This was mostly written when life was normal. I wasn’t going to post it, but I wasted a huge fucking amount of time on this trash, so you might as well get to see. It’s sloppy as hell cause I’m not bothering to fix it, but I realize now that it doesn’t matter at all. I’m in the middle of trying to decide how much about the new and horrific reality of things I should be sharing with all of you perfect strangers, and I suppose I will share it all eventually, but my mind is a bath of hot liquid right now, the sores on my back are still fresh and symmetrical, and I am currently in the middle sorting out fact from mental protection. How is all of this possible in a world of processed cheese and unicycles? It is beyond me. I might give up. I might go on. I might go back out to the bluff and see if they return. I might cry out when they lift me from the ground and wonder why did I come here? But hey, while I sort all of this crap out, you can read this moot bullshit:
Date rapists and pedophiles populated the summer school program like flies on a rotting sow, turning the bad to worse for their own sick nourishment. With blatant disregard for the rights of their fellow humans, they wag their cocks to and fro; with zero remorse they pounce upon the weak or unwary and unleash their savagery. But for Pendel the Great and Terrible, that’s all over now. The border-line retarded sociopaths once known to me as peers are forever (?) part of my past, because for all intents and purposes, I am a fucking high school graduate, MOTHERFUCKERS, and I plan to finally put some distance between myself and the fools of conformity that comprise the sad and vacant hipster clique known as high school.
However…I suppose it is safe to say that I am somewhat fascinated by this Eric Grassman character, and may try to cross his path in my newfound life as a true proletariat. Although I’m sure, after receiving his beat-down from Dougy the Rhino in Conway’s class a couple of weeks ago, it’s probably going to take some doing to end up on Grassman’s trail. According to Sugarbear—my soon-to-be roommate—the poor fuck has locked himself in his mom’s basement and hasn’t shown his long face since. I can’t blame him. Once an animal like Doug has tagged a person, only fresh blood from easier prey or death will deter him.
The Rhino made his name in junior high when he walked through the doorway one arid day and shocked the entire school body by already being a man. Shoulders squared under a neck as thick as a fencepost and his chin bashing holes in the sky, he caught the eyes of all. How could this happen? Who LET this happen? Where was GOD when this freak of science transformed like a young and dissident horse into a fighting and fucking machine rivaled only by men almost twice his age? At 14, he could snap the forearm of most teachers with the stomp of one massive heel. And in his EYES lived a cold confidence; in his EYES swarmed the silence of callousness—the complete lack of empathy borne by the stallion as he bites the neck of the mare and fucks her into submission; as he rears high and smashes down to splinter the bone of his trainer—his BREAKER—as he jumps the fence at full speed to free himself from the bonds of those who would have him TRAINED. Would he be corralled? Would he be lassoed? Would they mount his back and ride him home to deference? Sure, of course. Eventually. But in the meantime, his brutality was palpable and green—his malice untested and uncontested. He was a mutant. A laboratory of potency. He was only 14 freaking years old and he had the fucking goods.
We were all, of course, terrified.
So now Dougy’s like 17 or 18, and he’s only gotten larger, only grown more removed and apathetic, and he stalked the hallways of high school like a volatile apparition with a keen eye for petty transgressions against the unwritten laws of his narrow world view. Eric Grassman fell into the cross hairs of Dougy the Rhino’s muddled HUD, and paid the price—will continue to pay the price, I’m sure, until Grassman decides to leave town. Or else, Dougy gets his ass tranquilized, tagged, and carted off to the wildlife preserve, where he can live out the rest of his cold years of violence uninhibited, tasting blood without fear of reprisal.
It’s hard for a retard like me to stay on track. So okay. It was just another lazy day in Summer Session. The air was heavy. The bugs droned. We all trudged lifelessly into Conway’s nap-trap and slumped into our desks, merely waiting for the end of the day so we could all limp home to more gross injustice. Conway had called roll, and was beginning to rehash the finer points of some random classic using her patented method of oversimplification, when a soft humming undercut her voice, filling the room with distraction. Unswayed, Conway tried an honorable tactic, which was to raise her voice slightly and plow ahead, but the humming was just too fucking THERE, too fucking PERFECT as it traced the melody of some incredibly sopping-wet tune from the stone age; some song that (to the best of my memory) speaks of birds flying gaily around the head of a nameless asshole too saintly for his own fucking good; a song about the congregation of angels and the insane amount of beauty they’ve pumped into this one human, and about how we all can’t get enough of this sappy piece of shit as he walks among us, making us feel HORRIBLE about ourselves, because we could never measure up to the bar this son-of-a-bitch has raised. It’s a happy song, I guess, and something in its delivery ran so completely antithetical to Conway’s speech that the entire room dissolved into snorts and giggles. Heads swiveled, eyes darted, and smiles were exchanged at this unexpected change in plan. At first, it seemed impossible to know from whom the disturbance emanated (though I suppose it should have been obvious), but as all eyes connected and ruled each other out, every student in class eventually settled their focus on Eric. He faced forward calmly with a look of such benign longing—his chin bobbing minutely with every note that he hummed—that even Conway cocked her head to the side for a moment in concern before finally saying, “Eric, please stop that.” Eric continued humming his sad song as if nothing had been said to him at all, causing a few people to let out surprised guffaws of concern regarding his lack of social awareness. “OK, Eric. Very good. Very nice. You’ve impressed us all.” No change in Eric. “Eric, honestly. This is ridiculous. I know you can hear me. Now stop this instant or there’s going to be trouble, Eric. Eric, do you understand what I’m saying? Eric?”
