*
Hale joins them five minutes later with a
sweat ring tonsured near his forehead, claiming that this was the eighth time
in the last four hours.
Allan peers through the ventilation shaft-his
camera still filming. Though he has long ago forgotten about it. Patrick is, on
the other hand, trying very hard to explain things to Hyacinth Lyonkowski.
Secretary former WW11 Centerfold
Gayle Heurmann announces over the PA that all varsity Basketball players are
excused from both class and school until further notice. Patrick thinks big
fucking whoop. ‘Cello Buck and Eric the Red have been, once again, shooting
threes all morning. Aron and Mario have initiated the ritual of drilling
Jeremiah’s head deep into the shitter every time Mrs. Brakenhardt orders him to
the restroom to wash his hands. At lunch yesterday, Bev Pine asked if the two
of them could snap a Polaroid of Jeremiah’s daily predicament so she could post
it on a T-shirt that would read CRACK
KILLS beneath, so secular administrators would quit speculated that Coach
M’s newly refurbished gym is nothing more than a luxurious opium den. Bev Pine
apparently claimed that, if both Aron and Mario would do this, she would
generously let them borrow a home video of Karen when she was five “getting
kinky with the wet Banana”. “As soon as I get the video back from coach M.” she
told them, “It’s yours, at least until her graduation.”
Normally either Patrick or VonB
assist in freeing Jebediah everyday. After his head is free Jebediah cries for
his dead mother and either VonB or Patrick have the dubious honor of changing
Jeremiah’s underoos and cleaning them without being noticed before Jeremiah
goes home to Aunt Kiley, his 400 pound legal guardian who last week during
Springer inadvertently sat on the poor lad, crushing his retainer into plastic
shards.
The next day Bev Pinesol sported
her skin tight Custom designed Crack Kills tee shirt in front of Aron and Mario
and asks if any of these boys would be interested to see what thirteen-thousand
dollars in terms of saved Lunch money can purchase via cellophane.
Allan peers out the vent as he watches
Aron and Mario tell Jebediah to take it like a man, today, faggot. He watches as they
wedgie him from behind and shove balled up TP in his mouth. Allan watches as both Mario and Aron take a
serious dump before hoisting Jebediah up and shoveling him headgear first into
the shitter. Since Jebediah’s headgear is built like a miniature erector set
version of the tower of Babel, Jebediah is able to breathe and avoid being
totally Ostriched to the point of suffocation. Although he still reeks of
shit. Some days at lunch, Mario and Aron
ingest only Cheese balls and chili beans, casually strutting behind Jebediah
and Farting, as if to portent what comes next.
As they shove Jerbediah in, for the
second time today, they talk about Misses Noel who lost one breast to cancer
and then died in a three-lane car wreck on the way home form Mayo.
“I guess that’s why your mama was
such a dead lay.” Aron laughs. Small particles of mucus spraying out of his
throat.
“Do you get it Mario? Dead Lay?”
Aron nudges his cohort’s ribcage. “Do you get it?”
Mario admits
that he doesn’t get it but still snorts anyway, telling Jebediah to take cover,
there about ready to flush and turn the top of his head into a shit sandwich.
After Ostriching Jebediah and
flushing Aron and Mario both turn and flex their fingers looking for Patrick.
The bell to fifth hour has long past shrilled and Patrick knows it will more or
less be his old Jonathan Edwards Irish ass anyway whether he shows up on time
or not. Jeremiah is yelping for assistance. Patrick turns and looks for help.
Mario had both of his wrists manacled around Jebediah’s suspended ankle. Even
though there is a healthy linoleum echo resonating out of the bathroom Patrick
knows that the only person who will come for help is perhaps Coach M, and even
then, he will somehow encourage Aron and Mario to perform their Lutheran duty
and continue on with the roast.
“Stop it,
you stale salsa breath piece of shit.”
Aron is
kicking Patrick in his ribcage. Trying to yank one of his hands into the
bathroom stale. The bell four fifth hour sounds and Patrick realizes that this
time there may in fact be only one way out.
