"When I played football, I never set out to hurt anyone deliberately. Unless it was, you know, important ...like a league game or something?" ~ Dick Butkus  

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So it turns out that May was absolutely right about the Singh the Stoic, because this dude has zero sense of humor. Mr. Singh turns out to be a very serious Sikh dude, with a seriously tight turban and a long beard to match. As soon as the bell rings he curtly introduces himself to the class. Then he stoically states that mathematics is sacred to him and that there will be a chapter test every Friday from now on.

At this point, I'm pretty sure Algebra II/Trig is going to kick my ass sideways for the next couple of months. On the upside, the big man in the turban seems to care less about tardy time, as he teaches real math and not Trainspotting for Dummies. So thanks to Singh's brevity in the introduction, I end up having plenty of time to study my minimap. So I am starting to have a relatively decent idea where I am at now. Aftermath class, I look for May back at her classroom, but her entire numbers class is long gone. So I head back to C hall for English Literature with Ms. Grant.  

Sliding into the back of classroom C-17, I find I am not the first, nor the last through the back door. Of course, all the usual prime corner spots are already taken. But as luck would have it, I spot an open seat in the back row, second to the window. So I slide right into the seat and drop anchor like I own the spot.

Unfortunately, my new cool spot also happens to be next to the last desk in the corner. A spot that is currently occupied by monster sized leather letterman with a large bone blonde blockhead. Thankfully to its square credit, the massive brick head is currently face down on the desktop. So it doesn't even try to look at me sideways, as I take what might be a possibly reserved seating for one of his fellow leatherheads or Cheerio groupies.

As soon as my ass hits the recycled plastic of my new throne of knowledge, and who walks in like he owns the place ...but the fussy little Lilliputian from this morning. And blaze me, because have a bad feeling the universe is about to balance the karmic scales of injustice. Finding May on the first day was a nice piece of good luck. The karmic price to pay for that good fortune ...Or'sir again.  

It's almost sadly cute how the haughty little hobbit walks up to the podium and glares at it. Clearly hating the poor podium for its height. Probably because he can't quite see all the way over the big boy podium. The midgety menace looks around for someone to be his normal-sized helper to remove the insulting impediment. So I drop my head on the desk, like the smart guy next to me, ignoring the issue. Then watch on as Or'sir proceeds to wrestle the real people podium into the corner, under the important announcement speaker box. 

After that insult to the vertically challenged is taken care of, Or'sir precedes to smile arrogantly out at his new flock of grammatically challenged victims. All clearly in dire need of all his never'cool. Namely the class full of kids who have all stopped talking and are all now rechecking their own "schway'dules" to make sure the midgety mini-man is in the right place.

So I double-check my own shcway'dule again, to make sure I too have the right room. I check that "Ms. Grant" is in fact supposed to be my teacher, not the fussy little circus midget who is glaring out over the crowd of clowns. Sure enough, even before the final warning bell has finished ringing the little thing is already snapping at us.

"Settle down people and take your seats, or I will start your year off with your first detention. I've already handed out five detentions today, and I am not averse to setting the first-day record for detentions given." He puffs up his sweater vest chest proudly, like this is all a dream come true. 

"What the shit is this flock-shit?" The monster leatherhead next to me immediately snaps his head up and shakes the blonde Cossack forelock out of his glaring baleful eyes.

So it seems that I am not the only one that has taken a disliking to the little freakshow. Because I can feel the roiling rage rumble begin to emanate from the monster next to me now, as the evil little gnome begins to justify his existence.

"Welcome one and all, to English Literature. Clearly, I am not Miss Grant, I am Mr. Dyuvetter." His little boy beard twists into a malicious smirk. "And not quite unlike yourselves, I too am surprised to find myself here today. It would seem that due to unforeseen circumstances, of which I was only just informed of this very morning, Ms. Grant is going to be out on an extended maternity leave. So I will have the pleasure of filling in indefinitely for Mrs. Grant for at least the next six weeks ...and possibly much longer."

"Ohhh nooooo..." The long mourning moan resonates out from the entire flocking class. Based on the evil twisted little smirk on his face, I gather this negative reaction to his continued presence was not completely unexpected, nor unappreciated. 

