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

The Bad Boy In The Treanchcoat

Lt. Col. Fuches' neck vein throbs to the rhythm of "Another One Bites The Dust" with every passing second, with his eyes bulging to the rhythm of Freddy Mercury's silky smooth voice. He doesn't strike me as someone who would enjoy the genre-defining pops of Queen. More like a Creedence Clearwater Revival guy. Maybe that's why he likes Hayden. 

"What in the sweet baritone voice of Freddy Mercury are you wearing, maggot?!" he spits, proving me both wrong and moist at the same time. 

See, this is where the writing medium proves to be a detriment to this story. If I never tell you that I'm wearing my gym shorts and shirt over my leather pants and cotton undershirt, you would've thought that I'm just being my hot self, constantly picked on by a man trying to reconcile boomer thought with zoomer thought without getting canceled. But alas, my skin is still sensible to the cheap gym clothes fabric, and I ain't about to be chafed by something less than a Gucci. 

"Sir," I say, trying my best to give him a best German aristocrat salute by tapping my heels together, "it is a medical condition, sir. My skin is allergic to synthetic materials, sir." 

He immediately takes off his glasses, taking a step back in awe. "What in the sweet head-stain of Mikhail Gorbachev's head did you just do with your feet, maggot? Are you Dorothy from the classic 1939 film 'The Wizard of Oz'? You wanna wish upon a sweet baby Jesus fucking Christ that I don't have your ass for lunch, dinner, and dessert?" 

This guy is giving me seriously mixed messages. I don't know how to act, or what to say. I'll play this like "Fullmetal Jacket" and just go with the flow. 

"Please, don't have my ass for dinner," I whisper. 

Lt. Col. Fuches get so close to me that I can smell what his great-grandfather ate before he died — sauerkraut and sausages, if you want to know — with our noses almost touching. I have to fight my bad boy instincts and not steal a kiss from him. Not that I want to, anyway, but the instincts are in my bones, itching to come out. This is somehow so hot. 

"Well, whoopee-doozie-daisy, Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore," he says, spraying his thick, tobacco-scented spit all over my face. "This is my class now, Dorothy. Here, we don't wear fancy-schmancy dresses. We appreciate the tactical superiority of shorts, and the soft, almost careless whisper of the plain white shirt. Best gear to move up and get up!" 

If that's what the fuss' about, I can easily prove him wrong. I immediately drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. One hand, two hands, red hands, blue hands, no hands, alternative hands. I do about thirty in thirty seconds, all the while counting them aloud. 

"See?" I say, using two fingers to push me up. "My body is a fine-tuned machine, shorts or no shorts." 

"Boo-boo," he says, spitting next to him with such pressure that the spittle bounced on the floor. "Any schmuck can do that. Hell, Hayden could do as many with both hands behind his back. God, he's a perfect specimen of human peak performance. I want to flash-freeze his seed to put in my underground bunker and use it to repopulate the planet once those damn commies get trigger happy. Jesus Christ on a Ritz Cracker."

Very mixed emotions. 

"But sir, my health." 

"Buts are for sitting, shitting, and heterosexual spanking in a sports setting, Dorothy!" he spits. "You will wear the appropriate gear when you're in my class, maggot! You will respect my authority!" 

Every cell in my being is screaming for me to get out in a dramatic, bad-boy fashion that will inspire my love interest to come after me in the hallway, and me calling them off saying that I'm broken and I can't be fixed. After all, if a bad boy storms off and a love interest doesn't follow, is he a bad boy at all? And I can see at least three people ready to sprint after me as soon as I make a pivot.