Bookshelf Battle

Snap!  Snap!  Snap, snap, snappitty, snap, snap, snap!  As a freshly showered Mitch entered the locker room, the wet towels struck Mitch’s flat, pimply hide.  The strikes hurt, and the commentary wasn’t much better.

“Bitch Bumkiss!” Derrick shouted.  “Bitch Bumkiss!  I see your butt, bitch bumkiss!”

Mitch ignored the bully and worked on his combination lock.

“Hey, Bitch Bumkiss!  You have a tiny weiner!”

The lock opened.

“You’re gay, Bitch Bumkiss!” Derrick said.  “You hear me?  I’m talking to you.”

Mitch continued to ignore it.

“I said, you’re gay, Bitch Bumkiss!”

Mitch had a desire to turn around and point out the irony in that for a guy who was calling someone else gay, he sure was preoccupied with someone else’s butt and wiener, but he knew that would fly right over Derrick’s hand and just prolong the bullying session.

Thweeet!  Coach Mercer blew his whistler.  “Barnes!  Stop checking out Lumpkiss’ weiner and get a move-on!  School’s over for crying out loud and the team’s already on the way to the field.  You’ll be late for practice!”

The coach walked away.  Derrick hurried up, putting on his pants, then his sock.  “Thanks for making me late, Lumpkiss!  Such an idiot.”

Mitch stood there, taking the abuse.

“Moron,” Derrick said as he put on his shoes.  “God, you suck Lumpkiss.”

Mitch pulled out his backpack and sit it on the bench.

“I don’t know you even get up in the morning,” Derrick said as he pulled on his shirt.

Mitch mumbled his next words to himself, under his breath so the bully couldn’t hear.  “Me neither.”

“Look at yourself,” Derrick said.  “You’re so ugly, like a cow shit that got shit on a dog shit that got shit on a cat shit.”

Mitch wanted to cry, but held it in.

“Seriously, Lumpkiss,” Derrick said.  “It’ll never get any better for you.  I know everybody thinks you’re smart but that doesn’t matter for jack in the world.  No one’s ever going to give you a job because no one will want to go to work and see a mutant everyday and if you think you’re ever going to get laid, you’re dreaming.”

Mitch didn’t respond.  Derrick walked over and punched Mitch in the arm.  It hurt.  Badly.  Much worse than when Whitney had done it earlier.

“I’m talking to you, loser.”

Mitch assumed this would be the part where he would say something like, “OK,” some half-hearted comment that would allow Derrick to think he agreed with his vitriol but that didn’t come.  Something else came out entirely, and it was entirely different than anything Mitch had ever said to the bully before.

“Hey Derrick,” Mitch said.  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the way your dad treats you.”

Derrick turned red faced with anger.  He grabbed Mitch, who was half his size, and spun him around.  “What did you say?!”

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Mitch said.  “Your father’s just probably unhappy with the way his life turned out…”

“Shut up!”

“I assume he’s just deathly afraid that you’ll do better than he did and the very idea of that is too much for him to take,” Mitch said.  “So he puts you down to make himself feel better.”

“I said shut up!”

“You ever want to talk about it or…UGH!”

Derrick’s fist connected with Mitch’s stomach.  The dweeb hit the floor, hard.

“You don’t know anything, nerd!”  Derrick cried.  “Just shut your mouth!”

Mitch grabbed his stomach and seethed with pain.  He closed his eyes.

“I’m better than you, Bitch Bumkiss!”  Derrick said.  “You’ll never amount to anything, you hear me?  You’re nothing!”

Mitch’s face turned red.  The bully hocked a loogie and the prostrate geek felt a big, sloppy glob of spit hit his cheek.  He opened his eyes.  They were yellow.

“Idiot,” Derrick said as he went back to his locker.  “I can’t believe you just made me do that, Bitch Bumkiss.  That was all your fault for pissing me off.”

Mitch’s breathing grew louder.

Derrick’s bag was inside his locker.  He rummaged through it for a moment, chastising his victim as he did so.  “I’m going places, Bumkiss.  Places better than you’ll ever see, dummy.  You’ll be lucky if you get to inherit your loser old man’s shit truck.  You’ll pump my shit out of the ground one day, Bumkiss, and I’m going to laugh and laugh and laugh…”

The bully let go of his bag.  He felt a presence behind him.  It was a big one.  And it had something to say.  Grrrrr.

              Derrick turned around to find himself staring up at the face of an angry, brooding werewolf.  The beast was furious, breathing deeply as warm saliva dripped from his mouth.  As he growled, his razor-sharp teeth showed.

For the first time in his life, Derrick was scared by one of his victims.  “What the…but how…huh?”

The werewolf grabbed Derrick’s chest, whipped him through the air like a rag doll and slammed him into his own locker, crushing the metal on impact.  The beast was about to do it again when he noticed the bully was on the floor and wasn’t moving.

Seconds later, Mitch was back. The boy hovered over his longtime oppressed, lightly slapping his bloody face.  “Oh, God!  Oh, God!  Oh, my God!  Derrick!”

Mitch grabbed the bully’s wrist and felt around for a pulse.  He was so nervous he wasn’t able to find it.  He knelt down and put his head on the bully’s chest.  He could hear a heart-beat.  He was relieved by a sign of hope.

“Oh, God, Derrick!” Mitch said as tears streamed down his face.  “I’m sorry!  I’m so sorry!  Please, wake up!”

“Ugh,” Derrick said as he opened his eyes.  He pushed Mitch away.  “Eww!  Get off me, homo!”

Mitch smiled.  He had never been so happy to have his sexuality questioned by his oppressor before.  “You’re ok.”

Derrick’s head was foggy, but he remembered what had just happened.  “You!  Stay back!”

Mitch held his hands up.  “It’s ok, man.  I’m sorry.  Things just got a little out of…”

“What are you?” Derrick said just before his eyes lit up.  “You’re that wolf!”

“What?” Mitch asked. “No.”

“You’re that Disco Werewolf!” Derrick said.

Derrick stood up and towered over Mitch. “You banged my girlfriend and made her dump me!”

 

“What?” Mitch asked.  “Come on, Derrick.  Listen to yourself. That’s crazy talk, man.  I think you’re just a little confused after you tripped and fell and I saved you, man.  I totally saved you.  I’m a hero.”

Derrick pulled back his fist, getting ready to throw a punch.  “You’re dead!”

Thweeeeet!  Coach Mercer to the rescue.  “Unhand the nerd, Barnes!”

The coach caught a look at the smashed locker.  “What in Sam Hill…”

“Huh?” Derrick asked as he put his arm down.  “No, Coach, he did it.”

“Who?”  Mercer asked.

Derrick pointed at the little, shivering naked guy next to him.

“Lumpkiss?” Coach Mercer said.  “Give me a break.”

“I swear!”  Derrick said.  “He’s a monster!”

“Stop trying to bullshit a bullshitter, son,” Coach Mercer said.  “Because I can bullshit with the best of him and I know bullshit when I see it.”

Derrick ran over to Mercer.  “Coach!  He’s a monster!

“Knock it off,” Mercer said.  “I know you too well, Barnes.  You must have been in here, horsing around and you banged up your locker.  Shit happens.  Just be a man and take responsibility for it.  Come on.”

The coach grabbed the bully by the ear and yanked him towards a hallway.  “We’re going to have a long chat with the principal about this and don’t think for one minute you’re going to get out of paying for the damage you did.”

“Coach!” Barnes cried.  “You gotta believe me!  He’s a monster, I tell you!  A monster!  A crazed, psychopathic animal!”

“Save it,” Mercer said.  “That kid is barely a buck fifty soaking wet.”

“He’s a creature of the night!” Derrick shouted.  “He turned into a dog monster and porked my girlfriend!”

“You goddamn kids and your goddamn reefer sticks!” Coach Mercer shouted as the exit door swung shut.  “Not another word!”

Mitch was alone now, and feeling more than a little satisfied.  He smirked as he got dressed, but then stood there silently, staring off into space as the words his father had repeated to him in countless lectures before reverberated though his mind:

A werewolf’s powers are intoxicating.  You think you’ll be able to control them but once you let them out of the bag, there’s no stopping them.  Best to never let them loose at all.

 

Coach Mercer was, as most gym teachers are, a hardass.  He wore a bright red baseball cap, a white polo shirt and black shorts.  A whistle dangled around his neck on a string, which he would blow on regularly and quite liberally.  He carried around a clipboard, though he never wrote anything down on the attached papers.

He spoke with all the alacrity of a Marine Corps drill instructor. “Dodgeball,” the coach said, “Is not just the art of dodging a ball.  Although it is easy to see why one would think that dodge ball is just about dodging a ball, seeing as how the main goal is for one to dodge a ball that is being thrown in his general direction.  However, make no mistake about it, ladies.  Dodgeball is about more than dodging a ball.  It is about teamwork.  It is about responsibility and most importantly, it is about learning how to become a man.  The ball is always coming for your face, maggots.  24/7, seven days a week, and twice on Sunday, the ball is lying in wait, ready to pound you right in the kisser and believe me, it’ll do it when you least expect it.  Oh sure, you can sit on the sidelines and never get hit in the face with a ball, but that’s nothing to be proud of because you will have never played the game of life either.  And you can cry like a baby when you get hit in the face by the ball, but that isn’t going to stop you from getting face pelted again and again.  If you show weakness, then the ball will seek you out and pound your face forever.  Understand me, you pitiful, sorry excuses for students of physical education, the only way you’ll get through life with some semblance of dignity is to always be on the lookout for that ball.  Be ready to dodge it at a moment’s notice and if it does hit you, well, there’s no shame in that.  It hits everyone eventually but the only time the shame comes is when you act like a little sissy about it instead of being a man, picking yourself up and walking yourself over to the wall where you’ll wait patiently until it’s your turn to catch the ball and come back to the game of life, where it will be your turn to throw the ball at someone else’s face.  Have I made myself clear?”