"Oh yes." His twisted smirk widens into a sneer. I swear by the Sea, he looks positively gleeful at the prospect of being even more hated than he clearly already is. Thus confirming my suspicions about his schadenfreudian proclivities.

"Due to the aforementioned unfortunate circumstances, we are all required to adjust accordingly. Such is life." He shrugs off to his next topic of disinterest.

"To wit, a card will be passed around, for your thoughts and prayers for little Gary Grant's speedy recovery. Hence." He holds up a cheap ass looking "Get well soon!!!" card, with a sick sinister-looking balloon clown. Then he proceeds to drop it off with a theatrical flourish on the first desk in the front of the class. It is at that precise moment I vow never to use "Whence" or "Hence" or any of the other "ences" ever again for the rest of my life.

"Now with that said, I will require an assistant to volunteer take role whilst I hand out syllabi." Just the way he says "syllabi"  instead of syllabus, tells me that my earlier impression of him was clearly wrong. Because this little mini-man isn't just a grammar Nazi, he's the full-on Grammar Gestapo. And I really hate Nazi's...it's a thing.

"No one?" He smirks twistedly down to the poor Celestial girl with cat-eye librarian glasses, in the front center spot. "Congratulations for volunteering, Miss...?"

"Lee." The rather unhappy looking Celestial chick with cat eyes sighs sadly and takes the proffered roll sheet over to the tall podium in the corner to "volunteer".   

As she silently beings to fill in the roll sheet from memory, I get the initial impression that poor Miss Lee's lot in life is to be the eternal role monitor in every class she has. I'm thinking that it's the old-fashioned retro librarian cat glasses she is rocking that makes her appear super responsible. Or maybe she just has one of those faces that teachers immediately trust? Personally, I suspect that Miss Lee would probably make one hell of an assassin. Cause no one would ever suspect her until it was too late ...librarian glasses and all. 

"You will note on the syllabi being passed back, that the first assignment is to have a selection of Beowulf read by Friday. So by our next class, I fully expect that all students be prepared to discuss the introductory chapters of Beowulf at depth." His twisted smile wides excitedly for some strange reason. "So sorry to ruin your one hope of sliding by, but just knowing the story arc from watching the film version will not cut muster. Neither with myself, nor Beowulf's unknown Anglo-Saxon scribe."

"So if one was to come into this class, believing that the Grendel is some sort of Gollum? Or that main narrator of the ancient tale is a handsome and dashing young Arabian courtier? I will know you have not done the required reading assignment, and you will be in for a very long hour of failure. Not to mention the distinct probability of athletic ineligibility, for those of you who think you might be playing in the first home game in a Friday fortnight hence against Lincoln." He pauses long enough to bore his greedy glare directly towards the monster next to me in the corner. "Did you catch all that in the back, Mr. Barnes?"

"Uh...huh." The monster grunts malevolently.

Great, so not only is this guy a monster, now he's an unhappy monster. The only upside of this exchange is that I'm apparently not the only one in this class that Or'sir has in his shit sights in academia. 

"With that said, and being that this is the first-day orientation?" Or'sir checks the clock against his obviously more precise watch.  "It would seem that we have twenty-seven minutes to waste until the next bell."

"So while my esteemed assistant Miss Lee takes roll, you may take this opportunity to get to know your new neighbors." His enmity eyes hood ever so slightly. "Due note this will be the last time I will tolerate free talking time in my class. So be forewarned, the next time I catch you chatting among yourselves or passing notes, there will be a price to pay." He smiles and holds up his handy-dandy angry orange detention pad of doom. As if to prove he's a total petty little tyrant, just in case anyone missed that point the first time around.

"I should not have to say this to a class of Juniors...but do not ever be late to my class." His evil little eyes narrow into cruel slits. "For I will not hesitate an instant to write you up. So should you be insipid enough to attempt to justify yourself, with anything other than an official signed excuse? I will immediately send you off to the main office forthwith, for the remainder of the period."

