The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Indicent Proposal

Lee takes me to a utility classroom on the second floor. More like drags me. She's surprisingly strong for such a small thing. Super warm as well. Like a miniature George Foreman oven, or a fire ant. 

The room, just like my increasing chances of graduating without someone dying on me in this school, is empty, and kind of depressing. The paint is chipped, the desks are chipped, pretty much everything that can be chipped is chipped. The only thing that needs a chip but isn't is an old busted computer by the corner. I know it isn't chipped because it's wide open, and also is being used to hide tortilla chips inside? Well, it is a kind of chip alright. 

Look, I don't judge, but if I did judge, I would seriously consider firing whoever is in charge of the upkeep of this place. It's shitty even for the school's standards. 

"Welcome to the student's council room," says Lee, sitting on the other side of a chipped desk, thus making me feel like an asshole to all my lovely readers. "Please take a seat."

You know? I'm not sorry. This place looks like it was ransacked by a tiny horde of barbarians with tiny axes.

"I know what you're thinking," says Lee while joining two hands together over the table in a power-play most benefiting a man who has a giant mech at his disposal to fight aliens. "Lee, why is this place looking like a tiny tornado full of old rusty razors came through it?" 

"Well...yeah," I say. I notice that I'm still standing, so I correct that. "I thought students council rooms are all posh and style and funky fresh rhymes."

She takes out a notebook from underneath the chipped table. The notebook is also chipped. "I don't know what anime bs you think this is, but it doesn't work that way. The student council has no real power. All we do is make food drives and set the theme of the prom. Our budget hasn't changed since the school charter was drafted. Wanna know what it is?" 

She peruses, perusi? I don't know. She fiddle-faddles with the book for a bit before presenting it to me. I can see, in bold letters, the whole of their yearly budget.

20 dollars, a bucket of dip, and a voucher for three(3) free cans of beans from the local Piggly Wiggly. 

"And since they can't sell tobacco to minors anymore," she says, producing a huge tub of some viscous substance that smells of bad decisions and poor taste, "they changed it for ranch dip. Which is a downgrade if you ask me." 

"So, this whole thing-"

"Is a charade, yes," she interrupts me. Also, how did she know I was gonna say that? "The student council has no power. It's just an excuse for the principal to say they have student input, when in reality, we are just figureheads. There is not an ounce of power within these walls."

There is not an ounce of anything within these walls. Mainly paint. It's as if time itself had forgotten about the room. There's even a Nixon-Agnew campaign poster on the wall. What's with this town's obsession with Nixon-Agnew? I'll have to ask Hayden about that later. 

She slams her hand against the table, enough to make me snap from my stupid inner monologue.

"Hey, stop monologuing!" she says, snapping her fingers in an authoritative, if sassy way. "We are not done talking."

"I'm sorry," I say. Wait, how did she know I was monologuing just now?

"You might be wondering, how did I know you were monologuing just now," she says. "Also, why are we talking about the non-existence budget of the student council. Or hell, why is everything here chipped beyond belief." 

"That's not quite what I was wondering...but yes, pretty much."

Can you read my mind? Can you guess the number I'm thinking about? It's 69 by the way. Wait, that's a common number. 7845. That's better.