The boys nodded.  Teams were picked and naturally, scrawny Mitch was picked last.  Out of a desire to get it over with, he walked to the center of the court, outstretched his arms like everyone’s favorite martyr and pow, he was belted in his upper torso and lower extremities with some twenty odd dodgeballs, which, in the abstract didn’t make sense, since the game was supposed to be played with only one.  There were just that many kids who wanted to get a shot in at Mitch’s dodgeball throwable face.

As the game went on, the nerd walked over to the coach.  “Permission to sit on the sidelines of life, sir?”

Coach Mercer looked down at the geek as if he were staring at a ripe dog poop he had just scaped off his shoe.  “Permission granted.  Might as well get used to it now, Lumpkiss.”

Mitch walked the walk of shame to the top of the indoor bleachers, the place where unathletic kids went when they had put in the minimal amount of physical effort required to pass PE but didn’t have anywhere else to go for the rest of the period.  There was a kid on crutches, a kid with a congenital spine defect, a girl who was seven months pregnant and boy did it show and as it just so happened, Whitney.

“I thought volleyball was your game,” Mitch said as he sat down next to his sister.  Down the court, the girls’ PE class had set up a volleyball net under the watchful eye of the girls’ PE teacher, Coach Dieterman who was, quite literally, more macho than Coach Mercer could have ever hoped to have been, and that was saying something.

“I hold my own,” Whitney said.  “But I don’t want to be anywhere near Stacy Hubert right now.”

“A cat fight?” Mitch asked.

“I’m pretty sure she’s the one who keeps writing that I’m a slut on the bathroom wall,” Whitney said.  “Though she says she isn’t.”

“What makes you think otherwise?”

“Process of elimination,” Whitney said.  “She’s dating Shermy Melmer.  Shermy Melmer and I were once a thing…”

“For five minutes,” Mitch said.  “She’d hold that against you?  When it happened before they got together?”

“The teenage mind is a place that makes no sense, little brother,” Whitney said.

“We’re the same age,” Mitch noted.

“You’re the one who held onto the walls of Mom’s uterus for five extra minutes, desperate to delay your entry into the big scary world for as long as you could,” Whitney said.

“I wasn’t scared,” Mitch said.  “It was just nice in there.  She had indoor plumbing and free cable.”

That was the type of nonsensical joke that only the Lumpkiss twins could appreciate.

Mitch and Whitney sat quietly for a while, watching the devastation unfold as Derrick pounded one kid in the head after another with his dodgeball of fury, screaming out joyous battle cries as he did so.

“How was your meeting with Mr. Nowicki?” Whitney asked.

“The usual,” Mitch said.  “Just another supernatural adult who believes I should go through life as a loser just to placate an ancient piece of paper that no one is in charge of enforcing anymore.”

“You’re not a loser, Mitch,” Whitney said.

Mitch glared at his sister.  She relented.  “OK, at least not in the academic sense…or at least you weren’t until you caught the disco bug.”

One kid dared to throw a dodgeball Derrick’s way.  It was instantly caught and thrown back with the brute force necessary to launch the kid to the ground.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Mitch said.  “Anyway, if God wanted me to not live my life in werewolf form, then he should have given me something to work with in my human form.  He didn’t so, that’s on him.”

“It’s going around that you lost your scholarship,” Whitney said.  “Is that true?”

Mitch nodded.

“Mitch!” Whitney said.  “Mom and Dad are going to be pissed.”

“Oh well,” Mitch said.

“What are you going to do with your life?” Whitney asked.  “You can’t be Disco Werewolf forever.”

“Why not?” Mitch asked.

“All that drinking and partying and senseless fornication with women you hardly know and OK, as I say it I realize I’m making your case for you, but it will eventually take a toll on your health.”

“It’ll take a toll on my human health,” Mitch said.  “My werewolf form handles it all just fine.”

“Yeah, well,” Whitney said.  “We all have to be human once in a while.”

“Why?” Mitch asked.  “So, I can come back to a dump like this and be ridiculed by a bully who…”

At that precise moment, Derrick noticed Mitch sitting up in the stands.  He pelted a volleyball right in the dweeb’s direction.  Luckily, Mitch and Whitney were able to duck out of the way just in time.

Thhhhweeeeet!  Coach Mercer blew his whistle.  “Barnes!  Stop throwing dodgeballs at the nerds on the sidelines!”

Mitch finished his thought.  “…by a bully who shits on me just to make himself feel better about how his drunk, abusive father shits on him.”

“It’s a vicious cycle of shit,” Whitney said.

“Yeah, well, I never did anything to him,” Mitch said.

Mitch and Whitney watched as Derrick took a water bubbler break.  After the bully quenched his thirst, Wendy walked up to him.  The couple talked for a minute and then Derrick made a face as though he were about to cry.

“OK maybe Disco Werewolf did,” Mitch said.

Whitney appeared shocked.  “What in the…did they just…are you telling me…”

Big sister performed some mental gymnastics in her head.  Upon reaching a conclusion, she punched Mitch in the arm.

“Ow!” Mitch said as he rubbed the spot that would inevitably become bruised.

“Mitch,” Whitney said.  “Tell me that Disco Werewolf did not pork Wendy Johnson.”

Mitch shrugged his shoulders.

“Mitch!”

“What?” Mitch asked.  “Would it have been so bad if he did?  Obviously, the poor girl is not satisfied.”

“It’s one thing to sew your oats and another to use your werewolf powers to extract revenge on your enemy,” Whitney said. “And it’s yet another thing to use one of our classmates to do it, even if she is a stuck-up little Miss Perfect.”

“Derrick is not my enemy,” Mitch said.  “He’s just an asshole who’s too stupid to figure out the psychological ramifications behind his use of me as a punching bag to stand in for his old man.  Maybe if Derrick would just sock his father back for once, or if society would allow me to wolf out and sock Derrick for once, the vicious cycle of shit could end. ”

Whitney sat there, looking disgusted by her brother.

“OK, fine,” Mitch said.  “Disco Werewolf didn’t pork her.”

“Thank God,” Whitney said.

“But she’s totally head over heels for Disco Werewolf,” Mitch said.  “She’s warm for his furry form.”

“And you know this how?”

Mitch smirked.  “Because Disco Werewolf may have let her through the rope line because he wanted the joy of seeing Derrick left to go home alone.”

Whitney chuckled.  “OK, I suppose that’s just karma.”

Derrick returned to court with a vengeance, taking his frustrations on every kid who was unlucky enough to get in his way.  Pow, pow, pow – oh, how the dodgeballs flew.

The twins were too lost in their own problems to focus on the gym court chaos.

“Mitch,” Whitney said.  “Please tell me you have a plan.”

“Stop being a spazatron, Whit.  How many times do I have to tell you it’s all under control?”

Whitney punched her brother in the arm again.  Coach Mercer happened to see that and blew on his whistle.  “Young lady, please stop beating up your pathetic weakling of a brother!”

The kids, who weren’t currently getting wailed on by Derrick’s dodgeballs, laughed and pointed.  Derrick took a brief break from the action to shout, “Ha! Bitch Bumkiss gets beaten up by girls!”

“Thanks,” Mitch said.  “That’ll help.”

“I’m sorry,” Whitney said, and the sentiment seemed genuine.  “But you don’t have it under control.  Your teachers are talking about you.  Mom and Dad are talking about you.  This will blow up in your face and when it does…”

“I’ll be in California,” Mitch said.

“But you lost your scholarship,” Whitney said.

“But I’ll still be in California,” Mitch said.  “OK, fine.  I didn’t want to jinx it by saying anything but if it makes you feel better, I have a plan.  One way or the other, I’m going to be three-thousands miles away from this jerkwater burg and Disco Werewolf is going to get me there.”

“And that plan is?”

Mitch looked around, realized in his human form, he was too unpopular to be noticed and therefore it was silly to think that anyone was paying attention to what he was saying.  “It’ll be easier if I just show you.  Tomorrow morning.  Before school.”

Whitney pondered her brother’s words before she spoke again.  “What about my plan?”

The dweeb’s heart sunk.  It dawned on him that while he was so busy working on his scheme, he hadn’t thought to ask what his sister planned to do after graduation.

“I don’t know,” Mitch said.  “You tell me.”

“Mom wants me to go to college,” Whitney said.  “Dad wants me to find a man.”

At least Mitch was able to be the first family member to ask the question no one else had asked her.  “And what do you want?”

Whitney looked around until she too came to the stark realization that she wasn’t cool enough to be watched either.  “I’m going to move to the city and make a go of it with my band.”

“What?” Mitch asked.  “Sex Barf?”

“Sexual Vomit,” Whitney said.

“I don’t know anything about punk rock,” Mitch said.

“No, you don’t,” Whitney said.  “No one else in our family does either but that they stop them from shitting on my dream so go ahead, you can too.”

“I’m not shitting on it,” Mitch said.  “It’s just, you know…”

“What?” Whitney asked.

Mitch squirmed in his seat.  He felt uncomfortable and didn’t want to offend his sister and yet, they’d always been straight with one another, even when that meant saying something the other didn’t want to hear.  “One loud, obnoxious, barely coherent, song with obscene lyrics about how Shermy Melmer probably knew he was going to dump you but asked to feel your boobs over your shirt anyway does not make a career.”

