Archive | October, 2010

My Halloween

31 Oct

It’s a romantic thing–finally deciding to forego the debauchery and hedonistic fun of Halloween for a quiet evening at home with someone you love, watching scary movies, taking only the briefest of breaks from the screen to answer the door and hand out candy to excited children dressed in costume.

Fortunately for me, though, I don’t love anybody, so I went out on Halloween. I went out to drink alcohol, scream all my jokes, and quietly enjoy all the “slutty _____” costumes Denton, Texas has to offer (I never admit to this last pleasure. I prefer to outwardly disdain the outfits, sitting high on my ivory, college-educated tower. In reality, I love boobs.)

Of course, before I could go out, I had to acquire a costume.

“What about this?” my roommate Derek, asked. He had pulled up a picture on his computer. I peeked over his shoulder.

“Derek,” I said, shaking my head, a clear note of disappointment in my voice. Derek won’t turn and face me. His gaze remains locked on the computer screen.

“Okay, okay. What about this?” he made a few more clicks and brought up a new picture.

“Derek, who the hell is this?” I asked. Derek laughed condescendingly

“It’s Mahmoud Abbas!”

Silence.

“Head of the PLO!”

“The Palestinian Liberation Organization?”

“YES!” Derek exclaimed and began to giggle like a child, holding his gut tightly. “People will love it!”

“Derek, nobody’s going to know who I am. They’re all just going to think I’m dressed up as an old man.”

Suddenly, Derek’s laughter stopped.

“Huh. So now they can’t even get a fucking Halloween costume out of you?”

His tone had become hostile and aggressive. I took a step back.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean ‘out of me’?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You and your people always play so dumb. Of course, when it suits you, you’re smart as Hell. You’re the smartest people in the world–what with running our banks and just about every media industry in the world!”

“Good Christ, Derek.”

“Maybe you could go as the Palestinian state. Yea, it’s got a lot in common with other Halloween costumes, like ghosts, vampires, and Frankensteins.”

I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “Like what?”

“None of them exist.”

“Okay, Derek,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I’m getting a little uncomfortable with this. I think I’m just going to look through my closet and–”

My sentence is cut off by an explosive burst of laughter from Derek. He rocked back and forth in his seat then leapt to his feet.

“Get it?! I’m doing my bit!”

“What ‘bit’?”

“I’m everybody’s secret thoughts!”

I walked out of the room and tried to avoid Derek for the next few hours.

I decided to dress up like my favorite rock singer of all time, Eddie Vedder.

This was easy for me. All I had to do was put on a bunch of shitty, ill-fitting clothes with a pair of Doc Martens and some tube socks.

Derek and I got in my car at around eleven thirty and began our “All Hallow’s Eve Drink ‘Til You’re Sleepy-Athon.” Derek made up the name. I put him in charge of it. It was my mistake. I’m sorry. We’re not making t-shirts this year.

Our first stop was at a costume party in an old house in Denton.

“This is weird,” I said. The house seemed completely empty–there were no cars parked on the street and no one in the front or back yard.

“Let’s just go in. Maybe we’re the first ones here,” Derek suggested. He adjusted his beret and inserted a cigarette into a long, black cigarette holder with a gold tip.

“Derek, what’s your costume?”

“I’m smart,” Derek responded, smiling. His mouth was full of food, but I didn’t remember either of us bringing anything to eat.

“Is that,” I paused. “Is that what you think smart people look like?”

“Well, I…”

“How often do you see people wearing that stuff?”

“There aren’t very many smart people in the world, Kyle.”

A bit depressed by how much I actually agreed with this last sentiment, I got out of the car without saying a word.

“Should we just go in?” I asked.

“I’m going to go in,” Derek said.

The door swung open and we walked in. Our footsteps were loud, resonating throughout the entire house. A television is on somewhere.

“Derek, I don’t think this is the right house. Let’s go.”

“No. We’re going to party. I”m ready to get nasty, bloody, and bony.”

So many questions run through my head after Derek says this that I’m unable to articulate any of them. We continued walking through the house. There was a deep hum, a wave of sound, that would intermittently sweep under our feet. All the light in the house seemed false–lending to every room the appearance of a stage. From the other side of the house, I heard Derek call my name. He’s standing at an open doorway at the end of a long corridor. The hallway was unlit, a wash of light coming out of the doorway Derek was standing in front of. He turned to me as I approached with a look of utter terror. I turn to look in the room.