Eric simply kept humming. If anything, from his outward appearance, he slipped—ever so slightly—deeper into wistfulness. His thoughts appeared far away, as if he had trained his mind’s eye on his memory as it launched itself into the icy Atlantic with all his hopes and dreams aboard. Would that ship ever make it’s way back to Eric Grassman and the troubled mind that had made it so hard for those hopes and dreams to realize their full potential? Ahhh…it was impossible to say. Could it be that the song Eric hummed had nothing to do with theatrics, but maybe something more to do with sorrow? Or longing? Or was that all BULLSHIT? I knew very well that inwardly Eric was watching the proceedings eagerly—gluttonously—gauging the reactions of Mrs. Conway and the rest of the class like a mad scientist adding the final touch of a lightning bolt to the stewy mix in front of him, waiting nervously to see if the improbable concoction would find legs and stumble away into the night.
Mrs. Conway marched to Eric’s seat, weaving her way through the onlookers until she stood directly in front of him. She tapped rapidly on his desk with one bony finger. “Hello, mister. Hi. Hey. I can wait for you, you know.”
Eric looked right through her without even a flutter in his posture. He sang to his memories. He sang to us—whether we wanted him to or not. For MY part, I was VERY interested. This was exactly the kind of shit that gets me out of bed every morning. But it was VERRRY clear that one person in particular was NOT into Eric Grassman’s unique brand of soft rock. Dougy the Rhino was supremely uninterested in Eric’s shtick. He sat a few chairs behind Eric and off to the side, with a clear view of the back of Eric’s head. And as I grinned to myself over the passive resistance I was witnessing, I caught a glimpse of Doug shooting rapid-fire daggers. I knew then that Eric was going to be in a world of hurt, and soon. Cold crept down from the top of my head and soon covered all of me. Doug was going to kill someone someday. His countenance sang murder.
“Eric, this is simply pathetic. I can’t let it stand.” Conway could have been talking to her cat. “Eric, go to the office immediately. You’ve stolen as much learning as I can allow.”
Eric hummed on endlessly. Conway stiffened. Doug tensed in his seat. I felt my own breath quicken as conflict loomed like a cloud of locust on the near horizon.
“Eric. Eric. Eric. Eric. Stop it. Now. Eric.” No reactions from Grassman at all, except for maybe a tightening of his focus. Conway sighed and closed the book on Eric’s desk. Then she gathered the rest of his shit and grasped his elbow. “Come on now. You’ve had enough fun at everyone’s expense. Go to the office.” As she spoke, she tugged at his arm, trying to pull him from his seat without actually putting any force behind her moves. Suddenly Eric snatched his arm back with a disgusted sneer, and popping up from his desk, he smacked everything from Conway’s pale hands and kicked it all across the floor.
“You can’t touch me! You don’t have the right to do that!”
“Okay, Eric. Just fine. You’re not hurt. Stop playing up for everyone and get out. Just get out. Go to the office. I have no use for your music and neither does anyone else in here.”
Eric clenched his eyes tightly and clawed like some kind of fucking mental patient at his ears. Honestly, it freaked me a little.
Conway had as much as she was going to take, which is about three times as much as any other teacher. She turned on her heel and headed for the door. “No, no. Not this. We don’t have to take this. None of us.” She stopped at the door and addressed the class in her senile, grandma way once more before exiting. “He’s taking from you. All of you. I hope you know that. And I hope you remember Eric’s behavior when you’re back in summer session next year.”
Eric stooped for his book and jaunted to the front of the class, throwing the text into the trash, and whining all the way, “You’re always on my back. I’m out of here.”
“Oh no, Eric. You stay. I’M leaving. But I’ll be right back, everyone. If you care, you can read.”
And she was gone. Eric turned to the class—the wounded, deprived contrivance melting instantly—and cackled childishly. “She’s a fucking—“ But he stopped short and a look of concern crossed his face. “What?”
I turned in my seat and with alarm saw Dougy the Rhino advancing up the aisle like a cartoon dog. Hate burned in his dead face. Eric saw that hate, and with confusion and panic, he mewed and made a jump for the door. But it was simply too late; the dog was upon him. Doug grabbed for Eric’s shirt in one blink and had a fistful of it in the next. Eric’s feet shot out from under him as his momentum failed, and as he awkwardly tried to regain his feet, Dougy unceremoniously flung him towards the rear of the room. Eric’s foot caught a desk leg, and it sent him sprawling. He smashed into a bookcase in an area devoted to bookcases, but he was able to use the shelves to quickly pull himself back up to his feet with surprising grace.