“Shermy Melmer?” Whitney said.  “That song isn’t about Shermy Melmer, it’s about, uh…you know…”

Mitch stared at his sibling.  She relented.  “OK, fine.  It’s about Shermy Melmer.  But it’s also about how sex…”

Mitch interrupted.  “Boob touching doesn’t count.”

“It counts,” Whitney said.  “Emotions were involved, Mitch.  And by the way, if you think all those groupies you’re screwing are just mindless sex machines who don’t have feeling for Disco Werewolf…”

“They don’t,” Mitch said.  “They all know Disco Werewolf is a panty dropping party hound who needs to run wild and free.”

“That’s gross,” Whitney said.  “I always thought we should share everything but maybe keep stuff like that to yourself, buddy.  And I’m telling you.  Every bimbo you bedded woke up the next day thinking that one day she’ll be Mrs. Disco Werewolf.”

“Ha!” Mitch said.  “As if.”

“They thought you were giving them love but instead you gave them sex, which is about as worthless as vomit,” Whitney said.  “Hence, you gave them sexual vomit.  Get it?”

“If you have to explain it, it isn’t clever.”

“Whatever,” Whitney said. “It’s just another way this will backfire on you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Mitch said.  “I worry about you if Sexual Vomit is your plan but I hope it works out.”

“It will,” Whitney said.  “Because you’ll be paying me.”

“Excuse me?” Mitch said.

“I deserve a cut,” Whitney said.  “This began as me helping a brother in need but now you’ve plunged me down the rabbit hole and once King Mom and Queen Dad find out I ran interference for you, it’s going to be off with my head.”

“Hmm,” Mitch said.  “I guess I never thought about that.”

“Typical,” Whitney said.  “I need to start saving.  Stevie, Pete and I are going to pull our resources and get a place.  A nice one.  Big so we can spread out and practice, maybe install some soundproofing over the walls.”

“Ha.  The neighbors will appreciate that.”

“Shut up.”

The twins went quiet.  Whitney piped up.  “Or I can just tell Mom and Dad tonight.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Maybe I should,” Whitney said.  “Get ahead of the shit before it hits the fan.”

“I know you,” Mitch said.  “You’re not a narc.”

“Mommy, Daddy,” Whitney said, faking a naïve little girl’s voice. “I only lied for Mitch because I thought he was just going out dancing but as soon as I found out he wolfing out, I came to you straight away.  I’m not in any trouble, am I?”

              “Crap,” Mitch said.  “They would buy that.”

“They totally would buy that,” Whitney said.  “This is the point of no return for me.  I can get out now relatively unscathed or stick with you on the road to ruin.  Which will it be?”

Mitch sighed.  “Fine.  You get a cut.”

“I thought so,” Whitney said.  “Thirty-percent.”

“What?” Mitch asked.  “No. Ten.”

“Are you kidding me?” Whitney asked.  “Thirty is more than fair.  I should get fifty.”

“Fifty!” Mitch said.  “I’m the one wolfing out.”

“And I’m the one delaying the inevitable feeling of disgust our parents will feel in us when they realize they can’t trust us anymore,” Whitney said.

“It was my idea,” Mitch said.

“And it’s a dumb idea,” Whitney said.

“I’m a star.”

“Please.  You’re a freakshow.”

“I’m a celebrity.”

“You’re the elephant in the circus, balancing on the rolling ball, about to call off and collapse at any moment. Everyone knows they should look away, but they watch anyway.”

“Ugh,” Mitch said.  “Fine.  Thirty percent.”

Whitney held out her hand.  Mitch looked at it, unsure of what to do at first, but then he figured it out.  He shook it.

“Deal,” Mitch said.  “Feel better?”

“Honestly,” Whitney said.  “Somehow I feel dirtier than before.”

The name plate on the desk read, “Bob Nowicki – Guidance Counselor.”  Behind the desk sat a plump man with a pleasant face, one that could never be definitively called handsome or ugly, but somewhere in between.  The worst, cheapest rug to ever work its way off the assembly line covered his bald head as if it were a diseased woodland creature that chose that very spot to keel over and die and then, the owner of said head decided to just leave it there.

He wore a lime green leisure suit with a pink polo shirt underneath.  He smiled at Mitch as he reached into a bowl on his desk, unwrapped a candy, and popped it into his mouth.

“Hmm?” Mr. Nowicki asked as he nudged the bowl toward Mitch, offering up the sweets inside.

Mitch shook his head no.

“Mmm,” Mr. Nowicki replied as he pulled the candy bowl back.

Outside the office sat Evelyn, an older woman with a tall, bouffant hairdo.  She was Mr. Nowicki’s personal secretary, and she busily clacked away on the keys to a typewriter.  Every so often, the contraption would emit a ding sound.

“So, how goes the battle, sport?” Mr. Nowicki asked, rather loudly, almost as if he were putting on airs for his secretary.

“Oh, not so great, sir,” Mitch replied, just as loudly and half-heartedly.  “I’ve been really lousing things up big time.  When will I ever learn?”

Mr. Nowicki’s eyes traveled to the door, checking on Evelyn, then to the clock, checking on the time.  11:59 p.m.

“Well, you’d better start lifting yourself up by your boot straps and uh, screw your head on tight and swab your poop deck but good, son, because no one likes a loser, that’s for sure,” Mr. Nowicki said.

Mitch took a peak out the door.  Evelyn pulled a piece of paper out of the typewriter, then placed a plastic cover over the keyboard.  “I’ll do that sir.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Because the reefer sticks will ruin your life.”

“I know,” Mitch said.  “Mr. Klugman was lecturing me on the need to abstain from reefer sticks just this morning.”

“Good,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “The danger of reefer sticks just can’t be stressed on enough.”

Evelyn poked her head into the office, her coat in hand.  “Knock, knock.”

“Hi Evelyn,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Everything ok?  I was uh, just giving the boy here the business, making sure he gets off the reefer sticks.”

“I’m fine, Mr. N,” Evelyn said.  “I think I’ll take my lunch now.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “See you later.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “The old ball and chain’s told me I’ve got to drop a few.”

Evelyn told her boss she’d be back soon, stepped out, but then popped her head back through the door to remind Mitch to stay off the reefer sticks, as if he hadn’t been issued enough reminders by the staff of Seacaucus High School anyway.  Once the coast was clear, Mr. Nowicki pointed at the door, causing it to shut and lock itself.  He then pointed at the window, which caused the blinds to fall down.

“Alright you little turd,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Stop crapping on my leg and telling me it’s chocolate sauce.  You’re doing supernatural shit, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Mitch said.  “Maybe not.  What’s it to you, old man?”

“Boy oh boy,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “If I had a nickel every time I saw a supernatural kid who thinks he’s the very first supernatural in history to ever think about gaming the system, I’d be a rich man.”

“Well,” Mitch said.  “I’m not admitting to anything, but I don’t see any other supernaturals gaming the system, so…”

“They do, ok?” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Supernatural crime syndicates.  Underground gangs.  You don’t want any part of it.”

“I’m not a supernatural gangster, Mr. N.”

“Well, what the hell are you up to?” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Because when a smart supernatural kid’s grades take a nosedive toward the end of senior year, it can be only one thing.”

“Oh, here we go,” Mitch said.

“You’re breaking the Treaty of Stuttgart,” Mr. Nowicki said.

“So what if I am?” Mitch asked.  “You just did.”

“What with the door and the window?” Mr. Nowicki asked.  “That was just to save my back.  My doctor says I need surgery to correct it but I’m trying to postpone it as long as I can.  The wife’s been harping me on it to beat the band though but anyway.  We’re here to talk about your problems, not mine.”

“I don’t have any problems,” Mitch said.

“Oh yeah,” Mr. Nowicki said. “Everything’s just hunky dory with you, isn’t it kid?  Life’s just one big sugar plum car with candy cane wheels.”

“Something like that,” Mitch said.

“Look son,” Mr. Nowicki said. “No supernatural, and I mean no supernatural, can be in full, one-hundred percent, total compliance with the Treaty of Stuttgart all the time.”

Mitch appeared surprised to hear an adult say this.  “Thank you.  Finally, someone over thirty who makes some sense.”

“You want to get together with some of your little werewolf buddies, drive out to the country, and go on a little midnight run, blow off some steam?” Mr. Nowicki asked.  “Be my guest.  Go on.  Get nuts.  Get wild.  Get crazy.  Howl at the moon.  Bite the heads off some chickens. Peek in a farmer’s window while he’s sleeping and freak him out so bad that he runs to the tabloids to tell his story, like anyone would believe it anyway.  What you don’t do is, well, whatever the hell it is you’re doing right now.”

“What am I doing now?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “You tell me.”

“Maybe I’m not doing anything bad,” Mitch said.  “Maybe, for once in my stinking life, I’m doing something for me.”

“I don’t know what that could possibly be, Mitch,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “All I know is you’re ruining your life, so whatever it is can’t possibly be worth it.”

“I’m not running my life.”

Mr. Nowicki popped on a pair of reading glasses and opened up a manilla file.  “You are so.  Son, Cal Tech was so impressed with your grades that they offered you a full, four-year scholarship.  Go out to California, enjoy the sun and the surf and the pretty girls, all expenses paid.”

“I don’t care,” Mitch said.

