320 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
320 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Life Sentence
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by The Pusher
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>>> a cDc publication.......1990 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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_______________________________________________________________________________
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Sidestepping the body, I continued forward.
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The hunt was on.
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And I'm not the hunter.
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They don't think I know what I'm doing, but I'm doing great so far.
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Anything less than great, and I'd be dead. You could ask the guy behind me how
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I'm doing, except he'd have a little trouble responding. His head has vacated
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his body.
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I'm running now, down halls I've ventured through many times before. I
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stop to look at a clock. When it hits 2:05, it's more than just the end of a
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day, it means you're one day closer than you were yesterday to finishing your
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sentence.
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His footsteps are in the distance. A quick jump around the corner
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provides my temporary hiding place.
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I don't know what I'm doing, eh?
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I've seen every Chuck Norris movie, so better you believe I know what I'm
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doing.
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Guns, teenagers, and high school.
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It'd make a great TV show, wouldn't it?
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Is there anything scarier than being the new kid in school? I've been on
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the fastest roller coasters, seen the most frightening horror movies, visited
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the slums of the world, but nothing compares to Day 1 in your new school. As
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luck would have it, I've been the new kid more than once. I was born in Orange
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County, California. You probably expect me to say that my dad left as soon as
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I was born. He didn't. He left as soon as he was finished with my mom in the
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back seat of his car. So I grew up in a single parent household. We moved
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around quite a bit, and now we're in a middle class community called Stepferd.
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You see, my mom decided that unless I lived in a nice place, I would grow up to
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be a loser like my Daddy (God damn his soul). So she went to night school,
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took some courses, and got a degree in Business Administration. As a result,
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my mother is now assistant manager in a shoe factory in Stepferd. Her dreams
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were attained. A nice house, a nice neighborhood, a nice school for her child.
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Yes siree, that school certainly was nice.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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"Get your face out of there," said the jerk.
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I don't why he's yelling at me, the lab period is in full swing, the
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morons are throwing crucibles at each other, the girls are screeching, "Oh my
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God!" a lot (so you know the gossip is heavy-duty), but I guess my snooping
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around the boxes piled on his desk wasn't too appealing to him either. It's
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always good to look around the science lab for goodies. There's always some
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stoner dude looking for something to eradicate his brain cells, and they don't
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mind paying for it. Something very unusual happened next.
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"Conformity."
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It was amazing, one word from a teacher counting the days 'till retire-
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ment, and the class... well, it just blew my mind how they put down their water
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bombs and meter sticks, and shuffled like zombies over to their desks and sat
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down. I mimicked their movements more out of curiosity than any need to ride
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the docile wave that now surrounded the class. I thought about what just taken
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place. What got into those kids? And more importantly, will it get into me?
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I'd be lying if I said that what happened in Chemistry was the first sign
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of weirdness I witnessed at Stepferd High.
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It was just so obvious to me. People walked around the halls, with a
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glazed look in the eyes. As if they had all been on drugs. Sure, there was
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the usual horseplay and retards roaming the halls, but there was a very
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unnatural aura surrounding Stepferd High.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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A few months after we arrived in Stepferd, my mother asked, "How are you
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enjoying Stepferd?"
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"Ok, I guess."
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"Have you made any new friends?"
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"Not really, I haven't found many people with the same interests as me."
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"Well, we all know how dissimilar you are. But give it some time, you'll
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soon mesh right in."
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There was something else at Stepferd that bothered me. I've been pretty
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incompatible with my fellow youth throughout my life, but at every school I've
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done time, there was always some sort of "weirdo class". Punks, skinheads,
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skaters, hackers, garbageheads, freaky-looking dudes, those were the people I
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hung out with. Well at Stepferd High there are none of these people. Every
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single person at my new school is just "the boy next door", regular guy, John
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Q. Public type. You know, Reeboks, polo shirts, jeans, nice short and orderly
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haircuts. I, on the other hand, wore steel-capped boots, scummy loose-fitting
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pants, t-shirts presenting the most obnoxious and crude bands known to man, and
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to top it all off, I had my head shaved on both sides with a nice bush of spiky
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red hair in the middle. Yet, not one person came up to me, not EVER, and said,
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"Hey, nice hair, faggot." Not one teacher asked me, "Are you trying to make a
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statement?" You would assume it'd be nice to not go through this abuse for
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once, but people are SUPPOSED to say this stuff, and the lack of it alarmed me.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into increasing
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paranoia.
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If there ever was a non-entity, I'm it. My teachers don't call on me in
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class, they don't return my papers, they haven't confronted me about my usual
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shaky attendance rate, my classmates look through me, I'm not there. At home,
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it's the same. My mom has forgotten about her son. You may be asking your-
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self, why do I go on? Why don't I just leave? That's my main thought every
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second of every day, but I just can't leave. I can't explain it, but there's
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some sort of metaphysical damnation drawing me back to that school day after
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day after day after day....
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By the way, I think I'm losing my mind.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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I'm in a club. There're lights shredding my head into little pieces. The
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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music is disco drek, bass heavy. It's the type of club rich kids pay $13.00 to
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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get in, because it's the "cool place". Why am I here? I hate this music! Why
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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would I waste the money. Jesus, I don't know how I got here. I can't remember
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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being anywhere but here. My brain is disintegrating with each thump of the
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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bass. Please make it stop. There are people moving around me, creeping around
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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me, they're not saying anything. They're just creeping, and creeping, and now
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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they're strolling towards me. They're looking towards me, glaring at me,
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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scattering me throughout this trendo-jerkola dance sanctuary. Why can't I
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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talk? I know words, why won't they come out? God, make this stop!