He runs, the hallways is dark, the
light fluttering down on the far end like it is trying to ward off mosquitoes.
He can hear Aron’s gruff voice swearing after him, talking about removing
Patrick’s testicles with his knuckles and then forcing Patrick to swallow them
down afterwards and submit a three-to-five page expository paper, detailing the
event, to Mrs. Mooney. Mario, squealing
scales that only highly trained Mezzo-soprano’s can hit. He can see Deeba and Shithead polishing the trophy case from
last semester at the far end of the hall. This is his only hope.
“Shithead,” Patrick acknowledges.
Shithead bows.
“Shithead, look, they're gonna kill
me!” Shithead looks at Patrick like Allah will protect him. Aron Browman has
just turned the corner picked up a half-limped JaVon Worthington who was kicking it near the water fountain
that coach M. told him was his semester assignment, to monitor the lower plank
water fountain and make sure no one fucks with. Doctor Kennedy Marshal even
pointed her hand toward the trophy case and told Bowman that he thinks Shithead
may be trying to hide Patrick, and, once you locate him and beat the
ever-living shit out of him, please remind him that he was late for his last
session.
Aron and Mario arrive at the heap
of Trophies from Last season. Patrick picks up one and hurtles it at Javon,
like he is christening his dread locks. Javon just looks at him like he has
indigestion before charging Patrick. The two of them fall into the trophy case,
breaking the glass. Patrick feels blood treacling down his face. Aron Browman
seems to have plunged in as well and now Patrick feels trapped. VonBehren and
Hale are both, more than likely in class, with Hale more than likely ferrying a
cup of coffee for Mrs. Mooney and then making a little whew-whoo with Cabbages
in the Teachers Lounge. Another crash and Patrick is beginning to feel his ribs
bruise. He can only speculate that Mario has just crashed into him and now
Patrick feels pinned down under enormous weight and duress. Every time he opens
up the lids of his eyes he sees a different color fist plummet into his vision.
Mario is telling him that he is going to peel Patrick’s testicles off like a
loosing Lotto scratch off right now, so make himself at home. The light in the
lower corridor seems to take it’s time while flickering and before Patrick
opens his eyes to the branding of another fist, he sees that he above light
goes out for good and the next thing he knows he is falling. Falling for what
feels like forever. Maybe this is what death is-life suddenly sucked out of you
in a vortex of rolled-fists and clutched knuckles. He falls in darkness and
then all of a sudden he just stops falling. Looking up he hears loud snorts-as
if his father was sleepwalking once again back to the MacIntosh after his
mother had once again set another twenty-hour time limit to conserve energy.
“Easy,” Patrick looks at the
creature. A shadow seems to lurk and sniff. Satan. Patrick thinks. Goddamnit
God, just send me back into Hell why don’t you. The creature continues to
snarl. Patrick can see the creature’s breath exhale in dual tendrils out of its
nostrils.
“Listen, Satan, Lucifer. I know
you’ve been getting a bad rap and all. I’m here to tell you that I’ve been a
avid Ozzy Osborne Black Sabbath groupie for years and that I’m sure we can
somehow manage to get along just find if you point me out to the latest firing
range in Hell so that I can practice my cross-bow for eternity. Shit.”
Patrick realizes that eternity is a
fucking long time and that being dead feels an awful lot like being alive only
there is a creature staring at you, grunting, as if trying to communicate.
“Wait a second,“ Patrick says,
pinching his nipple, trying to make it hard. “How the hell can I be dead if I
can still do that?” Patrick looks up at the creature, realizes that he must
have fallen through a trap door or something and that he is now in the school
plumbing. Which means that he is not only having a tête-à-tête with Lucifer, he
has having lunch with Stertorous Taurus Sentarious.
“Shit!!!” Patrick turns around and
runs. Although he can only see an inch or two ahead of him, Patrick takes off.
To his left side he sees what appears to be empty library shelves, stacked
high. Behind him he can still hear Taurus’s grunt, sounding rather upset.
“Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck Shit!!!”
pgs 445-448 in text...
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