The guidance counselor flashed the teenager an incredulous look.  “You…don’t care?  We’re talking about a free ride here and you pissed it away.  Your grades were so good in the first semester of this year that you’ll be able to just barely pass with the minimal effort you’re putting in now but Mitch, I don’t think you realize that when Cal Tech gave you that scholarship, it was contingent on you finishing your time here at Seacaucus as the academic all-star you were always meant to be.  They’re going to yank your funding.  Do you understand?”

“I do,” Mitch said.  “And I don’t care.”

Mr. Nowicki sputtered.  “But…what the…ok, level with me.  What is this about? A girl?”

Technically, it was about several, but Mitch answered,“No.”

“You seem too lucid to be on drugs.”

“No.”

“Booze?”

It was involved, but Mitch said, “No.”

“You’ve got it in your head that you’re better than all the humans because you’re a werewolf so you’re out there, running around, doing something all werewolfy, am I right?”

Mitch looked away.  “I..uh…don’t…”

“That’s it,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Kid, let me tell you a little story about Monica Madsen.”

The teenager threw his head back as though he were about to be put through sheer agony.

“No,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “I swear this story is on point.  Monica was a student here in the early part of this decade.  Excellent grades.  Top notch athlete.  Had a full ride waiting for her at any Ivy League school of her choosing.  Come to think it, she was smarter than you, Mitch.”

“Thanks.”

“Then, last semester, she starts cutting class.  Flunking everything.  I bring her right into this very office, sat her down and got her to spill the beans.  Turns out that she was pulling all-nighters, working on an incantation in her basement that would have allowed her to assume the identity of President Nixon.”

Mitch was intrigued.  “What the?”

“Yes,” Mr. Nowicki said. “She was obsessed.  Going on and on about how she was going to take control of the White House and threaten to launch a nuclear strike against Russia if the UN didn’t pay her a hefty ransom.  Long story, short.  We had a heart to heart over some candy, I got her to realize this was a dumb idea and she buckled down, finished the semester and now she’s a number one selling brand representative for Jenny Fairfield Cosmetics.”

“Whoa, sir,” Mitch said sarcastically.  “That’s amazing.  She could have been the leader of the free world and rich but now she sells lipstick instead.  You should be like, the guidance counselor of the year.”

“Very funny,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “She’s also happy married to a nice warlock and they have three adorable children.  They send me a Christmas card every year.  The point, son, is that just because you can do evil shit doesn’t mean you should do evil shit.”

“I’m not doing any evil shit,” Mitch said.  “Monica Whatsherface should be in jail if you ask me.  Not all use of supernatural powers are evil you know.”

“It’s a slippery slope,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Power can be very intoxicating.  Once you start, it’s very difficult to stop.”

“It would be evil for a witch to impersonate the president,” Mitch said.  “No argument there.  But would it be that bad for a warlock to help himself out?”

“Oh, here we go,” Mr. Nowicki said.

“Maybe you could alakazam those extra pounds right off or abracadabra that rug into real hair,” Mitch said.

Mr. Nowicki reached up and adjusted his head carpet.  “Sure son, if you want to take your frustrations out on me, I can take it.”

“Maybe you could hocus pocus yourself a raise or presto change-o yourself a hotter wife,” Mitch said.

The guidance counselor clutched the photo of a chubby woman that was sitting on his desk.  “OK, now you leave Mrs. Nowicki out of this, young man!”

Mitch unzipped his backpack, fished around inside, and pulled out a copy of a magazine.  He laid it down on the desk.  The title read, “Ly-Can! A Magazine Dedicated to Being the Best Werewolf You Can Be.”  Mr. Nowicki picked it up and flipped through the articles, which included:

The Ultimate Vacation Thrill Ride: Climbing Mt. Everest in Under an Hour

Getting Buff by Lifting Cars

Running Cross-Country: Literally

“I don’t like supernatural supremacy rags like this,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Every supernatural species has one.  Witcherrific, Ogreat, Troll Trolley, Vamp Bite Beats.  They’re all the same.  All about how supernaturals are so much better than humans.”

“Aren’t we?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t like that kind of talk,” Mr. Nowicki said.

“You see that article called Wolf Out More and Live Longer?” Mr. Nowicki asked.

“Yes.  What about it?”

“Mr. N,” Mitch said.  “My old man is pushing fifty.  He’s fat and bloated. He’s on blood pressure medication.  He gets winded when he walks to the fridge.  He’s already bought a ticket on the heart attack train it’s just a matter of time before his ticker punches it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “I hope he’ll be OK but declining health is a part of life.”

“Does it have to be?” Mitch asked.  “Ly-Can did a study that says that while in werewolf form, werewolves have bodies that put Greek gods to shame.  All muscle.  No fat.  Perfect blood circulation.  Low cholesterol.  No joint pain. No hearing or vision loss.  Hell, you can shoot anything but a silver bullet at a werewolf and the wound will heal right up.  They don’t get tired.  They don’t need to sleep.”

“I know enough werewolves to know that they get exhausted and drained when they turn back into humans after a night of werewolfing,” Mr. Nowicki said.

“But who’s to say that they ever have to turn back into humans?” Mitch asked.  “My kind might be able to live indefinitely as werewolves.”

“Who the hell would want to walk around forever as werewolf?” Mr. Nowicki asked.

“That!” Mitch said.  “Right there!  Speciesism.”

“Pbbht,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Supernaturals can’t be speciesist against another supernaturals.”

“The hell they can’t,” Mitch said.  “You just implied that werewolves are big and dumb and ugly and it would be better for them to die early as humans than live forever as werewolves.”

“I…uh…umm….ok, I suppose I did.”

Mr. Nowicki handed the magazine back to Mitch.  The teen stowed it in his bag.

“We all have our biases I suppose,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “I’d love for your dad and everyone in his predicament to live forever but I don’t know what kind of life that would be if everyone runs away because they’re scared of you.  It’s not like a werewolf could go out shopping or have a nice night on the town without, oh, I don’t know, the National Guard showing up to shoot tanks at him.”

“And who’s fault is that?”  Mitch asked.

“Archimedes,” Mr. Nowicki said.

“And is that fair that because one werewolf screwed up a thousand years ago, we all have to pay now?” Mitch said.  “Because one werewolf slashed his way through Europe, my dad has to have his heart seize up so bad that he keels over at the breakfast table one day?  That you can’t conjure yourself up some hair or a prettier wife or…”

“I like Mrs. Nowicki just the way she is.”

“OK,” Mitch said.  “Bad example.

“Why don’t we take all the guns away from humans?” Mitch asked.

“What’s that now?”

“Guns,” Mitch said.  “Humans use them to rob liquor stores and murder each other.  They fight wars with them and terrorist hi-jack airplanes with them and sad people kill themselves with them.  Why don’t we just take all the guns away from them?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Because not every human uses guns for ill I suppose.  Some just use them for hunting or for keeping their home safe.”

Mitch pointed at the guidance counselor and smiled.

“You’re nothing new Mitch,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. Not every werewolf is going to start a second human vs. supernatural war just because they like to run around in wolf form.  A witch can do some self-improvement without taking over the presidency.  And I’ll be the first to say to you, albeit behind a closed door, that it’s a tragedy that ogres aren’t able to walk down the street just because a few of them, on occasion, have been known to pound humans flat with their clubs.  But supernaturals opting out of using their powers to hide from humanity is the best kept secret the world has ever known and if you keep heading down the path you’re headed there’s three ways it will end up.”

“Those are?” Mitch asked.

“Tabloid fodder,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “A punchline that no real newspaper was willing to believe.”

“That I can handle,” Mitch said.

“Dead,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Because a human didn’t understand you and was too scared of you to let you live.”

“Seems like the best way to stop that from happening would be for supernaturals to make themselves known en masse, but I’ve given up on adult supernaturals ever understanding that,” Mitch said.

“We did make ourselves known en masse once and supernaturals and humans went close to extinction, but I’ve given up on child supernturals ever understanding that,” Mr. Nowicki said. “The third and I’d argue worse way is dissected on a government operating table because, I hate to break it to you kid, but high-ranking humans know all about us and when one of us sticks their neck out, it will inevitably get chopped off.”

Mitch and Mr. Nowicki stared at each other blankly.

“I already knew about that,” Mitch said.  “Ly-Can has printed some stern editorials against that sort of thing.”

“Sternly written editiorials are all well and good, son,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “But at the end of the day, though I would like very much to to conjure myself up some hair, it just isn’t worth it to me to have a CIA probe shoved up my ass.”

More blank stares.

“I’m not saying it’s right that a CIA probe would get shoved up my ass just because I conjured myself up some hair,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “Just as I’m not saying that it’s fair that humans would run for their lives if your father were to ever go grocery shopping in werewolf form but, such is the world we live in, kid.  You can’t fight city hall and you can’t fight the Treaty of Stuttgart.”

The blank stares continued.

“I tried,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “That’s all I can do.  Go on.  Go do whatever you’re going to do.  You’re going to do it anyway. Find out I was right the hard way.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Mitch said.  “I’ve always enjoyed our talks, Mr. N. You and the Frankenstein lunch lady are the only two staff members that supernatural kids feel like they can talk to around here.”

Mr. Nowicki shook his head.  “That poor woman. She tries so hard to hide those bolts in her neck.”

Mr. Nowicki was a slight man with gray hair.  He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches sewn into the elbows.  He lectured his English class as he drew a diagram on his chalkboard that was inspired by the book the class had been reading, Dante’s Inferno.

              “And so,” Mr. Nowicki said.  “As Dante himself informs us, there is not one, not two, not three by nine circles of hell.  Each level is reserved for a different type of sinner, and the more sinful you are, the worse the sinner is punished.”

