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

The Queen B - Part 2

I won't even bother to describe the bathroom for you. Seen one school waste disposal room, seen them all. 

Broken stalls, that one toilet that's always out of use that goths use to sneak vapes between classes, that unidentified liquid on the floor that you can't tell if it's pee or water because of the budget beige bathroom tiles that haven't been power washed since they were created, and that chemically-perfected hint of piss, ingrained in the foundations of the school, that makes you stay there for as long as you have to, and not a second less. 

I guess I did bother to describe it. I just wanna make a point that, right out of the bat, my disposal options were already reduced by one, for there were three stalls. It's always three stalls. Seems like the American school system can't think of a reason why people have to poop in even number intervals. 

"What the shit, Hayden?" I say, shaking his pastrami hams of a hand away from my arm. "What was that about?"

"Look, brother," he says, "forget about that. I got a favor to ask you, bad boy to bad boy."

"Kinda hard to ignore a mob asking for blood," I say, walking towards the first stall. 

I try to open it, but a voice saying "Ocupado," chimes in as soon as I do it. Great, a bystander. 

"That's what I'm trying to ask you," says Hayden. "It's gonna sound weird, but I want you to beat the shit out of me."

The word itself makes my intestines jump to the left, and I be damned if I'm letting it scoot a little to the right and do the hokey-pokey. "I'm sorry, what?" 

"You heard me," says Hayden. "I need you to walk outside with me, put up and act, and just pound me hard in front of everyone."

I take back what I said. He's not a genius, he's a weirdo. And I don't have time to deal with weirdos. 

I move to the next stall, the last one I might add, but Hayden blocks me with his hand before I can even so much as touch the door. Remember, Hayden is a huge, jock bad boy that could, if he wanted, turn me into a pulp.

"Buddy, friendo, first of all, phrasing," I say. "Next time you talk, take a second to listen to what you say. Second, I came to this school to get a substandard education so that I can get a mediocre, if rewarding, job by helping the elderly set up their Gmail account, not get into fisticuffs with someone that can get me into a hate list if I so much look at them wrong. Thirdly, I gotta take a mondo crap, so if you would excuse me..."

I try, and emphasize on try, to go around Hayden, but he is just way too muscular to properly maneuver around. All he does is sidestep a bit to the right to block my advance. 

"Move it, beef fridge!" I say. "I'm sorry, that was totally uncalled for. I really have to take a dump, and I can't control my bad boy-ness."

"I get you," he says, putting a bacon-wrapped hand on my shoulder. "Sometimes, we can't help but act on our bad-boy instincts. I forgive you, brother."

"Thank you," I say. 

"But only if you fist me in front of everyone."

"Okay, what the hell is wrong with you?" I ask. 

He puts another hand on my other shoulder, locking his eyes on mine. Deep, dark eyes, full of knowledge and despair, like two chocolate cookies after a philosophy class on Kierkegaard. "Brother, listen up. There is a time in every man's life when he has to take stock, buckle down, and realize he should get his ass beaten by a bad boy." 

"That answers zero of my questions."

He removes his right hand, puts it inside his bag, without looking, and takes out a small, cupcake-like thing.