Sitting at a desk much like my own is a man who looks exactly like me and in that moment, I know that he is me. At his side is a mirror-image of Derek Brozowski.

The End.

 

 

 

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Imagine

29 Oct

Stop. Pause for a moment. Close your eyes. Now, imagine a… crap. Open your eyes. You need your eyes open to read th… Damn it. Damn it.

[Editor’s Note: Now you’ve done it.]

I haven’t done shit.

[Editor’s Note: Yea, it looks like you’ve single-handedly eliminated your entire audience’s ability to read your piece.]

Hey, you can get out of the damn brackets. Get out. Nobody’s looking.

Fine.

Fine. So now what do I do?

Whatever you want, really.

Okay. I’m going to write all the things I’ve always wanted to but never could because there was always a reader around.

Six Things I Hate About My Readers

[Editor’s Note: What the hell? What is there to hate? You never see them.]

That’s just it, Editor.

They’re invisible to me.

IronKyle fan club.

I’ll move on.

Blacks: What’s the Deal?

[Editor’s Note: No.]

You’re being impossible.

My Time in Auschwitz

The earth and the sky and all around me were bathed in a wash of blue and grey. It was as if color itself had fled the terrible scene.

Mothers and children clutch one another. Fathers, wearing countenances that spoke of fear and of shame and of profound, profound sorrow. I’m wearing overalls and a Tony Romo jersey. We were walking through a lot of mud and I heard we’d be outside a lot so I wore my outside/knock-around clothes.

“Auschwitz,” I mutter to the man to my left. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were set deep into his skull. “More like, Aw, shitz.” I smile and punch him in the arm. He falls down. I tried to reach down to pick him up, but the current of the moving crowd pushed me forward. I never saw him again.

[Editor’s Note: God, this is depressing. You’re still doing comedy, right?]

Editor, I just don’t know anymore.

The End.

200th Post: I’m Still Here

17 Oct

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

 

David Copperfield kind of crap.

 

Those are the immortal first lines of the J.D. Salinger’s masterpiece, The Catcher in the Rye. They are also the inspiration for my 200th post. This post will be my biography, told in a series of important events in my life from the moment of my birth atop a dying star, to my life now, eating peanut butter and Triscuits for dinner because I don’t want to go to the grocery store.

It is the year 1987. MC Hammer is relevant. Cars run on gasoline pumped from trees, Ronald Reagan is the President, and a certain American inventor named Alexander Graham Bell is about to stumble upon an invention that will change the global landscape forever.

My mother, Paula, is pregnant as Hell with a child. A boy child. My father, Michael, is at his job, taming tigers through sheer physical and mental intimidation. Two hours into comparing his intellect to a nuclear submarine that’s so powerful it doesn’t need people or water, my father’s assistant bursts into the room.

“Mr. Irion!” he shouts. My father sets down his speaking torch and turns to his assistant.

“Yes, Philip?”

“Listen. Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of Lancaster, a Saviour has been born to you; he is Kyle the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You wilt find a baby wrapped in strips of bacon and lying in a manger.”

My father wipes tears from his eyes, gooses the tiger and steps out of the cage. “I will go. I will go to meet my son.”

And he did. I was born that evening–a healthy 5’8″ tall, weighing 168 lbs., 14 oz.

Several indiscriminate years go by where just about all I do is poop, eat, and scream about stuff like pooping, eating, and the owie-feeling my throat gets from screaming. My youth is littered with few difficulties. Being the son of a tiger tamer, life has few curve balls to throw at me.

Except AIDS.

And curve balls.

At 16, I get my driver’s license. For the first time, I feel truly free. I feel as if I have the ability to go anywhere at any time. The freedom’s mere existence exhilarates me beyond measure.

“I want to go somewhere special,” I say to my friend, Brad.

“Yea? Where do you want to go?” he asks, shifting on the couch.

“I want to go to Tibet.”

“Hey! That’s a great idea!” he says, and darts out of the room.

 

Bastard.

 

It is around this time that Brad Pitt and my friendship starts to take a nose dive. Our friend ship is sinking–fast. I’m only a teenager, but I feel like an adult. I have hair in all the right places now. I have big boy dreams–like having a family, owning a home, honking a boob, and watching a movie the whole way through.