The teacher turned around and faced the class.  “Just like real life, huh?”

The teens replied with polite chuckles.  Mr. Klugman stepped away from the board and paced the room, having taught the material so long that he knew it by heart.  “First you have limbo.  That’s for virtuous pagans.  You were a good person but you didn’t declare your love for God so you’re going to have to stand in the corner of the spiritual waiting room for awhile and think about what you’ve done.”

The teacher continued.  “Second, lust.  Oh, if you chase after the pleasures of the flesh, then the second level is where you’ll go to do a little time.”

Whitney, who was fully aware that as Disco Werewolf, her brother had become an unbridled pervert and serial adulterer, looked up and to the left, where her twin was sitting.  In all actuality, he was sleeping.  His sunglasses were on but like Grandpa, his head was back and his mouth was open.

“Level three is for gluttons.  Now, come on, people is that fair.  Going to hell just because you like a little extra hot fudge on your sundae?  Ahh, but then you’ve got level four, where the cheapskates go.  You got a lot of money but you aren’t sharing the wealth, well, that’s worse than being the guy who eats too many cookies.”

Mr. Klugman walked down one row and up another.  “You’ve got the wrathful and the heretics.  They go to levels six and seven.  So, revenge is right there in the middle and heretics are treated much worse than pagans who at least tried to live good lives and didn’t openly badmouth God.”

The teacher spotted a boy pass a note to a girl.  He grabbed it, read it, and summarized it.  “Jennifer, Kevin would like to know if you’d like to go to the movies with him this weekend.  I don’t know if he’s paying or not and I don’t know if you should go or not but please sort this out between yourselves after class and Kevin?”

Kevin, who was so embarrassed he wish he could just slink away, replied.  “Yeah?”

“Next time, be a man son,” Mr. Klugman said.  “Open your mouth and make words come out.  Frankly, I take this as a poor reflection of myself if I didn’t teach you the basics of how to communicate this year.”

“OK,” Kevin said.

“Ironically,” Mr. Klugman said.  “There isn’t a place in Dante’s version of hell for the cowardly but there should be.”

The teacher moved on.  He smacked a ball cap off of a student’s head.  He then ripped a sheet of notebook paper out of the next student’s notebook, balanced it on top of his palm and held it front of that student’s mouth.

“No gum in class,” Mr. Klugman said.

The kid looked at Mr. Klugman, then at the paper.  He enjoyed three last chews, then spit it out, allowing it to make a big, wet plot on the paper.  The teacher balled the mess up instantly.

“Sakes alive,” Klugman said.  “You can all vote now.  You can all participate in the future of this country.  God help us all.”

The teacher kept moving between the rows.  “The violent end up in the seventh circle of hell but surprisingly, there’s still two more levels after that.  I mean, once you’ve punished all the violent people in the world, you’d think that would be it, right?  That’s it.  All done. Finished. But no, there’s still two levels left.  What are they?”

Mr. Klugman looked around for a volunteer.  Seeing none, he picked on a kid wearing a football jersey.  “Ben!”

Ben had nothing.

“Useless!” Mr. Klugman said.  He pointed at a girl with a ponytail.  “Kate!”

Kate stammered.  “Um…uh…uh.”

“Pathetic!” Mr. Klugman said.

The teacher looked about, then spotted a snoozing Mitch.  “Ahh, Mr. Lumpkiss finally makes time in his busy schedule to attend class.  Mr. Lumpkiss?”

Mr. Klugman raised his voice.  “Mr. Lumpkiss!  I’m talking to you!”

When the teacher drew closer, he realized the boy was fast asleep.  “Oh, for the love of…”

Whitney didn’t know how to feel as she watched this spectacle.  Part of her wanted to laugh that her brother had been caught looking like an idiot.  Part of her wanted to cry that her brother struggling to keep it together.

Mr. Klugman snapped his fingers in front of Mitch’s face.  The boy stirred.  “Mr. Lumpkiss!”

Mitch snapped his head to attention.  “Huh?  What?”

“Take those ridiculous things off your eyes this instant,” Mr. Klugman said.

It was obvious that Mitch was just starting to grasp reality, having just been jolted out of a state of deep REM sleep.  “Huh?  Oh, sorry.”

Mitch flipped his clip-on sunglasses up, revealing his eyes through his prescription lenses.  “Sorry, sir.”

“Off of your face entirely.”

“Oh,” Mitch said as he pulled the sunglass attachment off of his glasses.  “Right.”

“You got a D on your last exam, Lumpkiss,” Mr. Klugman said.  “If I were you, I’d be paying extra close attention.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitch said.

“Crap on a hot tin roof,” Mr. Klugman said.  “This happens every year.  Like clockwork, one of the handful of students I have who are actually going somewhere and make this job worth doing get a bad case of senioritis and destroy their entire academic career just because they get a little antsy in the pantsy.”

“Sorry, sir,” Mitch said.

Mr. Klugman leaned in, putting his face just an inch away from Mitch’s.  “Tell me straight, boy.  Are you on the marijuana?”

“Huh?” Mitch said.  “No.”

Klugman held his thumb and pointer fingers together, pretending to suck on a joint.  “A little taste of the old reefer stick, eh son?”

Mitch shook his head.  “No.”

Whitney decided that she would find this funny, but only in her mind.  She didn’t need to laugh and risk incurring Mr. Klugman’s wrath.  One Lumpkiss taking it was enough for today and besides, she didn’t want her English teacher to end up in the fifth level of hell.

“Come on,” Mr. Klugman said.  “Out with it.  You’ve been sparking up grass, haven’t you?”

“No.”

“Mary Jane?”

“No.

“Weed?”

“No.”

“Ganja?”

“No.”

“Hashish?”

“No?”

“Tell me, you’re not on the hard stuff, kid.”

“I’m not.”

“Coke?”

“Only the soda kind, sir.”

“Oh, a wiseguy, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“Horse?”

“What?”

“Heroin, boy!  Are you chasing that dragon?”

“No.”

“Uppers?”

“No.”

“Downers?”

“No.”

“In-betweeners?”

“Is…uh…that even a thing sir?”

“What are you asking me for?  I’m not a drug addict.”

Mr. Klugman shook his head.  “You disgust me, Mr. Lumpkiss.  I’ve never seen a brighter student fall so far, so fast but if you won’t pick yourself up and get off the dope, then so be it.  Another youth lost to our nation’s great struggle with pill poppery.”

Mitch knew it wasn’t worth it to argue.  He wondered if, technically, Mr. Klugman might have been right.  Did alcohol count as a drug?  Oh well, he figured he could quit anytime, anyway.

“Do try to be more like your sister, Mr. Lumpkiss,” Mr. Klugman said.  “At least she received a respectable, journeyman’s B minus on the last exam.”

Whitney scrunched down in her seat, not wanting to gain a reputation as a teacher’s pet.  After all, that would be disastrous for her night job as the front woman for Sexual Vomit.  Plus, what if her non-existent fans were to find out that she opted to wear a purple sweater rather than violate the school’s dress code by wearing her band shirt?

“The eighth circle is for fraudsters and the ninth circle is for traitors, Mr. Lumpkiss,” Mr. Klugman said.  “Fraud, as in the lies you’re telling yourself so that you can ignore your conscience whenever it urges you to resume your once studious ways and treachery, such as when you betray yourself by not pushing yourself to the highest level of academic success of which I know you are more than capable.”

Mitch nodded.

“The deepest, darkest depths of hell await you if you don’t turn your ship around and sail it to safer harbors, Mr. Lumpkiss,” Mr. Klugman said.  “I’m not a religious man and in this class, we’ve studied Dante’s Inferno from a purely academic perspective but nevertheless, whether you believe in a higher power or if you believe we are no more than the sum of our time in this world, know this, young man – you’re on your way to your own personal hell, right here, right now, within your very lifetime.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The teacher walked back to his desk.  “You should be.  You make me sick. Now then, where did we leave off with our good friend, Mr. Shakespeare.  I believe it was the Ides of March and Caesar had a bone to pick with Brutus, didn’t he?  Mr. Frasier, if you’d be so kind as to turn to page 495 of your textbook and read out loud to the class the part where it says…”

The intercom beeped.  “Mitchell Lumpkiss to the guidance office, please.  Repeat – Mitchell Lumpkiss to the guidance office please.”

Mitch looked to his teacher for permission.  “Go on,” Mr. Klugman said.  “Get out of my sight.”

The nerd stood up, collecting his things, shoved them into his backpack and walked out the door.

“And let that be a lesson to the rest of you,” Mr. Klugman said.  “Stay off the reefer sticks.  Alright, Mr. Frasier, go ahead.”

“Hey Bumkiss!  Did you know that’s your new name?  Bitch Bumkiss!  Bah, ha ha!”

Thump, thump, thump.  The twins rocked about as the sticky green bus seat they’d been stuffed into was kicked repeatedly from the back by one Derrick Barnes.

“Bumkiss! Bumkiss! Your name is Bumkiss!”

Mitch rested his head against the window glass, watching the sights of Seacaucus pass him by through a pair of cheap sunglasses.

“Bummy, bummy, Bumkiss!  Bummy, bummy, Bumkiss!”

Thump, thump, thump.

The twins spoke in low, hushed tones.  Between the chattering children and the rumbling of the engine that hadn’t been tuned up in years, no one else was able to hear them.

“I could rip his arms off right here, right now, and beat him to death with them,” Mitch said.

“You could,” Whitney replied.  “And I’d love to see it.  And I have a whole list of people I’d like to do that to myself but as our parents and neighbor so dutifully lectured me last night, that would be a direct violation of the Treaty of Stuttgart.”

