short story, part 1.

“If I have to sit through another shitty Spiderman movie, I’m going straight to Marvel and punching Stan Lee in the throat.”

Randy and I are walking out of the theater after being screwed by crap heap that was Spiderman 3.

“I blame the studios, the studios and those fucking emo kids. Peter Parker would never have become such a bitch if it weren’t for all those goddamn fifteen year olds wearing their sisters jeans and stealing money from their parents to go see shitty movies.”
At this point I’ve disappeared into my hoodie, hoping to dissolve into the shadow of Randy’s obscenity. Mom’s and theater ushers are looking in our direction with glares that would peel paint off the wall.

“You are such an asshole,” I mutter from inside my cave, “lets just get out of here before you get us kicked out.”

“I’m and asshole? Fucking Tobey McGuire is an asshole, Sam Rami is an asshole, I’m just a guy with a very limited income who’s pissed about blowing ten bucks on a shitty movie.”

“Randy, we snuck in.”

“It’s the principle man, these good people should not have their wallets raped by Sony just so they can sit through Aunt Mae’s enema.”

I cringe at the thought and drag him through the double doors to the parking lot, “You amaze me.” It’s not a compliment.

“You know you’re thinking the same thing, I’m just the only one here with the nuts to say anything about it. Like it or not, you need me.”

I give up and climb into Randy’s Jeep. He revs the engine, “I’m getting a burger.”
I met Randy in the third grade. I kept to myself, turned in my math homework, and washed my hands after going to the bathroom. Randy, well Randy was lucky if he passed a spelling test. I’m not sure how it started, but one day at recess Caleb Jennings and his lackeys, Duff and Clint, pinned me in the corner of the playground, just out of Mrs. Andrew’s sight. Caleb was a real prick. The type of kid who’ll piss in your Cheerio’s and take your pudding cup just because he was bigger than you. Caleb Jennings was my third grade orientation to natural selection.

Anyway, so I’m curled up in the corner, a chain-link fence on one side, brick wall on the other, with Clint, Duff, and Caleb at the vertex.

At this point, I’ve accepted the beating that was coming. Caleb was going to destroy my face while his goons held me down so he could get a better shot. It was the cruel reality- I was going to die curled up in the corner of JFK Elementary School while kids played tag and told secrets.

Two pairs of hands grab me and throw me against the brick wall, its grit scraping my elbow, leaving bits of rubble under my skin. I’m crying, eyes sealed shut, refusing to face my killers. All I can do is sit there and wait for the inevitable. I can picture Caleb’s Neanderthal glare as he rears back for the kill, but instead of eleven year old knuckles smashing my skull into the brick, there’s the sound of cheap aluminum colliding with bone. There’s a yelp and I open my eyes- Randy is standing over Caleb and takes a second swing at him with his Transformers lunch box.

The death grip around my arms disappears with a panic as my captor’s process what’s going on. My own personal Jesus Christ is wailing away like a butcher until Tweetle-Dee and Tweetle-Dum drag him off like a rabid dog to be put down. Randy swinging recklessly as they go.

I watch in awe as Caleb spews blood on the pavement and picks his ego up off the ground. At this point he could care less about me, his aggression had a new target.

Next thing I know my assistant principal is interrogating me, her grey eyes shielded by red-rimmed glasses, boney fingers scratching evidence on forms. She sends me out and I’m face to face with my assailants, each one in their own wooden chair holding towels to noses, shins, and elbows. The entire left side of Caleb’s face looked like burger.

Across the room Randy just sat there bleeding, eyes focused on his prey, smirking like a sadist with Caleb’s face pressed into the side of his lunchbox. The smug bastard was proud of his work.

I’ll never forget that smirk. It’s the same look he gets when we play cards, the same smile that emerges when he spots a pretty girl. It’s the devil in him, and I love him for it.