Dream sequence...the only way out is through....

In his dream Dr. Kennedy Marshal is brandishing a dildo like a drill sergeant at boot camp pointing the rubbery tip into an overhead screen, where a picture of Patrick “The Great” McReynolds resides. On the screen Patrick sees himself mounted on the wall at CLS, in the main corridors, apple lodged between his gaping lips, flanked by the decapitated mascot visages of the St. Anne’s Almighty Aardvarks and the rather listless Redeemer Coupons. 

 

“This is Your Life.” Dr. Kennedy Marshal wispy voiceover states as she slaps the dildo into the boar’s head. In the dream Patrick can see the back of his head seated in the classroom staring at the screen, but he can also feel his ire growing slightly agitated with Dr. Kennedy Marshal all the while gagging on the sickly-sour film of the apple, wedged into his mouth on the overhead screen. It is almost as if Patrick is three places at once, an image which inevitably spawns sacrilegious comparisons, only Patrick, being deep down a person who holds a sort of awe and deference towards the cosmological plurality briskly annotated in the margins of the intergalactic script as well as towards his ideology of a deity, crosses himself both in his sleep and in the classroom as Dr. Kennedy Marshal clears her throat and continues.

 

“The art of Guillotining rivaling mascots was first instituted by Coach M, after a lengthy post-season celebratory sabbatical when Coach M treated then Standout Student teacher Jaclyn Frances to a two week tour of the Rouen Valley while his wife, Mrs. Looney aka The Coaches Widow, aimlessly fanned away at her long-drawn PhD exegesis comparing the poetic influence of Elizabeth Barrett Browning on the impact the rather frustrating sex-lives of middle age English teachers co-existing in Suburbia today.”

 

There is a bleep. A picture of a French guillotine floods the overhead screen. Patrick’s boar head self is now situated in the bottom right hand corner. Every time Dr. Kennedy Marshal clears her throat it sounds like a chainsaw slowly cutting into a piece of petrified wood. Patrick can swear that on the screen he sees the mounted boars head reflection of himself squint and offer a little wink. Dr. Kennedy Marshal slaps the dildo down on Patrick’s desk, admonishing him for not taking notes.

 

“So intrigued by the fine art of French execution, Coach M arranged to have his own cherry-oak Guillotine clandestinely furnished by Le Priory De Zion in a secret alcove at Versailles and illegally shipped into domestic shores in oversized embargo crates with the words RENAULT scrawled on the cover.”

Another itchy bleep. Dr. Kennedy Marshal also appears to be using the dildo as a remote to flick the images on the screen. On screen now is a picture of Coach M wearing pantyhose and a military coat, posing a la Napoleon Bonaparte, only his hand is fashionably inserted into the paleness of his crotch. Dr. Kennedy Marshal continues to grunt, spitting out what looks like coffee grinds into a CRISCO can located near her feet. Patrick can still make out the back of his head in the desk, as well as the front of his head located into the bulls-eye vector of the Boars head.

 

In the miniature window shaped kind of like a grandfather clock directly to the dream left of the screen Patrick can see the gilded avenues of Central Plank north, near the narthex. From down the Hall he can make out the outline of the Varsity  Elite slowly beginning to swirl around Marcellus Buck located in the center. The bodies of Eric, Javon, Aron and Mario swiftly orbit around Marcellus like leaves swirling in a late autumnal gale.

 

            “Shit.” Patrick says, still squinting out the window, padding his side pocket, reaching for what he believes is a cigarette he filched from Helen’s pocketbook earlier in the day, when she was admonishing Allan for parachuting cherry bombs onto the trampoline landscape of the Garcia clan’s backyard.

 

            “Ough!” Dr. Kennedy Marshal gasps, as Patrick absentmindedly flicks his Zippo inches in front of his lips. Dr. Kennedy Marshal quickly yanks the cigarette from Patrick’s mouth.

 

            “Patrick, this period does not present the apposite timeframe for you to exercise your budding homosexual proclivities. Conducting such an overt display of your interior oral fantasies will only result in doubling our weekly counseling sessions.”

 

            From out of Patrick’s mouth Dr. Kennedy Marshal’s dildo appears. Patrick yaks, twice, while Dr. Kennedy Marshal wavers the dildo in front of her face before reaching for a bottle of disinfectant.

 

            The screen emits another distinctive bleep.

 

            Ever since Patrick was in fifth grade Dr. Kennedy Marshal has done nothing short of insinuating that he Patrick A. McReynolds is a hardcore buttfucker. During Patrick’s first counseling session with Dr. Kennedy Marshal, the varsity elite each craftily stashed dual pairs of cum-stained tube socks, along with a tube of chap stick, vials of mineral water and a half-naked centerfold of a leather hat Norwegian Figure Skater stranded in mid triple lutz, hard nipples protruding off the page, an inky Love, Captain South Pole addressed to Patrick on the bottom of the centerfold.   

 

            After the chagrin of being ruthlessly taunted by the Varsity elite, Patrick arrived home to find Papa Bear clutching a letter, sniffing tears while his mother, making a reference to a distant cousin who was a gymnast, decided to make the best of what Warren deemed a “fucking irreparable situation” and decided to take Patrick out for a facial and total love make-over while Allan performed a sniggering jig in the corner, saying goodbye to his only male sibling by limping his wrist in a mocking hi-pitched monotone.

