mental bruises remained fresh with obnoxious voices. The muscles in Malcolm’s body remained tense at all times. The thought of walking through the door made him slightly nauseous with extra chills running through his back and shoulders.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered to himself. “It’s now or never.” He threw back the door and trudged down the hallway into the locker room. The further he ventured towards his own locker, the louder the laughter became, both on the inside and outside. He could feel his insides being ground up like hamburger. His face burned and prickled with anticipation. He purposefully kept his head down with his jacket hood over his face in hopes Daniel Burn wouldn’t notice him. But as it was…

“Hey, diaper-boy’s here today! What’s the matter, fag-tard? You shit yourself again? Don’t worry, you can wipe your ass on that stupid Sting T-shirt you wore yesterday!” The grating testosterone-pumped voice echoed throughout the locker room and the laughter grew louder to where Malcolm felt claustrophobic even in this big space. He slowly pulled his hood off and poked his head up to see the source of those jokes was indeed the letterman jacket-wearing football stud Daniel Burn congregating with his similarly dressed pals.

“You’re right, Daniel,” said Malcolm, earning the silence he desperately needed (even if it was out of confusion). “I’ll never wear that Sting shirt again.” Daniel and his muscle buddies mockingly sang the lyrics to “Every Breath You Take” and laughed like monkeys. This would have been a perfect time for Malcolm to break down, vomit, and cry. But instead he smiled and said, “My dad’s a T-shirt maker. So I figured I should dress for the job that I want, not the job I have.”

Malcolm Draper reached for his zipper and the rambunctious jocks made unintelligible jokes about him doing a striptease. He slowly pulled it down and opened his jacket to once again earn his silence. This time the jocks, Daniel Burn included, had wide-eyed shock on their faces. Any laughter remaining was limited to a nervous snicker. In case there was more confusion, Malcolm threw off his coat and exposed his custom-made T-shirt to he entire locker room. The top said, “Daniel Is My Bitch” in Floydian letters while beneath the words was a Photoshopped picture of Daniel Burn wearing a ball gag. “I bet that Sting shirt’s looking pretty good right now, isn’t it?” asked Malcolm with a mocking grin.

Daniel’s nearest friend leaned over and quietly said to him, “You’re not going to take that shit, are you?”

“Of course he’s going to take it!” belted Malcolm. “He can spew all these insults about my last name and my clothing, but he’s never thrown a fucking punch in his life! And no, fisting a horse in the asshole doesn’t count as a punch, buddy!”

Daniel’s square jaw went from O-mouthed shock to frowning rage. He brushed his blond crew cut back and threw his own jacket to the ground before slowly approaching Malcolm to the sounds of “ooo’s” and “uh-oh’s” from the rest of the students. The two bitter enemies stood nose to nose with Daniel’s height and weight making Malcolm look like a midget. “I’ve beaten up lots of guys in my life, diaper-kid,” threatened Daniel. “Fags, niggers, Jews, towel-heads…you’re just another dead ass motherfucker on that long list. I’m going to rip your fucking head off, bitch.”

The gigantic jock threw a quick and powerful overhead punch, which Malcolm ducked before burying his shoulder in Daniel’s gut and plowing him against the bathroom stall. The sounds of students chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight” echoed throughout the locker room while the sworn enemies wrestled on the floor.

“We’ll see who the real bitch is, diaper-dick!” shouted Daniel as he sat on Malcolm’s chest hoping for an advantage. All the jock got was elbow’s to his temples and knees to his spine. Even Daniel’s bulky body couldn’t withstand the small strikes as he rolled off of Malcolm after a few jabs.

Malcolm attempted to get to a vertical base only to be bear hugged by Daniel and wrestled with some more. “Where the hell’s the teacher?!” shouted one of the students to a crowd of uncaring bystanders. Malcolm pushed the question out of his mind and threw backwards elbows at Daniel’s cheekbones.

The hulking football player put an end to this impromptu MMA match when he lifted Malcolm’s carcass in the air and slammed him down with a thunderous thud to the concrete floor. The smaller fighter felt something snap in his leg and screamed louder than a train whistle. He did his damnedest to hold back the tears, but the pain in his torn knee radiated throughout his tortured body, his nervous system burning like a fiery orphanage. The tears dropped whether Malcolm wanted them to or not, but he tried to save face by rolling on his stomach.

By the terrified silence of the other students and the crushing grip on his arm as he was rolled over, Malcolm knew shit had gone down. Through red watery eyes, he gazed up at Daniel Burn’s bruised and bloodied face, the rage of which was more violent than his wounds. Daniel reached down at Malcolm’s shirt collar and ripped the B-shirt in two before holding it in the air like a trophy. “Who’s the bitch now?!” Daniel screamed with nerve-rattling anger. “Who’s the bitch now?! You want to be a tough guy?! You think you can beat the system?! Welcome to high school, diaper-pie! The shit only gets worse from here!”

The rambunctious conversation was interrupted with the sound of someone clearing his throat. Daniel and Malcolm peeked over to see what was up, Daniel’s face a masterpiece of horror and Malcolm’s face a phantasmal smile. Smaller students, geekier students, and even one of the jocks were all wearing B-shirts while the rest of the bullies backed up in amazement. Same slogan, same ball-gagged bitch.

“You see that, Danny boy?” asked Malcolm as pulled himself to his feet with a nearby railing while clutching his aching knee. “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. These kids are done being your bitches. Now it’s time for you to be theirs.” Malcolm leaned in closer and whispered in Daniel’s ear, “This is what happens when you piss off a lot of people. You poke the bear, the bear eats you alive!” He noticed Daniel clutching his own buzz cut and breathing intensely, to which Malcolm replied, “You can’t possibly beat ALL of them up, can you?”

Daniel’s breathing grew deeper and more dragon-like. “This is bullshit,” he whispered. “I’m nobody’s bitch! I’m the star quarterback! I get all the chicks! You fuckers just sit around and read comic books all day while blowing your dogs!” The B-shirt wearing students slowly approached Daniel like an army of flesh-hungry zombies, to which the bully screamed, “No! This shit isn’t happening!” before bolting out the side door onto the streets.

“You see that, everyone?” said Malcolm with a sly grin and teary eyes. “If you play football twenty-four hours a day, you can run as fast as him!” The sound of a bus’s horn honking followed by a bone-crunching collision and Daniel’s painful cries caused Malcolm to shrug and quip, “Well, not fast enough apparently.”

The hulking gym teacher burst through the locker room door shouting, “What the hell’s going on here?” His authoritative mood was brought back to earth when he saw all of the students wearing B-shirts and Malcolm nursing his hyper-extended knee. “What the fuck?” he whispered to nobody in particular.

“We’re so glad you could finally join us,” said Malcolm. “Actually, you might want to bring a janitor here too. Daniel Burn left his guts all over the road. Oh wait, I forgot: Daniel Burn doesn’t have any guts. And that bone crunching noise wasn’t his spine shattering, because he doesn’t have that either. Seriously, those city bus drivers need to be more careful on the road.”