Maybe it's just my imagination, but I get the distinct feeling that he is purposefully trying to mess with me and the monster leatherhead. Cause I swear his eyes lock directly onto the back corner boys as if to say, "Yes Spicoli, that means you too!"

"You may now commence speaking quietly among yourselves." He does that lame Captain Star Trek engage finger swipe thing, that totally relates to the cool kids so well.

On cue, the super skinny jeans guy sitting in front of me immediately bolts up and goes right after the bathroom pass. I chance a glance at the girl on the other side of me, who immediately turns away and starts pulling at her long ponytail. I mentally name her Sit and Spin, because that's pretty much all she ever does in class. She never takes notes, she doesn't talk, she just sits there with her obsession. Spinning the end of her ponytail around her fingers looking for split ends ...over and over and over again. 

So with no one dumb enough to sit in front of the monster to talk to it, I do a rare thing in my life. I actually initiate a non-hostile dialogue with a complete psychopath.

"So you play football, yeah?" I nod towards his tiny little shiny oblong pin on top of the big F on his leatherman jacket. I have to wonder why it's just an F, and not an SF for San Fallcon?

"So you stupid new, or just stupid something sport?" The monster snorts in retort.

"Yeah." I counter back evenly, already kicking myself for starting this convoke.

"Yeah, huh?" The monster slowly swivels around the big brick block that passes for his head, and glares at me with one eye wide. He slowly blinks back his ice-blue eyes, as if he has just realized that we haven't actually been going to school together for the last two years ...which obviously we haven't.

"Well, then that sucks for you new guy, cause San Fall sux ass." He judges correctly.  

Okay, so that's something we can both agree on.

"Yeah, pretty much." I nod slowly as if somehow this is news to me.

"Butchy." He juts his thick chin and thumps his barrel chest once where his name is stitched into his jacket.

Of course, the monster has to be named Butchy. I'm just not quite sure if this is a name or his personal preference? I am so sorely tempted to name him "Bitchy" instead. But Butchy Barnes is clearly a very large and intimidating guy, so I decide it's just not worth the chance that I might accidentally slip someday and get killed.

"Dean." I counter evenly, thumping my chest and throwing a chin check back. In what I assume is the local custom, in lieu of the traditional handshake slap or knuckle duster.

"Yeah, starting varsity middle linebacker." He answers back as if I have already asked my next question.

"Cool." I nod slowly and wait for him to read my mind again.

"You don't play ball do you?" His icy eyes narrow suspiciously. I get the distinct impression that this is a lot less of a question, and much more of an accusation of my unworthiness to breathe the same air as a football god. 

"No, not really." I try to shake him off stupid. 

The monster takes this negation in slowly, as his frown deepens into a scowl.

"So you don't play ball, cause what? It's not your thing?" He snorts accusatorily. "Or you transferred too late to be eligible to try out? Or you got something against it?"

I am starting to sense that this is a highly dangerous line of questioning in Butchy's world. Because if you hate football, you must hate him. Cause after all he is clearly a football god in his world. You see this F on my chest, Stupid New Guy? Yeah, stands for Football-God.

"Naw not eligible." I shrug off the truth, mostly because I just don't see the point in explaining to the monster that team things have never really been my thing.

"What's your thing then?" Butch is now eyeing me with growing suspicion, in what I can only assume is an effort to see if I might be "The New Gay Guy".  Which oddly enough for a Neanderthal jockstrap caricature, I will learn that Butchy doesn't really care about "The Gay" as much as one might assume he would. He has a lot harder things to think through, like lunch, then what's what with the Other guys.

"I surf."  Dispelling his immediate fears of masculinity.

"Surf?" He cocks his massive head as if trying to remember where he might have heard this strange and exotic term before. "Like as in ocean-beach-sea-sand-surf?"

"Exactly like in the ocean, except further out in the water from the beach." As in where else would one surf, that other surf place in the Not Ocean-Ocean?  "No one surfs by the beach unless you can help it. Mainly because sand, rocks, barnacles, and shells hurt like hell when you hit them face-first going thirty miles per hour. Ergo sandpaper?"