I need a true friend–a friend that will stay by my side as I enter the next phase of my life. I met this friend one summer evening in my eighteenth year.

I was exploring in the creek behind my grandmother’s house, looking for some good ol’ fashioned fun and any spent beer bottles that still had some stuff in ’em. I find an old baseball, but after I ring it out, it’s clear that there’s no beer left in it.

The water is to my knees. It’s cool and rushing slowly enough to allow me the ability to walk, but not so slow that I can afford to stop focusing on each step. The creek bed is composed of smooth limestone made slick by a thin layer of moss. My pace is slow and calculated. A breeze rustles the red and orange leaves still yet to fall with the changing of the season. The breeze chills my back and gently whistles through my butt crack, dancing along my taint. It’s at this moment that I see it: a VHS copy of Die Hard sitting prominently among a pile of trash.

I lose all focus and lash out wildly. I almost immediately lose my footing and slip into the water. The current carries me over a small precipice under the waterline. Suddenly, the water is no longer knee-height, but to my neck. I start to swallow water. It becomes difficult to keep my head above water. It’s at that moment that I hear a deep splash somewhere in the water around me.

I desperately reach my hand up to the wall of the creek, but cannot gain purchase along its muddy surface. Suddenly, I feel a rough hand grab me by the arm. I am being pulled. In the haze and the chaos I see the face of a young man who looks to be my age. He has saved my life. He pulls me to the bank and we both sit, gasping for breath. He’s gasping more than me though, since I’m naturally a better athlete than most people.

“Jack,” he said, holding his hand out.

“Kyle,” I respond. I knew that I had found my true friend. He had saved my life and would become my brother.

Two weeks later I leave for college and I’m not quite sure what Jack’s up to now.

College is a beautiful, beautiful experience. My freshman year, I’m in a physics lab. While working with some ball bearings and a triple beam balance, I inadvertently discover that time is in fact a quantifiable entity.

While working in a chemistry lab, I find the gene that makes someone good at basketball and destroy the report–no man is wise enough to handle such knowledge.

While dissecting a frog, my hand slips and I somehow bring the animal back to life. I name it Lazerus and go on a speaking tour with him. I accidentally drop him in an airport and he dies.

On day, I’m doing a drawing for an art class. Twenty or so students surround a nude model, who is sitting on a stool with one leg extended straight out. It is very quiet in the room. We are all drawing, our collective gazes locked on this naked man before us.

“Excuse me,” a girl says, raising her hand slightly, calling the attention of the model.”Can you shift just a bit to the left?”

Immediately and without a sound, the model shifts slightly to the left. I had no idea we could make requests to the model. A few minutes later, another artist, a young man in front of and my left, also speaks up.

“Could you sit up a bit?” he asks. The model obliges him.

I clear my throat and speak up. “Um, sir?” I ask sheepishly. He turns and we meet eyes. “Yes. More dick, please.” The model’s face tweaks a little bit. He seems confused and looks to the professor who is walking across the floor to my easel. Thinking he just didn’t hear me, I say it again, almost yelling. “More dick, please!”

I’m removed from the class. Walking around campus after being kicked out of art class, I did a bit of soul-searching. What am I supposed to do with my life? If I’m not an artist–if I’m not a scientist or a tiger tamer, what am I? Just then, a great crack ripped through the sky. The clouds unfurled and above me was the face of Stephen King.

“Is this scAaAary?” he asks me.

“It mostly reminds me of The Lion King, so no.”

“Damn,” Stephen says. “I’m starting to lose perspective a little bit–more and more often I find I have to ask people what’s scary and what isn’t.”

“Yea?”

“Yea. The other day, I had an hour-long argument with my wife over the relative scariness of a dog with a spot over its eye. I think they’re creepy as shit.”

“Really?” I ask. Stephen sighs. A great gust of wind whips over the landscape.

“No, not really. I was kind of rolling the dice that you thought they were scary and then we’d have common ground. Like I said, things is hard.”

“Yea. I hear ya. I just got kicked out of psych class. I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

“Do you know what I do for a living, Kyle?” Stephen asks, a mischievous grin stretching across his face.

“You do weird cloud tricks for dollars,” I say, squinting up at the sky, holding out a five dollar bill. A giant cloud hand appears and Stephen rubs the bridge of his nose.