It wasn’t visible behind the shades, but Mitch definitely rolled his eyes again.  “Oh, God.  Not the Treaty of Stuttgart again.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Dad didn’t break out the pop up book again did he?”

“And how.”

Mitch chuckled.

“Sure, yuck it up,” Whitney said.  “I’m the one who had to sit through it.”

“I’ve sat through my fair share,” Mitch said.

Derrick may not have made the cut at Sweet Johnny’s Electrostatic Groove Lounge the night before, but by Seacaucus High standards, the kid was a stud.  Letterman jacket.  Muscles.  Entitled attitude.  The works.  His head popped up over the top of the twins’ seat.  “Hey Bitch Bumiss.  Why is your name Bitch Bumkiss?”

Mitch refused to answer, so Derrick grabbed the nerd’s arm and shook him.

“Huh?”  Derrick asked.  “Why is your name Bitch Bumkiss?  That’s a stupid name.”

Mitch remained silent.

“You deaf, Bitch Bumkiss?

No response.

“Someone stick a dick in your ear?”

Still, no response.

Derrick grabbed Mitch’s arm and used the attached hand to slap Mitch in the face, repeatedly.  “Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself!  Hey, come on, Bitch Bumkiss!  Stop hitting yourself!”

Teenage faces popped up over their seats to check out the source of the commotion and laugh.

“Hey, everybody!” Derrick shouted.  “Look!  Bitch Bumkiss is hitting himself!”

As Whitney watched her brother take the abuse without offering any hint of resistance, she pictured herself wolfing out, ripping off Derrick’s head, and punting it out the back window of the bus.  She kept her cool though.  Given the amount of bullying that goes on in the public school system, combined with the number of closeted werewolf children that attended it over the years, it’s a miracle that more heads weren’t ripped off and punted more often.

The teens began to chant.  “Bumkiss!  Bumkiss! Bumkiss!”

Mitch knew the drill.  He was a twelve-year veteran of this crap.  If he said anything to defend himself, it would be treated as if it were the dumbest thing anyone had ever said, the repeated back to him over and over again in a snotty tone for days, if not weeks.  However, if he remained silent, the abuse would just continue.  So, he figured he had to say at least a little something.

“Bumkiss!” Derrick shouted.

No response.

Derrick hauled back and socked Mitch, right in the arm.  The pain was intense.  Mitch gritted his teeth and sucked it up.  Whitney looked away.

“Hey! Bumkiss!  I’m talking to you!”

Mitch sighed the sigh of a defeated man.  “Yes?”

“That’s better,” Derrick said.  “Why is your name Bumkiss, Bumkiss?”

Another sigh.  “I don’t know.”

Derrick laughed.  “You don’t know?  You don’t even know your own name?  Why not?”

One more sigh.  He said the next words flat, devoid of any emotion, just something he had to do, like pulling off a band-aid.  “Because I’m stupid.”

Derrick looked around to all the other teens on the bus.  “Bah, ha ha! Bitch Bumkiss just said he’s stupid!”

That concluded this bullying session.  Derrick said back.

Mitch looked at his sister, and whispered.  “Treaty of Stuttgart.”

“Treaty of Stuttgart,” she whispered back.

The wind-up clock by the side of Mitch’s bed read 6:50 when his head finally hit the pillow.  It was soft and cold on his cheek, a welcome sensation.  His stomach ached and his head pounded, signs that his body was trying to tell him to cut back on the partying, though his mind wasn’t having any of it.

Actually, his mind wasn’t having anything.  He fell asleep instantly, so exhausted that the next ten minutes passed in an instant.  At 7:00 A.M. sharp, the little hammer on the top of the clock pounded those bells incessantly.

Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring!

              The upper half of Mitch’s body shot straight up.  “Arrgh!”  The boy fumbled with the clock for a minute, pressing buttons, turning knobs and switches, only to give up and throw the clock against the wall.  It bounced off, fell to the floor with a crash and then stopped ringing.

Mitch rubbed his eyes and enjoyed the silence, which wasn’t maintained for long.

“That bad, huh?”

The nerd turned to see his sister standing over his bed, a juicy red bloody Mary complete with celery stalk in hand.

“Double argh!” Mitch shouted.  “Don’t you knock?”

“Oh, yeah,” Whitney said.  “That’s a good idea.  Keep making a bunch of noise so Mom and Dad come in here to see what’s going on and then ask you a hundred questions about why you’re in a bell hop uniform.”

Mitch sat up on the edge of his bed and grabbed his head.

“Some hair of the dog?” Whitney said as she passed the drink over.

“Yes, please,” Mitch said as he seized the glass and sipped.  “Oh yeah.”

“Just for the record,” Whitney said.  “I had moral qualms about making that for you. I didn’t want to contribute to your full-blown alcoholism but I didn’t want to see you suffer either.”

Mitch burped.  “I’m not an alcoholic, Whitney.

Whitney took a seat on the edge of the bed next to her brother.  “Says the guy who just said ‘Oh yeah’ to a drink offered at 7:00 in the morning.

“I’m just a social drinker and I’ve been extra social lately.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Mitch took another sip.  “I can’t go to school today.  Tell Mom I’m sick.”

“I don’t want to lie for you anymore than I already am,” Whitney replied.

“It wouldn’t be a lie,” Mitch said.  “I feel like I could hurl at any minute.”

“That’s on you.”

“No,” Mitch said as he rubbed his stomach.  “It’s just like your dumb song.  Sex Barf.”

“Sexual Vomit,” Whitney said.  “And it’s not dumb.  It’s art.  And if you make yourself sick, it doesn’t count.  Come on, get up.  You need to make an appearance at school.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Whitney repeated.  “Because I can’t do this anymore, Mitch.  At first, I thought I’d have to cover for you for a night or two.  Fine.  Whatever.  That’s what siblings do for each other.  Help you get your little disco bug out of your system and you’d get back to normal.  But it’s months now and normal is nowhere in sight.”

Burp.  “Welcome to the new normal.”

“You’ve got me telling lies on top of lies on top of lies, Mitch,” Whitney said.  “So many lies, just dangling in the air, like plates spinning on sticks and I have to run around, spinning and spinning until one day I’m not going to get one of the plates fast enough and it’s going to stop spinning and then the whole shebang is going to come crashing down.”

“Oh, please,” Mitch said.  “Stop being such a wimp.”

Mom’s voice travelled upstairs.  “Kids?”

Mitch freaked and dove under the covers, desperately trying to cover up his stolen uniform.

“Yeah?” Whitney asked.

“Hurry up,” Mom said.  “The bus will be here any minute and you’d better not miss it!”

“OK,” Whitney said.

“I mean it,” Mom said.  “I’ve only got one can of gas to last me a week and I don’t want to waste it driving you two to school when there’s a perfectly good…”

“OK, Mom!” Whitney shouted.  “We’re on the way.”

Mitch removed the covers and sat back up.  He coughed, and coughed, and coughed some more.

“That sounds good,” Whitney said.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look it,” Whitney said.  “So, I’m the wimp?  You just nosedived into bed to avoid Mom.”

“No, I didn’t,” Mitch said.  “I was just tired.  I still am, so, excuse me.”

Mitch laid his head back and closed his eyes.

“Mitch,” Whitney said.  “You can’t keep going on like this.”

“I beg to differ,” the nerd said with his eyes still closed.

“Fine,” Whitney said. “Then I can’t keep going on like this.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Are you kidding me?”  Whitney asked.  “I can barely keep track of the web of deception I’ve spun for you.  You’re at your non-existent job at the bowling alley.  You’re doing your non-existent volunteer work at the soup kitchen.  You’re across the street, playing video games with Claudette.”

“Aw, Jeeze, Whit,” Mitch said.  “They’ll never buy that.  It’s been sixteen years since the Jenkinses moved in next door and Claudette hasn’t said a peep to me.”

“They bought it,” Whitney said. “Mom’s already worried you’re going to get her knocked up.  Your parents believe in you more than you do.”

“I believe in myself just fine.”

“Good,” Whitney said.  “Because your teachers don’t anymore.  I left all your homework assignments on your desk.  I can’t count the number of times one of your teachers has come up to me to ask what’s going on with you and why are you flunking?”

“Tell them I come from an abusive home,” Mitch said.

Larry’s voice travelled upstairs.  “Kids!  I made pancakes!”

“Somehow I don’t think they’ll buy that,” Whitney said.

“Tell them I’m just another statistic in the never-ending cycle of unwanted children who fall victim to years of emotional neglect.”

“I put blueberry smiley faces on them!” Larry shouted.  “Come on!  Get your butts down here before they get cold!”

“They won’t buy that either,” Whitney said.  “I told Mrs. Spaulding that you have pneumonia, Mr. Klugman that you have mono and Mr. Daniels that you have the flu.”

“Couldn’t you have just picked one and told them all the same thing?” Mitch asked.

Whitney threw her arms up out of sheer exasperation.  “I’m not a professional liar, Mitch!  I’m doing the best I can but I’m telling you, sooner or later, and I don’t know if it will come from you or me but one of us is going to screw up and you’re going to be caught.”

Mitch snoozed.

“Grandpa knows.”

Mitch shot up.  “What?  How?”

“I don’t know,” Whitney said.  “Maybe because some asshole werewolf is beebopping all over public access television!”

“Bah,” Mitch said.  “That could have been any asshole werewolf.”

“I could tell by the look in his eyes, Mitch,” Whitney said.  “He knew.”