"Huh." He grunts. "So you ever seen a Jaws shark and shit?" 

"Yeah, a couple of times." I shrug back. "But not like a Great White Shark or anything that dangerous. Mostly just baby sand sharks, who were a lot more scared of us, than we are of them."

"Ah huh." Butchy pauses for a second to sort out this critical piece of information and comes to the conclusion that this topic is now irrelevant to his gridiron worldview. So instead of any more inquiries as to my athletic orientation, he instead decides to share some local secrets.

"You better watch your asshole new guy, cause that little dickhead is bad news." He rocks his bone blonde forelock towards the front of the class.   

"Tell me about it." I snort back in the local fashion. "I caught him for homeroom this morning. Started bitching at me from the moment I walked in..."

"Tell me about it?" Butchy snorts like an enraged bull. "No, let me tell you about it, New Guy!"

At which point, Butchy lunches into his lengthy telltale, and my first "flocking" lesson in the local lingo. For the next five minutes flat, I am forced to listen in painful detail to the litany of F-bombs, the likes I haven't heard since Gromit Hauser discovered the real meaning of the F-word the summer we were ten ...and decided to own it outright.

"That flocking little prick is a flocking wannabe JV assistant coach, glorified little flocking towel boy flocker. Flocking tried to hold me back in flocking JV last year. Flocker told Coach Piney that I wasn't ready for flocking varsity yet?" His eyes go wide with raging indignation at this incomprehensible proposition. "That I was too slow? That my head wasn't in the flocking game? That I missed easy flocking tackles on the outside? Which was a total flocking lie!?!" 

He seethes malevolently in a manner that leads me to believe that this is an important factoid about him that I really need to understand. That Butchy Barnes does not like flockers that flocking lie about Football...even a little. His ice-blue eyes are so stormy now that I can almost see the lightning shooting out into Or'sir burning his smirking face off into a charred crisp. 

"Okay, so it's true I missed once on a screen switch off fade that flocking once time. That once flocking time in once flocking scrimmage game. But I never flocking miss...even twice."

All the "once" and "even twice" threw me for a second as well, but then that's Butchering English for you. All the words that he can still remember matter, even the ones that don't there belong there anymore.  

"That little midgety mutherflocker wasted six flocking weeks of my life with his flocking bullshit." His thick square jaw flexes with an audible crack. "Almost two flocking months of games on bullshit JV. Six motherflocking weeks on flocking JV, playing for that flocking flocker, until old #67 flocked up his knee on a chipped blocked out for a couple of games."

"Then Coach Piney had to give me my shot! And I flocking showed them who didn't have his flocking head in the game." He seethes so hard I can actually feel the air get angry. "Thought they were sooo flocking funny. Laughed their flocking way right to the E.R they did that flocking day they did. Oh flock yeah, I made them all pay hard for that once laugh ...flocked them up big time into a world of my pain. Flocked  them hard sideways and twice on Sunday."  

"Oh yeah?" I mug interest in this monster's horror story of gridiron glory. 

"Yeah, I put that one running flocker in the hospital with a punctured lung." He grins gleefully. "Another two catching flockers on the sideline with blood bubbles coming out their eyes. Then I drove the QB1 dicks in the dirt so hard he screamed like a little girl and pissed herself silly." A slow cruel smile of past pain inflicted starts to skin over his big tombstone teeth.

"After the game was over, Coach Piney personally gave me the game ball for all that pain. On the way back in the locker room, I told Dickvetter to shine it for me. Flocking flock that flocking towel boy flocker!" He snorts derisively like a raging bull on roids. "Flocking not ready for flocking varsity? I'll tell you who's not ready for varsity..." 

By the end of this "flocking" diatribe, the pure malevolence radiating off the massive monster next to me is impressive, to say the least. With his imaginary death grip is firmly locked in right on Or'sir's throat. His massive hands clenching the desk are bone white-knuckled. The enraged hate shaking so hard that I can even feel tremors in my feet, as this volcano has built up into a roiling red rage and is about to blow. It is starting to dawn on me that this dude is not just an ordinary unhappy monster. Butchy Barnes is clearly flocking psychotic, and not flocking around at all. Because this dude is deathly serious about ...well whatever the hell he is so deathly serious about?