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CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY, CONFORMITY
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Conformity, yah....
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Wake up. Put on clothes. Brush teeth, brush hair. Go downstairs. Eat
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breakfast. Take pill. Go to school. Smile, be polite, do work. Take pill.
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Come home. Do homework. Take car. Have fun. Come home. Eat dinner. Go to
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sleep.
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Wake up. Put on clothes. Brush teeth, brush hair. Go downstairs. Eat
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breakfast. Take pill. Go to school. Smile, be polite, do work. Take pill.
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Come home. Do homework. Take car. Have fun. Come home. Eat dinner. Go to
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sleep.
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Wake up. Put on clothes. Brush teeth, brush hair. Go downstairs. Eat
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breakfast. Take pill. Go to school. Smile, be polite, do work. Take pill.
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Come home. Do homework. Take car. Have fun. Come home. Eat dinner. Go to
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sleep.
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Wake up. Put on clothes. Brush teeth, brush hair. Take pill. WHERE IS
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PILL? Take pill. WHERE IS PILL? Take pill. WHERE IS PILL? Take pi-
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I'm free. Thanks to my mom's absent-mindedness, she forgot the pill.
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They got me with the disco music, and now these pills. It's time to take care
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of business. I will do what I want, when I want, where I want.
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Why?
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'Cause I've gone insane, that's why.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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As a result of my "gang" phase a few years back, I picked up an automatic
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sub-machine gun. I don't know what it's called or how to take care of it. All
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I know is that it shoots bullets really fast.
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"Please... they said it wouldn't harm you. Just make you more
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manageable... oh God, don't hurt me, I did it for you. I wanted you to be a
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nice boy, what's wrong with being normal for once. Do you have go against all
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set standards every second of every day?"
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Mom had some good points there. I was quite befuddled.
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So I shot her.
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Unfortunately, I tried to look cool while pulling the trigger, so rather
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than splattering my mom's brains against the wall, I missed entirely and shot
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the refrigerator.
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Oops.
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I was pretty impressed with her next move. Rather than start whimpering
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against the wall, she bolted out of there. I'm proud of you, Mom.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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I'm in English class. He asks, "Who do you think is the most treacherous
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character in the book?"
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I stood up.
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"Gatsby, of course," was my answer.
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This time I didn't miss.
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The class made a rush for the door. This wasn't all that surprising to
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me, I suppose it's the logical reaction to seeing your teacher's brains on his
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desk.
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* * * * * * * * * * * *
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Walking down the hallway holding a deadly weapon, I feel like The
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Terminator. Or is that Roger Rabbit? I can't recall the difference anymore.
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I'm heading for the assistant principal's office. They're not expecting me.
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"Well, Tex, you got a whole lotta explainin' to do," said the daring young
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liberator in his best John Wayne drawl.
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"Hmm... I should have known there would be some bugs in the system,"
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responded the bad guy, AKA The Assistant Principal.
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"Villainous foe, I think you should tell me what you have been doing to
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these poor children," said the crusader for free will.
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He sighed. Twice. "If I must... though like the average teenager, you're
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probably too stoned to understand anything anyway."
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He had me there. Before embarking on my current mission, I gulped down a
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dozen Flintstone vitamins. Ok, I'm lying, they were amphetamines. The
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corrupter of mind and body continued his speech.
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"You stupid immature twit, can't you see we're doing this for you?
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American academics are so competitive, we decided our students needed a little
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edge. So one father discovered that a certain tranquilizer pill, when mixed
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with a certain liquid, can leave the user open to subliminal suggestions.
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Guess what that liquid is? Beer! Ironic isn't it? Their "way of life" is
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making them into Ivy League students! And us... we are truly a SCHOOL OF
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EXCELLENCE! Hear those footsteps outside the hall? That's the Board of
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Education Death Squad. You're gonna be getting more than 2 detentions. God,
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do I hate kids...."
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Uh-oh. Unexpected plot twist. But don't worry, buckaroos, I got
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everything under control.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Hah! Some Death Squad. Anyone who grows one side of their hair longer to
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cover their balding pate can't be that tough. It's just me and him now. Him,
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the assistant principal, and I, the disruptive student. I think the locker
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room is a good place to make my last stand.
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I hear his footsteps. He knows I'm in here. My finger's on the trigger,
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I'll shred to him pieces if he gets in the right place.
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"Come and get me, slimeball!" Why'd I just scream that? Damn drugs.
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It's show time. I duck and roll, and come up firing. He's not there, I
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kill a tackling dummy. My back explodes in pain. Why? Because he's behind
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me, shooting me to pieces.
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My face is sucking the floor, blood is spreading all over, ruining my
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complexion. Ah ha! Down but not out! I know if I shoot that doo-hickey over
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there, the entire school will blow up, giving me victory even in death!
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But will it look good on my record?
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_ _ _____________________________________________________________________
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/((___))\|The Dead Zone........214/522-5321 Demon Roach Undrgrnd..806/794-4362
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[ x x ] |NIHILISM.............415/285-9453 The People Farm.......916/673-8412
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\ / |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194 The Bombay............714/897-0412
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(' ') |Lunatic Labs.........213/655-0691 The Works.............617/861-8976
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(U) |=====================================================================
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.ooM |(c)1990 cDc communications by The Pusher. 05/17/90-#138
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\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away.
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