Mitch was quiet for a minute.  “OK.  Well, he’s not going to tell anyone, is he? He can’t, so, problem solved.  Don’t worry about it.”

“I bet he’s disappointed in you,” Whitney said.

“I bet he thinks he’s a moon man from Uranus,” Mitch said as he laid back down.  “His mind is shot.”

Whitney stood up,grabbed the covers and yanked them off the bed.  Mitch remained still.  “Get up!”

“Can’t,” the pesky brother replied.  “Sleepy time for Mitchy poo.  Night, night.”

Whitney stood up.  “Fine.  If you want to skip school again and keep flushing your life down the drain then good for you, but I’m not going to lie for you.  Not when I don’t have to. You want to play hooky, fine, but you’re going to have to lie to Mom yourself.”

“But all you have to do is…”

“Nope,” Whitney said.  “I’m only going to tell the bare minimum amount of lies necessary to keep this charade going and right now, it’s not necessary.  You’re here.  Your mouth works.  You want Mom to be lied to again?  You do it.”

“Ugh,” Mitch said as he stumbled out of bed.  “Fine.”

The cab reached Seacaucus about a half hour later.  Mitch directed the cabbie to Sussman’s Drycleaning.  The cabbie pulled up to the curb and kept the meter running.  Mitch hopped out, laundry bag in hand, headed into the store.

Meanwhile, the Rolls Royce idled down the block.  Big Daddy’s driver had stayed close enough to the cab to keep a tail on it, yet far enough away so as to remain, well, as inconspicuous as a pimped-out ride could be.

The back door opened.  Ruby exited and walked down the street, slurping on a grape lollipop as she did so.  About a minute later, as she was headed into the store, she passed Mitch while he was on his way out.

Ding, ding!  A bell attached to the door clamored as Ruby stepped inside.  The counter was empty, but Mrs. Sussman’s voice carried from out back.  “Hold on! I’ll be right there!”

Even some of the old buzzard’s grumbling traveled.  “Oy gevalt.  I try to get here a little early to straighten up a little and all of a sudden it’s Grand Central Station around here.  Everyone so busy, busy, busy.”

Ruby looked around.  She spotted it.  A white suit that was so long it scraped the floor, despite being hanged from a tall rack.  The prostitute stepped around the corner and looked at a tag that had been pinned to the sleeve.

“Bingo,” Ruby whispered to herself.

Mrs. Sussman’s ears were impeccable for a septuagenarian. “You say something dear?”

Ruby kept her cool.  “No.”

“Sorry, to keep you waiting.  I’ll be out in a jiffy!”

“That’s ok.  Take your time.”

Ruby searched the counter until she found a pen and a notepad.  She jotted down the customer information that had been scrawled down on the tag moments earlier:

Mitchell Lumpkiss

              52 Periwinkle Drive

              Seacaucus, NJ 07097

             

Big Daddy’s operative took down Mitch’s phone number for good measure, then ripped the paper from the pad.  She set down the pen, then made a beeline to the door, only to stop with her hand on the handle when Mrs. Sussman’s voice grew louder.  She was at the counter now, but Ruby didn’t bother to look back.

 

Mrs. Sussman was a big, pudgy woman.  Solid and sturdy, like an NFL linebacker, but with saggy tits, not to mention a mole on her chain with a hair growing out of it.  Many a Seacaucasian had wondered over the years why she never just snipped that hair off, but no one ever actually vocalized the sentiment because overall, she was a nice enough gal and did her job well. “Aw, come on, bubalah, I didn’t make you wait that long did I?”

“No, I, uh…”

“You don’t want to go to Mrs. Cavendish’s, I’ll tell you that,” Mrs. Sussman said.  “She’ll charge you double and you’ll be lucky to get have your stuff back and what you do get, well, it’ll be dirtier than when you brought it in.  Trust me.”

“No, I uh…this isn’t the record store?”

“Oy, you kids and your devil music,” Mrs. Sussman said.  “Two blocks down.  Take a right on Edgemont and you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.  Oh, and if you pass the Price Town, you’ve gone too far.”

“OK.  Thanks again.”

“Have a nice day dear.”

Mrs. Sussman wandered to the back of the store, grousing to herself about wayward young people who were always wasting her time, while Ruby walked out to the street, letting the door close behind her.

She smiled as she looked at the paper.  Success. She looked down the street, where the window to the back of the Rolls had been rolled down.  A pair of oversized binoculars were pointed out just over the edge of the window, with the same purple hat with a yellow feather sticking out of it.

Ruby whipped out her walkie-talkie, from where is anyone’s guess as she’d left her purse in the Rolls and her outfit had no pockets, and hit the call button.  As soon as she did, the hat and binoculars disappeared into the limo.

“Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy.  Come in, Big Daddy.  Over.”

Squawk.  “Big Daddy, here.  Proceed, bitch.  Over.”

Ruby was beside herself with joy.  Big Daddy’s girls did so love it whenever they were able to please the boss.  “I got the intel, Daddy.  I got it right here.  Over.”

A pause.  “Bitch!  You don’t gotta call my ass with a news bulletin on every little thing.  Who do you think your raggedy ass is anyway? The Walter Kronkite of Hoes?  Over.”

“Sorry, Daddy.  I just..”

Squawk.  “I just, buh dah duh, nothin’!  Get back here and get your triflin’ ass in the car or Big Daddy’s gonna have to smack a bitch. Over.”

Ruby’s elation turned to sadness.  “Yes, Daddy.  Over.”

The balding, bearded cabbie looked at the passenger sitting in the back seat as though he had just asked to be delivered to the moon.

“Seacaucus?!  Why don’t I just drop you off in Timbuktu?”

Mitch had faced this very same transportation problem many times before.  He reached into his pocket, pulled out three, one hundred-dollar bills, and tucked them into the cabbie’s hand.

This instantly improved the driver’s disposition.  “That’ll work. You want some music?”

“Nah,” Mitch said as he closed his eyes.  “I’m just going to get some sleep.”

“Suit yourself.”  The cabbie pulled away from the curb, only to become instantly stuck behind a line of cabs, all of which were waiting for a garbage truck to finish making a turn out of a tight spot.

“Aw, come on!” the cabbie said as he blared on the horn, as if doing so would improve the situation.  “Let’s go!”

Ruby, Diamond, and Emerald stood out in front of the entrance to the Swankforth.  Emerald pulled out a walkie-talkie of her very own.  “Spicy Tuna Roll to Big Daddy.  Spicy Tuna Roll to Big Daddy.  Come in, Big Daddy.  Over.”

Squawk.  “Proceed, bitch.  Over.”

“Hunka Hershey, Creamy Miracle Whip and I have eyes on the prize, but that’s about to change any minute.  Over.”

“I’m rolling up on you, now, bitches.  Get your asses in here.  Over.”

Big Daddy’s purple Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the Swankforth.  The back door opened, and the three ladies of the evening climbed inside.  The door was shut.

Up ahead in the trash truck, two hookers in stolen coveralls sat in the cab.  Their walkie-talkie squawked.  “Bitches, Big Daddy, here.  Acknowledge.  Over.”

The truck driver hit the call button.  “Acknowledged, Big Daddy.  Trashy Mamas here.  Over.”

Squawk.  “Cease and desist the diversion posthaste, bitches. Over.”

“Ceasing and desisting diversion now.  Over and out.”

And with that, the trash truck was on the move and traffic flowed freely.

Back in the cab, Mitch snoozed while the cabbie blabbed to himself.  “Finally! It’s like I’m the only one who knows how to drive in this entire city.”

The presidential suite at the Swankforth Hotel in Manhattan had been comped, the manager having realized that whenever Disco Werewolf spent the night, booking rates throughout the rest of the building doubled, as tourists were willing to pay top dollar in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the furry beast with the happenin’ feet.

The room was luxurious, with wide, spacious sitting areas, alcoves filled with priceless works of art, and soft, white couches.  At the moment, it was also filled with women.  Women on the furniture.  Women on the floor.  Sleepy women who were in the process of catching a few extra winks.  Wide awake women who watched television.  Virtuous women who chatted about the possibility of marrying Disco Werewolf and moving to the suburbs.  Golddigging women who feasted on free room service and loaded their purses with complimentary shrimp puffs.  Women who were too old to be there, middle aged women who had most likely told their husbands they were somewhere else, and young women in the prime of their lives, who tended to be Old DW’s favorite.  Fully clothed women, scantily clad women, women who had called first dibs on the free bathrobes.  Women who were so exquisite they were not embarrassed to strut about in their altogether.  Women of all shapes, sizes and colors.  Blondes, brunettes, redheads, white, black, Asian, and every other color of the rainbow.

By 4 a.m., Disco Werewolf’s private bedroom was filled with the crème de la crème of women.  Supermodels, bikini team members, aspiring starlets, and hot babes galore.  Those who came late to the party found spots on the floor.  The ones who considered themselves lucky filled the large, stately bed to capacity.  Some laid over the covers, some under.  Some snuggled together.  Others preferred their space.

Disco Werewolf was long gone.  In the center of the action laid a scrawny, goofy looking, pencil-necked dweeb with unkempt black hair.  The teen was a couple inches under six feet, barely had a single muscle to his name, and his ribs could be played like a xylophone.  Even worse, he had a cowlick that, try as he might, never stayed down, no matter how much spit he applied.

On either side, he was snuggled by a couple of blondes with copious bosoms.  Even better, the aforementioned bosoms had been allowed to go free range.  Mitch stared at the ceiling, trying his best to etch the intricate details of the carnal experiences that he, or rather, Disco Werewolf, had experienced that evening.