I mean for sure, I am definitely not the sanest person I have ever met in the mirror. While I clearly have my issues, like all the dark voices in my head? But from where I am sitting watching this horror show unravel, Butchy Barnes is in a whole nother league of flocked in the head. And all the dark voices in my head are cheering him on to a homicidal rampage. "Butchy no like little smarty talking talk mini man! Butchy no like talking talk! Butchy like kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!!!" 

"That does sound badass cool." I nod along, as if I can see this whole jumble of crazy pieces complete the picture of the events as they happened in Butchy's head. 

"Yeah, I was badass. You should have been there, New Guy." Butchy bobs his massive blonde brick head and smiles his tombstone grin at the memories of causing all that good pain and suffering.

"Sounds like it." Because at this point I can't agree or disagree with this statement.

Just from the way Butchy explains his way through the day of vengeance and vindication, makes him grin like a stainless steel crack rabbit. Truthfully, it does sound like I would have enjoyed watching him pound another team into blood and bones. All the while running around the field screaming "Are you hurt or are you injured!", to the roaring adoration of the Falcon Faithful.

"So what's the deal with this next game then, that Midgitler keeps making threats about?" I don't bother calling him Or'sir. I keep the insult as imbecilically simplistic as possible under the circumstances. Mostly because I get the distinct impression that a more erudite explanation might be lost on Butchy's insult acumen.

"The Midgitler?" Butchy scowls hard at me as if I am trying to confuse him any more than he already is.

"Midgety Hitler ...Midgitler?" I nod over towards the small smiling man in the front of the class. Where he is happily bragging the Asian Assassin chick in the corner, how he gonna flock us all up on tardies. So it's now her job as his assistant to be his snitch, and be universally hated by all the rest of us by playoffs.

"Midg'itler? Yeah, that flocking fits that little shit to a T-bone." Butchy slowly smiles, finally making the connection between the title and the diminutive vertically-challenged mini man. 

Again we find something else we can agree on. And as the rest of the year goes by I am often amazed by how often Butchy and I can agree on what sucks. Or what's cool about the important things in life....sans football of course.

While I am of the singular opinion, that while Butchy clearly is not the brightest star in the sky above San Fall and might have some dam bramage. He clearly has a deep animosity towards Or'sir. And the enemy of my enemy is my whatever? So at least for now, Butch and I can be cool, because we are most defiantly are on the same wave for the moment ...more or less. 

"Yeah, this week is a bullshit practice game against Fallon. Some cross-valley rival bullshit that doesn't even count as a rival. Bunch of weak ass little shits, who suck so bad most of our starters won't even play past the first quarter." He snorts in clear amusement. "If we are even flocking lucky enough to do that much."

"But in two weeks Friday, we go after Lincoln. And I flocking hate Lincoln." He cracks his massive scarred knuckles.

It isn't exactly clear to me whether this means he hates the school, or the president who freed all the slaves? Regardless of the reason, "Butchy smash kill Lincoln!" seems about right to me.

"You should come to the game and watch me drive their dicks into the dirt, and asses into the grasses." He brightens with this sudden epiphany of glory.

"Definitely try," I promise him. "Not much else seems rocking around here on a Friday."

"Yeah, nothing's there ass anyways right?" Butchy pauses to hear his own wasted words and shakes them away. "I mean no shit San Fall sucks. Only less on Friday, than not Friday?"

"So what's the deal with all the suck in San Fall anyways?" I press him, because I really have nothing better to do than entertain the voices in my mind, with more tales of gridiron glory.

"All the old raisins hate us, and call the curfew cops anytime we try to party in town." He rolls his eyes back up into his head looking for missing thoughts. "Got so flocking bad couple years back you couldn't even have after game keggers in your own backyard, without the Swine showing up. Flashing flashlights things around, and asking stupid questions like, 'What we're doing drinking?'" He snorts in the local custom. "What the flock does it look like we are doing? Obviously celebrating another win or sacrificing a virgin ...you flocking idiots?"