 

The next day at recess a very defoliated skinned, prim nailed and gelled-hair Patrick was in the process of getting his newly acquired pink-stripped Polo shirt doused in a bucket of lube when Lynnford Collins, stood in front of Patrick, his arms splayed and dictated with frilled limbs that if “any one was going to get baptized right here and now, then sugah, be prepared to dive in and say hallelujah” before placing lithe wrists around Bowman’s neck and making some serious lip contact, boasting to Bev Pinesol, over Chicken and Noodles, that he even got tongue.  

Patrick continues to squint at the out the clock shaped window. He sees the Varsity Elite strutting as one gigantic amoebic blob; each one bouncing a basketball all too reminiscent of the shape of his own decapitated head. From his dream angle it appears that whatever the blob traipses across it literally effaces altogether. As Patrick squints into the window in his dreams he sees the blob consuming the refulgent hallways of CLS. Streams of trophies, plaques, even the stain glass IN THE BEGINNING altar become vacant sheaths of white with every dribble the Varsity Elite sets forth.

 

            “Doc. Marshal.” The seated Patrick says, in his dream, pointing towards the window on the door.

 

            “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but from the looks of things it appears that the Varsity Elite are literally wiping out everything. I mean, it looks like fresh snow outside.”

 

Dr. Kennedy Marshal ignores Patrick’s observation, spits out a mouth full of masticated coffee grinds and taps the top of the dildo. A proud picture of Coach M guillotining the head off of the South Eastern Wyoming Whippoorwills flicks above Patrick head. Coach M appears to be holding the head of the severed mascot in his hand like he is coddling his firstborn five minutes after delivery.  Patrick makes a crude analogy, comparing the severed head of the Whippoorwill to that of Yorrick. Doctor Kennedy Marshal completely ignores him.

 

            “With the genesis of the guillotine, Christian Logos Seminary ushered in an integral phase in their global quest for total grade school domination.” Another tap. Another bleep. A picture of Coach M totally naked, sporting a beret and holding a miniature replica of the tour Eiffel over his unit as a gag pops onto the screen. Patrick laughs. Dr. Kennedy Marshal looks appalled, mumbles something under her breath about how French dykes never fucking shave their monkey bush before tapping the tip of the dildo. The screen transitions into the gymnasium mural. A picture of a very Afro-headed Jesus dressed in a Christian Logos standard Versace warm up, a bible clenched under the pit of his arms. The planet, swiveling like a planetary basketball, perched on top of the tip of his outstretched finger.   

       

            Patrick pushes his desk forward. On the bottom portion of the screen, Patrick can see the Boar head emblem of himself. As if animated, the boar head briskly inhales, spits out the apple like a comet. A flaming Marlboro quickly becomes placed between his lips. There is more commotion outside. The Varsity Elite now appear to be a gluttonous mass, effacing every vector of the school their appendages sway across.

 

Patrick continues to squint. He can see David Hale holding Mrs. Looney’s reusable Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and twirling a pair of what appears to be Cabbages tye-dyed panties in the other, lolling near the Faculty Lounge. The moment he sees the swirl of athletes, Hale drops the sallow coffee cup, wedges the panties between his lips and, in his own vernacular, hauls some serious ass.        

 

“Dr. Kennedy Marshal. Listen. Something’s going on out there. For whatever reason you have to let me out. It’s like the entire school is one gigantic blackboard and the Varsity Elite is an eraser and they are all too readily effacing everything this school has ever stood for.”

 

The miniature chain-smoking emblem of Patrick in the bottom of the screen nods his head and looks at Patrick as if to say, “you have a point.”

  

            Dr. Kennedy-Marshal ignores Patrick’s plea while continuing to spit into the CRISCO can. She holds up the rubbery dildo and looks at it like she can’t believe why any discrete member of her gender would ever want to have ‘that’ inside of them. 

 

            Patrick can see further down the hall. Nearly all the trophy cases have been gulped. The blob of athletes oscillates furiously into the Newly Refurbished gymnasium, splintering havoc into the row of bleachers. Bev Pinesol is running out of the side door, clenching a rolling pin in one hand, offering her daughter as a sacrifice, claiming that if secondary virginity is good enough for the Baptists, than surely it is good enough for self-containing vortex like yourselves. Misses Looney is now hovering across the linoleum floor, a copy of the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning held into her bosom like a hymnal. The vortex continues to oscillate and swerve. Just as Misses Looney is bending down, retrieving the jaundice coating her dual-decade old chalice, the vortex sweeps over her, devouring her entire frame in a smudged blur of bristles and sneakers.    

 

            “Shit.” Patrick says, both inside the classroom and on the overhead, the cigarette descending from his animated lips.