“No. I’m a writer–one of the most famous in the world. And you know what else?”

“What?” I ask.

“I have, like, three Macs.”

And that’s when I knew. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to take my thoughts and my ideas–my mind’s most brilliant dreams–and share them with others. Two-hundred blog posts later, it’s still my dream.

Thanks for reading.

-Kyle

Kyle-o Rossi

11 Oct

Saturday night I imbibed an ungodly amount of Carlo Rossi brand sangria. Terrible, unspeakable things were happening inside my body by 3am Sunday morning. Before that, though, things were pretty sweet. Here is the moment-by-moment account of a Saturday night with Kyle-o Rossi.

0 oz.

We leave Sam’s at about midnight or so. My hair is pulled up into a pony-tail. I’m trying to look like Tom Cruise from Magnolia, but I end up looking like Jesse Eisenberg with a thing on his head. No matter, as my girlfriend is in Spain and even if nobody likes my pony-tail, at worst it takes me from a nine to an seven or eight.

We’re going to a party at a friend’s house. We’re not sure how big it’s going to be, but I’m really excited for some reason. Coursing through my veins is not only blood but an almost tangible exuberance (scotch).

The house is beautiful. It’s an old two-story Victorian with a wraparound porch. It’s white-washed and ornate. It looks like the kind of house one of the bad guys from Roots would have lived in. Around the house is a completely treeless lawn that gives the house the appearance of an oasis or an island.

“Sweet refuge,” I whisper. “Should we bring the jug?” I ask Derek.

“Sweet refuge,” Derek whispers, clutching the jug of wine in his hands. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

We get out of the car and approach the house. I’m wearing my Eddie Vedder jacket and feeling strong. Before we go in, I take a couple swigs from the jug.

8 oz.

Mixing with the scotch, the wine goes straight to my belly and fills it with warmth. The reaction between wine and stomach is much like that of heaping coals into the furnace of an old ship–probably the Titanic since it hits an ice berg and ends up killing a lot of people.

...And those he leaves moaning on death's doorstep will all have his name on their lips. "Carlo..."

There are a few people sitting outside on the first-story porch. It’s cool outside, and the breeze that comes causes the temperature to flirt with cold. Inside I hear laughing and the boisterous commotion of youth.

“Oh! The boisterous commotion of youth!” Derek screams and runs inside. I follow.

We pass through the hall and greet everyone. They’re all surprised to see us. Mostly because I had spent much of the week prior trying to convince most of these people that Derek had died in a car accident.

Sometimes I do things just to get attention 😦

Am I bad?

I pause for a moment after I’ve sat down and wonder if I’m bad.

I never admit to my lie about Derek’s death–I only wink when asked and say that “Derek pulled a Jesus on everybody.”

I take a few more sips from the jug, then pour it into a cup and sip some more.

18 oz.

Feeling a little silly. We’re playing a drinking game. It’s called king’s cup. When my turn comes, I lean forward to draw a card from the pile in the center of the table. Everyone is smiling and laughing.

“Go ahead, Kyle!” one gentleman says, grinning from ear to ear. “Draw a good one!”

I reach over and turn a card over. It’s a ten of hearts.

“Categories!” a girl from across the table calls. “Pick a category–anything, and we’ll all say something from that category until we can’t!”

“Like foods?” I ask.

“Yea, but something more specific. We don’t want to be here all night.”

“Oh, okay.” I think for a moment. Then it dawns on me. “Times when it’s cool to say the n-word!” I sit down, smiling proudly. Parties are fun. Nobody’s talking now. Everyone looks to the girl at my left. She takes a drink then leans forward and turns her card over.

I take a drink too, and wait for my next turn.

33 oz.

Feelin’ silly. Silly Billy. A beautiful woman is seated to my right, laughing at all my jokes and I think at one point saying something nice about my pony tail.

Her Siren’s call.

I wander ignorantly, growing ever closer to the serpent's lair.

From within me, and within my jug, a voice tells me it’s all right.

An Italian voice. Or maybe a Spanish voice. Or it could have been from Brooklyn or something. Maybe it had some weird speech impediment–I don’t know.

I don’t travel.

I shake the voice away and get to my feet. Somebody calls and tells me it’s my turn. I don’t even turn around–because I know it’s a lie. My turn has been up for sometime. My game was over before it began.