"Finally some of the seniors started throwing parties out in their parents hunting cabins up at the Lake in the mountains. So now Lake parties are the cool thing to do." He shakes his head slowly, to let me know this is in fact not cool.

"Yeah, sometimes those parties are alright? But it takes like a half hour to forever to get up to the Lake. But at least there are no Swine to kill the fun. If you like lakes and cabins in the woods and shit?" He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Me? I flocking hate flocking nature...nature bugs."

I almost have to wonder if he means the Lake parties bug him, or nature in general bugs? Or bugs in nature? Or he hates all of nature, not just the nature at the Bug Lake Mountain, but the entire world including the sea? I will soon come to appreciate that Butchy hates a lot of things ...maybe even me sometimes?

Our back corner hate fest is finally interrupted by the academic assassin known as the "Lee's Take-Out" girl. She ninja's around the back corner and eyes me hard for a heartbeat. Then puts on a politely forced fake smile, before finally entering the fray.  

"Hey guys, sorry to interrupt but I got stuck doing the roll thing again. But I don't think I know you?"  The cat-eye glasses girl informs us pleasantly and then points to the roll sheet in her hand. "So who are you again?"

"Dean." I give her a chest-thump-chin-check in the local manner.

"Oh okay, Dean. So then you're new, right?" She head tilts in my direction, confirming her suspicions about me.

"Yeah Lee's, he's the New Guy Deen's." Surprisingly Butchy answers for me, then glowers up towards the front. "So what that little shithead have to say? Are we really going to have that little shits 'till Grants gets back?" 

"Yeah Butchy, it looks that way." Lee's cat eyes narrow unhappily back at the mini man. "Oh and get this ...he wants to make sure I tell him if anyone tries to sneak in late. Like I really needed that noise?

"Thanks but no thanks, and bone that noise." She shakes off the thought, and refocuses her efforts on the monster. "So could you do me a favor? If you guys in the back are gonna be late? Can you please try to be obvious about it? I don't want to be the one that turns anybody in ...especially not to him."

"No shit." Butchy snorts in agreement. "If you didn't want to take roll again, you shouldn't have sat in the front. You shoulda known better than that on the first day, Lee's. They always pick on smarties if you sit in the front, everybody knows that." Butchy observes wisely, surprisingly adept at the art of the understatement, a plight I can almost empathize with.

"Yeah, duh." Lee rolls her eyes behind her sharp librarian glasses. "But Grant always lets us decide how to move the chairs around on the first day. But by the time I realized it was a permanent sub, it was already too late to get up and change seats."

"Sux to be you Lee's." Butchy bobs his big brick head in almost commiseration, but I also note that he doesn't offer her up the empty seat in front of him either. "So did the Midg'hitler say why Grant ain't here or what?"

"Omigod Butcher, you didn't hear about Grant's baby on the grapevine?" Lee's sorta chokes up for a second. 

Butcher? Oh yeah...that name so fits this dude to a T.

"Uh huh ...why?" The Butcher frowns.

"It's soooo sad, Grants baby boy was born with a congenital heart defect." The Lees Take Out chick heaves a super sad sigh.

"Her baby had to have emergency surgery two days ago. So right now they're just waiting to find out if he's gonna make it or not." She drops her voice to a near whisper. "I overheard Mrs. Saint C. this morning telling Miss Krystal that it's going to be touch-n-go for like the next month, whether he pulls through or not at all. Which is why Grant can't leave the hospital, you know ...just in case?"

"Holy shit flock, that flocking sux to do that to a little baby." The Butcher sorta surprises me with his sudden compassion. "So Lee's you think can you just sign my name under whatever words you write on that clown card?"

"Sure Butchy, no worries." Lee's eye rolls her acceptance of this request.

I get the distinct feeling that this chick has been put in this position before. Just based on the conversate I've had so far, the extent of this dude's illiteracy is already highly suspect. I am a little leery that perhaps "The Butcher" may not actually be able to sign his name at all? For all I know so far he might be an X marks the spot kind of clown.