Soon enough though, he came to his senses and realized that all of these women would never have anything to do with a dweeb like him without large sums of money having been exchanged and even then it was questionable.  He got out of bed, being careful not to step on any of the women on the floor, and made his way to the closet, where he pulled out a full laundry bag.  He was about to rummage through it when a female voice startled him.

“What are YOU doing here?”

Mitch dropped the bag and turned around, but not before cupping his hands over his man business.  There was little he could do about his cheeks, so he allowed them to flap in the breeze.

He found himself staring a pair of double-d breasts, but after realizing that was rude, he looked up to acknowledge their owner, a woman who was wearing nothing but a headdress fashioned out of golden beads, similar to what Cleopatra would have worn in the days of Ancient Egypt.

Oh, and her bush was so lush that one required a weedwacker to navigate through it, but she wasn’t alone in that regard.  It was the seventies, after all, and that was the prevailing style at the time.

The lady held out her hand.  Mitch didn’t have any recollection of Disco Werewolf engaging in a tryst with her, but then again, the night was just a blur of boobs and butts and assorted private parts, more than an eighteen-year-old lad should have been exposed too, though technically, it was DW who did the exposing.

Mitch wasn’t as suave or sophisticated as his furry counterpart, which was odd, really, because they were one and the same.  However, confidence is everything when dealing with women of great beauty.  Mitch had known and it showed.  Boy, did it show.  He removed one hand from his Johnson, shook the lady’s hand, then returned it to his crotch.

“Were you born in a barn?” the lady asked.

“Oh,” Mitch said as he kissed the lady’s hand.  “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” the lady said.  “Juniper Dew, legendary star of the adult film industry.  Highlights include Aporkher Tits Now, Creamer vs. Creamer, One Flew Into the Cuckold’s Breasts, A Cockwork Menage, The French Erection, All the President’s Sluts, Annie Hole, Taxi-Drive-Her, Close Encounters of the Third Behind, Doggiestyle Day After-Poon and last but not least, everyone’s favorite underdog story, Cocky.  And you are?”

Mitch had been in situations like this before and had a fake name in mind already.  “Mulligan.  Brett Mulligan.  Esquire.”

“Charmed, I’m sure, Mr. Mulligan,” Juniper said as she looked the lad over.  “Hmm, I had heard that Disco Werewolf was into some rather exotic kinks but I had no idea that men were on the menu, and rather bizarre looking ones at that.”

“Huh?” Mitch asked.

“Disco Werewolf’s a bisexual!” Juniper said.  “Oh, but don’t worry.  His secret’s safe with me.  I know he has a reputation as a ladies’ man to uphold.  I just wish I hadn’t come so late to the party. I surely would have enjoyed getting my hands on that fur.  Have you seen him?”

“You, uh, just missed him,” Mitch said.

Juniper pouted.  “Drat!  Oh well, if our paths and genitalia are meant to collide, then I’m sure they will.  I suppose I’ll go out and mingle so my excursion here won’t be a total waist.  Ta ta, darling, the pleasure was all yours.”

Mitch watched one of the most delectable keisters he had ever seen as it and its owner left the bedroom.  “Yes,” the kid said.  “Yes, it was.”

He was about to leave as well, when he noticed an envelope on the night stand.  He picked it up.  “DW” was scrawled on the side.  Inside, there was three thousand dollars and a note.  It read:

DW Baby,

              Too many eyes snooping around the club, so I’m going to leave your cheese in your room from now on.  More where this came from as long as you keep stopping by.  Don’t wear yourself out on the ladies.  You need your strength for the dance floor.

              Catch you on the flip side,

              Sweet Johnny

It was a thousand more than usual.  Mitch took this as a sign that Sweet Johnny was trying to make sure he had Disco Werewolf’s undivided attention and as far as Mitch was concerned, he did.

Mitch returned to the laundry bag, removed a bell hop uniform he had previously pilfered, complete with the little hat, and put it on.  He tucked the envelope full of cash into his pocket, then pulled out Disco Werewolf’s iconic white suit, pants, and black shirt.  He folded the extra-large pieces of clothing neatly, then draped them over his arm.  He looked around and, convinced that none of the other ladies had seen him, left the bedroom.

Out in the suite, the party was underway and showed no signs of stopping.  Women in their underwear held no-holds barred pillow fights, while three unwashed hippy chicks in tie dyed shirts painted flowers on one of the walls.  Disco Werewolf’s parties inevitably left the presidential suite trashed and Mitch usually felt bad for whoever the sap was who had to clean up after them, but not enough to leave a tip, naturally.  He figured one of the babes would just grab any and all unattended greenbacks anyway.

Across the room, three women sat on a couch.  They went unnoticed by Mitch, but they noticed him.

“I’ve had eyes on that room all night and I never saw a bell hop go in,” Ruby said.

“Me neither,” Diamond said.

“Ditto,” Emerald added, rather unnecessarily.

“That’s got to be him,” Ruby said.

“Damn,” Diamond said.  “Disco Werewolf’s human side is ugly.”

“He couldn’t get beaver if he went to Canada,” Emerald noted.

“Isn’t that always the way?” Ruby asked.

“Sure is,” Diamond said.

“The ones who get it the least become insatiable whenever they get a little power,” Emerald said.

“Mmm hmm,” Ruby said.

“Tale older than time itself,” Diamond said.

Mitch strolled across the room, admiring all the babes that had turned out in the hopes of getting a piece of Disco Werewolf, trying his best to remember who had and who hadn’t.  As he became preoccupied with two lesbians who were making out furiously in the breakfast nook, he neglected to watch where he was going and crashed into someone with a familiar face.  In doing so, a glass full of red wine was spilled all over Disco Werewolf’s duds.

“Oh my God,” the young lady said as she tried in vain to wipe the stain out of the jacket with her hands, the glass having already fallen to the floor.  “I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mitch said.

“No,” the female said.  “I should have been more careful and…”

She looked up at the faux bellhop’s face.  “Mitch?”

“Wendy?” Mitch asked.

“Hi,” Wendy said as she noticed the uniform.  “You work here?”

“No,” Mitch said.  “Sometimes I just like to walk around in a bellhop’s uniform because I find them to be so fashionable.  They’re all the rage in Paris.”

Wendy laughed, then frowned when she remembered the stain.  “Oh, no.  Am I going to get you in trouble?”

“Not at all,” Mitch said.

Wendy snapped open a clutch and searched for her money.  “You have to let me pay for that.”

“That’s…really, it’s fine.  Don’t worry about it.  It was dirty anyway.  I was, uh, just picking it up so I uh, could send it out to be cleaned, so, yeah.”

Wendy took a closer look at the jacket.  The size sunk in.  “No way!  Are you kidding me?”

“Huh?”  Mitch asked.

“I’m dying,” Wendy said.  “I’m absolutely dying.  Is that Disco Werewolf’s suit?”

“What?” Mitch said.  “This old thing?  Uh, yeah, I suppose it is.”

Wendy flashed a devilish grin.  “Can I smell it?”

Mitch chuckled.  “Oh, I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”

Too late.  The young beauty, who just so happened to be the most popular girl in Mitch’s class, had already lowered herself far enough to shove her nose into the fabric.

“Mmm,” Wendy said.  “Smells like wet dog…and sex.  And just a hint of vermouth.  Interesting.”

“Right,” Mitch said.  “Well, it was nice to see you.”

The girl grabbed Mitch’s arm.  “Mitch!  Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“Disco Werewolf! Duh!”

“Know him?” Mitch asked.  “Uh, no, not really.  Just in a, uh, you know, a professional capacity.”

In his mind, Mitch cursed his inability to be cool around the fairer sex.  He just wasn’t able to string a sentence together around them without sounding like a tongue-tied imbecile.

“Can you get me his number?” Wendy asked.

“His number?” Mitch asked.

“I’ve got to meet that werewolf, Mitch,” Wendy said.  “He picked me and like a dozen other girls out of a rope line last night but I’m pretty sure he picked them just to be nice and he was really focused on me.

At this point, it dawned on him that this interaction was the most communication that had ever transpired between Wendy and himself in the twelve years that they had attended Seacaucus public schools together.  It saddened him that none of it had to do with him and all of it had to do with Disco Werewolf.

“I don’t have it,” Mitch said.  “Sorry.”

Wendy shook her head.  “Darn it.  OK, bye Mitch.”

“Bye Wendy.”

“Oh, and Mitch?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever happen to get his number…”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.  You’re a doll.”

Mitch smiled and walked out into the hallway.  Across the room, Ruby, Diamond and Emerald rose to their feet.  They each placed a pair of shades over their eyes, then snapped their fingers in unison.

“Let’s roll,” Ruby said.

“Yes,” Diamond said.

“Let’s,” Emerald said.

Ruby pulled a walkie-talkie out of her purse, turned it on, then pushed the call button.  “Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy.  Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy.  Come in, Big Daddy, over.”

A few seconds passed.  All the women in the room were too busy with their own escapades to notice or care that someone was using a communications radio.

The walkie-talkie squawked.  A squeaky, high pitched voice answered.  “Big Daddy, here.  Proceed, bitch. Over.”

“The package is on the move,” Ruby said.  “Repeat, the package is on the move.”

Squawk.  “10-4, bitch.  What’s your location? Over.”

“Swankforth,” Ruby said.  “We’re in pursuit with no time to waste. Over.”

Squawk.  “Expect an extraction in T-Minus five minutes, bitches.  Until then, don’t let the package out of your sight, you dig? Over.”

“Mission dug, Daddy,” Ruby said.  “Over and out.”