On my way out, I raise my glass to Derek, who is grinding on some woman I’m sure he doesn’t know the name of.

Cheers to you, you beautiful soul.

41 oz.

Jesus.

Outside, my legs are feeling like jelly. That warmth in my belly has spread to every part of my frame. I’m like that guy from Heroes. Did y… you didn’t watch Heroes? Not even season 1? Huh.

*Rolls eyes

Music is starting. Dancing is starting. My jug of Carlo Rossi (peace be upon him) is being passed around like a groupie on  Savage Garden’s tour bus.

I begin to dance. The world is a blur of faces and sounds. I’m pretty sure I sneeze on someone and then blame it on them.

“Kyle!” I hear Derek call.

“Derek!” I call out. I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence.

“Your stuff is hanging out!”

“What?” I ask, but before I can look down, my jug is back in my hands, and like an infant feeding from his mother’s teet, I begin to drink.

52 oz.

My ability to speak is being hampered. Somebody asks me how my job is going. I tell them.

“Hey! It’s ginn. Fuck’. Kids/?” I’m not sure how, but I actually verbalize a forward slash.

Dancing continues. “Hey Ya” is playing. It reminds me of a happier time. A simpler time.

A woman with a weird face approaches me. She begins to either chastise me for my behavior or hit on me. I can’t tell. Feeling like an observer in my own life, I reach my hand up and tap her on the nose.

“Shuddup.” I say, then turn to walk away. I get about three feet away before I fall down and I think a little toot comes out.

I’m just glad I wasn’t carrying my jug.

“I’m okay,” I say. I pick my jug up from where I’d sat it down and take a drink. This time, a big one. The bottom fifth of the four liter jug is in my gut now. The fires of Hell swirl inside me–and Hell’s master, from the label of my jug–cracks a sinister smile.

Calamitous bane. Trickster. Devil.

66.6 oz

I am gone. I am helped to the car and placed in the passenger seat. The drive home is a blur. I’m no longer able to string together enough words to create a cohesive thought. I’m babbling like an infant.

I make it into the house under my own power, but once I enter–the Hell inside me demands penance. The scales have been tipped too far in my favor and now a price must be paid. I flew too close to the sun and now, my wings melted, I plummet to the Earth.

I puke my lungs out and fall asleep on the bathroom floor.

0 oz

That’s better.

The end.

An Open Letter from Your Allergies

8 Oct

Dear humanity,

Hey. It’s me. Your allergies.

 

Yea, I'm in there somewhere.

 

So, it’s the changing of the seasons. High time for me. I’m everywhere and all over/inside everyone. People are sneezing. People are coughing. Their throats are itchy and their air passages are blocked by seemingly impenetrable walls of mucus. Listen–I get it. I get that you’re pissed. Humanity LOVES breathing. Humanity HATES the inevitable “use a sleeve as a tissue” situation. Humanity LOVES the Situation.

 

I just want to say that I’m sorry, okay?

But you gotta understand, it’s not easy to be me. I’m not all bad. I wake up every day and get ready to go out into your species, knowing that just every man, woman, and child on this god forsaken Earth hates me. You all hate me. And the rest of the ailment community doesn’t respect me because I’m not even, like, a real disease or whatever. I can’t kill you, I’m not contagious, and I’m different for everyone. You know how hard it is to be at a party when AIDS shows up and then all of a sudden it’s like “Hey, yea, sorry I’m late. I was over in Africa owning the shit out of everybody.” Then he pauses for a second and says something like “I’m killing everyone over there.” Everybody claps and cheers and then diabetes’ll do something obnoxious like spray beer in the air or infect a fat cat or something.

I’m getting off track. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry and that after everything–the sneezing, the struggle to breath while you sleep–it’s only because I want to feel close to someone. Thanks for making my October worth living.

Yours whether you like it or not,

Allergies

Children Are God’s Way of Punishing Us for the Things We Do That No One Finds Out About–Including Having Illegitimate Children (Sorry 2 the Girl I Met by the Port-A-Potties at ACL).

3 Oct

I started a new job Monday. It’s a job where I work with children. I’ve had a couple of posts detailing my adventures working with America’s youths, but those have all been high school youths, not child youths, so you can pump the brakes on writing this post off as a re-hashing of another post or some kind of creative cry for help from a desperate and dried up internet pseudo-writer.

