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

The Queen B - Part Three

Let's keep this short — I can already feel myself turtle-heading. 

Again, Nicola Tesla, Abraham Lincoln, Slavoj Zizek, some of history's most powerful bad boys, all had, at some moment, sat at the decorated crapper to drop a mad deuce. That's what novels don't tell ya. 

If my plan is to succeed, and I hope to sweet baby Jesus it does, there won't be any more of a chapter left. The first part consists of the hype. I want everyone to pay attention. And we have the perfect hype-man.

"Hear ye, hear ye, ya basic bitches and bitchettes," says Billiam, walking out of the door, with a piece of toilet paper stuck under his shoe, if I might add. "They're gonna come out, and you're gonna give daddy some big shouties, okay?" 

For the thunderous reception he got, I think he nailed it.

"You sure about this?" asks Hayden. "Can't you just pound me hard against the wall?" 

"Phrasing," I say, first of all. "And yes, I am sure. Fighting between bad boys is a catch-22. We both will come out both hotter and approachable, and that's the last thing we want." 

"And what do we want, then?" he asks, if the pretense of the question mark at the end didn't tip you off.

"To have a mediocre state-sponsored education," I say. "And the only way to get away from the social wheel is to break the social wheel, George R. R. Martin style."

He stops by the door, probably admiring the woodwork, while scratching his clean-shaven face. "You know, English philosopher John Locke once said that a school's function is beyond subject education, and that it is actually a social microcosm precisely made for people to learn to live in a society, with superiors, peers, and even different social levels. To break the social wheel would be to denounce the real purpose of our education system." 

I take a deep breath, crack my knuckles, put my hands on his back, and say, with the calmest voice possible to avoid even the remotest insinuation that his poignant view is being disrespected, "This is a chapter all about me wanting to take a shit. Don't go philosophizing about Locke, you jumbo-sized beef truck," pushing him through the door to thunderous applause. 

That, or my guts are clapping back. Either/or, at this point. 

I straighten my jacket, pull my luscious hair back, and kick the door open like Caesar crossing the Rubicon — meaning, with both fear and admiration and also a salad. Did you know that the Caesar salad wasn't named after Julius Caesar, but after the inventor, Mexican restaurateur, and bootlegger, Caesar Cardini? Wild, isn't it? But I guess any other salad that you stab with a fork can be a Caesar salad. 

I probably look weird standing in the middle of the hallway, monologuing about salad, to a bunch of people asking for blood. But what can I do? I really like salads. 

"Baby, just get on with it already!" says Leighlay, as she twirls her blonde hair and chews bubblegum. Or is it that she is twirling bubblegum and chewing her hair? Having dark glasses 24/7 isn't great for your eyesight. 

"Kill each other already! Jesus..." yells a boy, oddly annoying at that. "We only have two minutes until the bell starts. Ugh daddy please I wish he would hit me ugh ."

Yep, that's Leeland. But don't worry, I will only need a few seconds. 

I catch Hayden's eyes, and with a knowing nod, we begin our plan. 

He runs at full speed at me, meaty fists ready to punt me. I assume a grappling position, everything is going according to plan. People are raging and yelling, all eyes are on us. 

Time to execute. 

Just as he is at arm's length, he slows down to a crawl, surrounding me below my arms and lifting me up to his height. I grab his shaven head with both of my hands, pulling his head closer to mine. You know where this is going.