"Anyways, nice to meet you, Dean?" Lee's shifts awkwardly unsure of where to go next, because she clearly does not want to return to the front of the class. "And seriously, if you guys gonna be late can you please try to be obvious about it? I don't want to be the one that turns anybody in, especially not to ...what did you call him again?"

"Midg'itler? Like Midget and Hitler smashed together. But that's not mine, the New Deanz called him that first." Butchy of course just puts his head back down to rest his brain damage and mumbles. "New Deanz surfs with sharks and shit."

"Oh my god, seriously? That is so cool." Lee's swoons slightly and immediately drops right into Butchy's empty don't-sit-there chair without a care. "I'm Kelly by the way, but everyone just calls me Lee's, cause my parents own Lee's Take Out in town."

So no thanks to the Butcher boy, I spend the next ten minutes answering all Lee's questions about the ocean. And what little I know about the effects of global warming. Which is something that this chick apparently really cares about for some reason?

Honestly to my way of thinking, global warming is actually a good thing? With longer summers and rising tides mean more big summer waves. And if the houses of those rich Malibu pricks, who like to call the cops on surfers for trespassing on their sand, slide into the ocean during the big winter waves ...even better for everyone.

The bell finally rings, the flock rises as one to stamped away from Or'sir and away to our next class as fast as possible. 

Backside Note: The Butcher of San Fall.

Brian "Butcher" Barnes is the captain of the football team ...but not the Team Captain you might be thinking of. He's not the cute Quarterback, popular prom-king-for-life shining star, golden boy. No, he's the other one, the defensive team captain. That one everyone is afraid of ...including his own teammates. The predator that likes the sight of blood just a little too much. His own is fun, but someone else's is even better.

There is probably a Butcher in every high school everywhere. He might not be called "The Butcher" at your school of choice. But you're already thinking of someone you know just like him. Yeah...he's that "football guy". The big mean, surly, foul-mouthed, natural-born bully boy. Who constantly uses played out mojo moto's like "No pain, no gain." and "Are you hurt or are you injured?" And constantly "conversates" in catchphrases to get him through every day like, Classic, Boo'ya, Flock yeah, Flock no, Bone that, Bone this, Bone me' ...ect.

He encourages everyone on The Team to wear their jerseys to school. Just so he can call them by their numbers ...because it's so much easier than remembering names that way in his broken brain. He's the guy who calls you babe, bro, guy, dude, kid or whatever monosyllabic he uses to get by. He does this because it's far too hard for him to concentrate through the haze and put to faces on people. Unless you're on "The Team" or he "banged the shit out of you both ways once". Because everyone else are just faceless flockers in the addled daze of his brain-damaged day.

"Did you see what I just did right there?" He is actually asking you if you did. Because he missed the current again, and wants to make sure he's not having one of those lost time moments things, where he forgets to not wet his bed....again.

The Butchers have issues, including but not limited to: mommy issues, daddy issues, stepdaddy issues, girl issues, boy issues, dog issues. They are prone to Roid rages, ADD, PSTD, STD's, learning disabilities, personality disorders, anger management issues, alcoholic issues, homicidal homophobia, animistic claustrophobic, suicidal tendencies ...just to name just but a few of his flocking fun facts. A virtual Mohammad's mountain of issues that don't even have names yet. The twisted knots of dysfunctionalities that only Dr. Alexander's Gordian sword solution could unflock his dam bramaged dome. 

And if it wasn't for "Da Footieball" he'd be in a "Special School" with the rest of the Scooby gang. At least until going to Juvie Hall for any number of deviant things he likes to do in his spare time. But because he is God's gift on the Gridiron, the powers that be allow him to mix with the regular kids (victims) for four years ...and possibly a shot at full ride to cool College. Where he can terrorize co-eds on his way through to the Pro's. So that one day he may even become a role model for the next generation of sociopaths who play Gods Game.

Yes, The Butcher of San Fall has a lot of very very serious problems ...one of which will soon be me. Because unbeknownst to either of us, we have an odd connection rising the horizon. One that will determine if we will be enemies for life in the Valley of Death or not? But that won't be until after school in three days time, that we actually meet each other for real... at "Da Frost".