I work for an after school program in a city just south of my beautiful Denton, Texas.

I stand in the gymnasium. To me, the gymnasium is small, but I imagine that if I were the size of a child, the gym would seem quite large.

“A house of horrors,” I say to myself as I scan the multicolored tiles and the heavy, silver insulation that hangs exposed on the ceiling. For no apparent reason at all, I imagine a hundred monkeys hanging from the rafters.

“Kyle?” a woman calls from behind me. I laugh to myself and shake my head, reflecting that usually it’s me standing behind the woman screaming my own name.

I turn to see who it is. It’s a woman–another teacher–the teacher I’ve been assigned to work with. Her appearance is like that of  sick pet. You appreciate the animal, you really do, but you’d rather just have it out of the room while you’re around.

“Hello, Kyle!” she says. Her hair is dark and stringy–unkempt. I mentally place her in a shoe box, light it ablaze, and push it down a river.

“Hello, Caroline,” I respond.

“You ready for these kids?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips. Silently, my mind drifts to the image of the woman being swept away by a great tide.

“Wait, there are kids involved?” I ask, trying to make a joke. I immediately regret this decision, however, as the woman’s smile is like a sign post or terrible omen, reminding me of the imminent end of all things. I cringe slightly.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Everything’s fine,” I respond.

A door slams open and children begin pouring into the room with the same rapid, voracious motion of a flame dancing across a trail of gasoline. Dozens of tiny, screaming children run about me. It’s like standing in the middle of a bee hive if all the bees had terrible B.O. and were entirely unaware of it.

The gym, once silent, is now full of the cacophonous, tittering sound of children giggling, screaming, some crying, many crying. Most of them are crying.

“All right, everybody! Get in a line on this l\ine!” I command, referring to a blue line on the gym floor. “Get in a line on this line!” The children seem a bit confused. “Get on a line that is in the same shape on top of this line–sit on it!” A few kids begin to hit one another and another flops to the ground and yells something at me in Spanish. “We’re going to go do some activities!” I say.

Almost instantly–and I mean that, almost instantly–two students are clawing at the leg of my pants. Their faces beaming with the appearance child-like exuberance. Child like exuberance or an almost crippling lack of attention at home.

“Wait, wait,” I say benevolently. “I’ll fill the gaps your parents have left in your hearts as soon as I finish telling you all the instructions!”

The gym goes silent.

A thousand creatures all wide-eyed and waiting.

My supervisor approaches me.

“What did you just tell these kids?” she asks me in a tone that is soft yet forceful–a kind of whisper yelling.

“I told them that I’d fill the gaps that their par–”

“–That’s what I thought. You can stop right there,” she snaps.

We talk for several minutes in her office about the merits of being emotionally sensitive and not calling kids out on having negligent parents/no parents at all. I learn things. I feel smarter as I leave the office. I feel more well rounded as an educator.

As we enter the gym, Juan Cartez throws a kickball to me. I’m not paying attention and it strikes me in the temple.

“GOD JESUS YOU STUPID FATHERLESS INFANT!” I scream. Damn it.

“Mr. Irion!” my supervisor screams.

“I was talking to that ball. The ball. Balls don’t have dads.” I wink at Juan. He smiles impishly and returns to the swarm. “Kids love jokes about nuts,” I say to my supervisor, who seems to have become much sweatier and scarier looking. She holds up one finger as if to tell me to wait for something, then walks out of the gymnasium, pulling her phone from her pocket.

“All right kids!” I call. “Who likes snacks?!” An explosion of sound not unlike the detonation of a bomb. “Get in line and we’ll go get snacks!” They can’t hear my commands. The snacks are in another room, but they don’t know this–can’t know this–unless they hear my commands. The mob becomes angry. They begin picketing and burning me in effigy. I’m lost and scared and impressed with the students’ ability to organize so quickly.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” My assistant screams, stomping her foot. Her feminine voice cuts like a knife through the wall of screaming. They become silent–docile. “Now all of you need to get in a straight line right now! And be quiet!’ I smile quietly as my pants begin to rise.

“Yea,” I say wistfully. “Let’s go get a god damn snack.” The line sets into motion–slowly at first, like the departure of a train.

The End.

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