THE RETURN
Chapter Two - The Devil's sleep.
Porkney High, just an average middle class suburban white high school. Nothing special about it at all. Even so, this is where he works now. That makes it something else entirely. A breeding ground for evil. A percolator for corruption. A crock pot for a sadistic arrogance that must be halted before it fully matures.
That's why I'm here early today. I pull my yellow 1968 Ferrari 250GTO into the parking space closest to the entrance, slam the door shut and race inside. It's 8:45 AM. I have 15 minutes to find him and stop this before it starts. If it's even starting. I actually have no idea, but there's a pain in my gut like a burst appendix the week before you play the St. Louis Rams, and it tells me "watch out."
I round a corner and the scent is unmistakable. He's leaned up against the wall, one hand extended, trapping what looks to be a fresh-out-of-college substitute teacher against the lockers. Probably thinks she's "in to him." Whatever.
I walk past, knowing what's coming. Welcoming it. Let the dance begin.
"Hey Sam. See that Vikings game yesterday?"
"No, sir. I don't watch much football. Did they win?"
"Sure did, Sammy. Matt Cassel was terrific. I think he's great. You ever watch him play quarterback?"
"Oh, yeah I've heard of him. Kind of sucks to be honest, at least from what I've heard."
I can feel the rage coming off his scalp.
"Bullshit, you don't know what you're talking about, he threw twenty-sev-"
"I heard he had like three wins for his entire career against winning teams or something. Pretty shitty player if you ask me. Overpaid, too. Whoever thought he could play in the NFL probably lost their job."
An uncomfortable silence as I look at him with a slight grin on my face. If only he knew. I can tell he's mad, but he won't do anything. Not yet.
"You know, Sam, I'm not used to people disagreeing with me. You don't have to use such foul language here, though. In fact, it's in your student code of conduct. So just try to show a little respect, especially to me, OK? Good kid."
I scratch my head. **** it.
"Respect? For you? I really don't give a shit, sir. Dumping the ball off to Adrian Peterson and letting him beat the Browns doesn't really impress me. Matt Cassel did, does, and will always suck."
"Also, I don't give a shit about the student code of conduct. You've been here for a year, too. You think I give a shit about you or your fake sense of authority over a bunch of high school kids? Blow it out your fat ****ing ass. Sir."
He'd like to hit me now. He can't, of course, but he really wants to. So he'll do the only thing he can.
"Unbelievable. This attitude won't be tolerated, Sam. Report to my office after school for three hours of detention. You need discipline and clearly I'm the only one around here that can give it to you."
"Whatever. Sir."
I take his detention slip and stuff it in my pocket. He's playing right into my hands.
The hours pass, I wait for the final period bell to ring, and now it's time. I make my way down the hall, past the gymnasium, take a left at the library and stare at the door. The sign, in big black letters rimmed in 24k gold:
PORKNEY HIGH SCHOOL PRINCIPAL
SCOTT *****
Some mother****ers are always trying to ice skate uphill.
Showtime.
To be continued...