    

Somehow Patrick can visualize the scene in the SkyBox. He sees Vincent the Yak and Reverend Morningwood wearing a blindfolds bent over a conference table in hard right angles, their trousers manacled around their respective ankles, as Lillian Wiltz dressed in a skimpy French maid outfit, flagellating both of them with something that looks to Patrick like a mop with trussed leather strands. Coach M stands like a flagpole, his reflection spotless in the streak free tint of the Sky Box window. He appears to be fidgeting with a remote control of some sort, sniggering, a glint of what Patrick can only intuit as unalloyed evil stitched into the curves of his lips. 

 

            “Fuck me with an Irish ‘tater and forget ye not the sour cream.” Patrick says, before squinting out the window, explaining quickly to a for-some reason bobble headed Dr. Kennedy Marshal, that he was talking figuratively—not trying to negotiate.

 

            With the exception of the classroom and the hallway near Faculty Lounge and Goodtimes Billiards, the entire coating of CLS is slated white. Patrick can hear screams. He sees a handful of kindergartners huddling together near the faculty lounge. He sees an acne-riddled headgear crowned Jebediah Noelle running down the corridor all elbows and kneecaps, yelping out Patrick’s name, Eric and Mario quick on the heels of his pro-wings.  He sees Iola Clitty slowly lifting up the frayed edges of her second hand 1970’s CLS cheerleading skirt hoisting it near her navel offering umbrella-like shelter to a clingy Buster and Shithead. He sees Judith, her hair braided in a very becoming Princes Leah dual bagels above her ears, talking into her palm and then being rescued by helicopter, driven by Hale and one armed Salv giving a thumbs up and for some reason Peruvian Victor.

           

“That’s it—Guillotine guffaw hour is over. My ass is out of here so if you please.”

Dr. Kennedy Marshal bites into the tip of the dildo and kicks the overhead in front of the door, thwarting Patrick’s most convenient exit. Patrick visualizes Coach M in the sky box, watching the demolition of Kingdom, sporting a laurel leaf tiara and togo and sawing into a fiddle while everything he has ever created slowly becomes a blank sheath of existential nothingness while inside the locked classroom Dr. Kennedy Marshal begins to prick her fingers underneath her navel while wispy s’s of steam begin to rise from the Crisco can located near her immediate left boot. The Boarhead image of Patrick is now projecting directly over the grandfather clock shaped classroom window, a yelping look of shock etched into its transparent face. Patrick can see the swift motion of the Varsity Vacuum sucking up Linoleum tiles from underneath Allan’s feet. He sees his sister Sarah pointing her crooked elbow at the ceiling, wondering aloud why all the different variations of stain glass is being replaced with the light breeze of absolute nothingness. There is a scream. Somewhere near the far end of the school he sees Hyacinth tucking her head between VonB’s shoulder and neck, imploring the vortex to stop while Von Behren is trying to comfort Hyacinth, telling her things that Patrick wishes he could tell her. Von Behren is holding Hyacinth the way Patrick wishes he could hold her, feeling the humidity of her plosive breath bite into his neck as the lids in Hyacinth’s face screech out in horror at the swift blob so readily approaching and she screams out the word no before being shocked into silence, a pasty white apparition of his beloved hovering into the pervasive film of whiteness as the sweeping tentacles of the Varsity blob slice through Von B.

 

“No!!!!!” Both Patrick and his Boarhead twin are panting heavily, sweating, thinking about the Armageddon  outside the classroom, momentarily unaware that Doctor Kennedy Marshal has removed both of her boots by readily prancing on the heel of the opposite boot, before kicking the doffed apparel in the direction of Patrick.

 

“What?” Patrick can hear the searing blitz of the Varsity elite grinding closer to the closed door. He can make out the concept of absolute nothingness behind his boars head caricature. D. Kennedy Marshall criss-crosses both of her hands near her waist, reels up her blouse in a crisp motion before lowering her slacks down past the caps of her knees.

 

“Can you hear it, Patrick?” Dr. Kennedy Marshal alludes to the grinding mechanical sneer outside the door as she kicks out of her pants. Behind the Transparent Boars head Patrick can make out an apparition of Hyacinth pleading for help.

 

“You need to understand that sometimes, Patrick, as a poet I’m sure once said, the only way out is through.”

 

Dr. Kennedy Marshal’s brassiere slops listlessly near the can of steaming Crisco. Ditching her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her panties before stepping out of them completely. Patrick can see woodchips from the door beginning to chip in spiky darts as the Varsity Elite swirl ever closer to Patrick’s location.

 

“Patrick, the only thing you have to do is to go through.” Dr. Kennedy Marshal says, sitting atop the overhead lifting her legs up past her face and spreading them into a perfect V.     

 

            With oval lips that hint of pending illness Patrick observes the nauseating swirl of auburn prominently nestled between the extremely bony pyramid of her hips. Her bush looks like the rusty tin-orange flare of the nuclear woods in mid-autumn. Patrick ignores Dr. Kennedy Marshal’s request that he immediately fuck her the way no homosexual man has ever fucked her. He ignores the sight of his transparent Boar head doppelganger running off the perimeter before an oscillating Marcellus Buck in Co menacingly thrash the door leading–to-blankness into wooden needles. He ignores all this and squints deeply into the center of Dr. Kennedy Marshall, thinking only of the tunnel located in lower Bradley Park and of what he must do to finally arrive at that place in time.