He would have done well to stay on the fucking ground. Eric no sooner turned around than Doug’s hand was around his throat and Doug’s fist pistoned into Eric’s face, making a meaty sound. Up came the fist, and then down again. Up again, and down. Up, down, up, down. Each pop to the face punctuated with that meaty smack, and each meaty smack followed by boyish cries from Eric, his face already a bloody mess. Finally Eric got his hands up to shield his battered mess, but like a person who knows exactly what he’s doing, Doug simply grabbed Eric’s arms and used them as leverage to flip Eric around; and pinning the arms behind Eric’s back with one hand, the Rhino grabbed a big ole’ bunch of shirt with the other, and commenced pulling and pushing, smashing Eric’s whole body into the bookcase he had originally flung Eric into. Oh, the humanity.
The soprano yelps of Eric with every blow rained upon him was pathetic and hypnotic, and masked the sound of the door to the classroom opening and the return of Conway. “Okay, Eric. Mr. Jimston is on his way. You can deal with him when he gets here.” She took up her chair at her desk without even looking at the back of the room, where a bloodfest was currently playing out in her class.
Eric was howling repeatedly in pain. Conway looked up from her desk absently and said, “Ok, boys. That’s enough. Take your seats,” and then returned to gazing at her desk as Eric’s beating continued and his cries kept ringing out. Mouths dropped open all over the place as everyone stared, waiting for Conway to make a move. She looked up, and glanced about languidly. “Boys, did you hear me? Take your seats.” Truly mind-boggling.
The door swung open again just as Doug threw Eric to the ground and lifted his foot in the air. Eric saw the foot coming through what must have been a red-wash haze as his nose bubbled blood, and he barely crawled out of the way of a stomp that would have surely broken a rib. And then he was off, heaving between desks for his life as Dougy followed suit without even so much as a disappointed grunt for missing his target. He was a robot—a nimble machine of terror that had fixed his smooth targeting system on the quivering mass of Grassman. Through the opening door came the English teacher Jimston, a stocky man in his mid-forties (I suppose) with angry red hair and surprisingly quick moves that he put to use as soon as he saw what was going on. He moved in with shocked eyes, and as he deftly threw a half nelson on Dougy the Rhino and began to drag him off he said, “Move wrong and I’ll break your fucking neck!” Whoa. Nice. Ballsy.
The spell on Conway was broken as she rose suddenly to her feet and exclaimed, “Oh my. Oh no. Boys, no!” Jesus. I’m sure this woman couldn’t pass a driving test, and here she is, managing wolves.
Eric rolled on his back, spiting blood out of his wrecked mouth. Doug spoke the parting words as his feet crossed the threshold to the hallway: “When I see you around I’m gonna cut your fucking head open.” I believe he will. Something tells me that Doug’s hand makes effortless transformations into all sorts of tools of torture and murder, one of which might be circular saw.
It was a CRAZY FUCKING SCENE. And I guarantee you that Dougy is gonna kill someone someday. Eric Grassman has a decent chance of winning the honor. Who knows why. I think Doug is a fucking base animal, and he smells the fear Eric feels for the world, and the Rhino HATES it. The scent is acidic and it burns, and Dougy does what he needs to do to smother that rancid and burning odor.
So, as I understand it, Eric walked away from the whole thing with a broken nose, two split lips, a separated shoulder, a cracked tooth that will probably have to be pulled, and two fucking-A nut-zo black eyes, purple like the night.
So you see how it’s going to be hard to smoke him out.
Hell Is For Children 
Daaaayyyyumn.
You have the most insane stories ever.
That, and just the way you describe it….daymn.
Mind blowing.
But but but….You still haven’t enlightened us as to what’s up right now…
You should write more. Please. For us.
Do it for Johnny!
I rescind my comment the blog is dead. Thanks for the update.
Here’s an update for you: We are all poorly written programs.
I knew it!
…but I like to think I’m rather well written, as far as humans go.
…..I have yet to meet a person who thinks they aren’t well “written”. I think so anyway.
Then you’ve clearly never met our president, along with about half the world.
No, I’ve never met the president. But, I don’t think he thinks he’s an idiot. Then again, maybe he does. I don’t know. *shrugs*
I didn’t say he was an idiot. *shrugs*
Is miscommunication part of a well written program?
Sure. We’d be boring if everyone always knew exactly what we were talking about.
Besides, I didn’t say any of YOU were well written.
Not quite. It would be boring, yes. But a well-written program isn’t meant to have bugs, and if there are bugs, they are caught and fixed – most of the time anyway.
Who says it’s a bug? Maybe we’re working exactly as intended. And I imagine it’s very hard to edit a sentient program, anywho.
I don’t know, I assumed, because Pendel said “poorly written program” and so ya. I don’t know, seemed to fit.
Your assumption that we are sentient is based on what?
Poorly written doesn’t always mean buggy.
And my assumption that we’re sentient is based on the fact that we’re capable of thinking we’re sentient, which makes us sentient as far as I care.
Any chance of a post instead of some Jedi-esque questions, Pendel?
Ya, much rather have a post then this hint-y stuff.
*takes blue pill*