Detention went as well as you would expect it. Us two, Billiam, which seems to get a knack for getting into trouble, that weird kid with the thousand scarves and the Harry Potter glasses, and Laila, which I'm starting to think has some undiagnosed psychological issues, or at least some troubles at home. 

Always having bags under her eyes, moving like a zombie, and muttering things out-loud. It's worrying. 

Don't get me wrong, I ain't worried about her. I'm worried that she might snap one day and try to pull me into a zombie plot or something weird like that. See, unlike the movies, it is very hard to crack open a skull. Even harder to clean gray matter out of cotton. Don't ask me how I know. 

The only interesting development you should know is that we have a sexual harassment seminar tomorrow at the gym. Good thing, too. Y'all need Jesus. Or a hose, full of holy water.

Whatever the case, the day is over, and it's time to return to my vent... is what I would say, were it not for the fact that Hayden squeezed me out like the last bit of toothpaste, soiling my otherwise pristine set of cotton undies. As I am not about to chafe my legs for the sake of going commando, I accepted, against my better judgment, Hayden's offer to drive me home to get a new pair. 

He told me his ride was safe. I didn't expect this. 

"What in the sweet relish recipe of Mother Teresa is this shit?" I say, marveling at the monstrosity that stands before me. 

He doesn't drive a car, he drives a truck. Not a pick-up truck, nor a fancy-schmancy blinded truck, but a goddamned M35 2 ½ tons Kaiser Jeep cargo truck. A 6x6, 111 Inches tall cargo vehicle from the '60s, made out of pure metal and American spit, painted in a faded camouflage green, and with a Nixon/Agnew political sticker in the hood. 

This isn't a driving truck — this is a fuck-you truck. Fuck the road, fuck the pavement, fuck the poor devil who dares even try to dent it. This is a battering ram, not a car. 

This is going to be fun. 

"Ah, yes," says Hayden, caressing the car like a pony about to eat an apple from his hand. "A beauty, ain't she? My parents wanted to buy me a convertible, but I'm not a dummy. I'm a jock! If I drive a convertible, that's an accident waiting to happen. Then I'll be in a wheelchair and some girl will use the power of love or some dumb stuff like that to make me walk. No, brother, I'm not about that life."

"Smart," I say, "but, isn't this a war vehicle?" 

"Brother, this is America," he says. "This is the land of the can, not the can't do. Now, get in my Dick Mobile!" 

"I will not get into any vehicle that is called Dick Mobile," I say. "America is also the land of can decide not to do that."

"Brother, it already had the Richard Nixon decal," he says. 

"Well, call it the Richard Vehicle!"

"But that doesn't even rhyme! Look, if you want to get home, you gotta ride my Dick Mobile. Them's the rules, brother."

That does it, I'll start recording him. I can't be the only one listening to this. 

With a hump and a pull, I manage to climb the almost three meters to the passenger's seat, or 111 inches for those reading us in hamburger helper land, to find a pleasantly furnished interior. Purple suede seats, an 8-ball on the shift stick, and an ironical New Car Smell scented pine on the rearview mirror. That, and what I can only assume is an ancient radio cassette player that someone haphazardly stuck in the middle with cement, of all things. 

"Just give her a second to start," says Hayden. "She needs to warm up first." 

He flips the switch three times, pumps the gas twice, engages and disengages the manual break, slaps the wheel three times, makes a silent prayer to the ghost of Spiro Agnew, and flips the switch yet again, making the engine purr to life, followed by what I can only describe as violent hacking of a cat furball. 

A song blasts from the speakers almost immediately. No bass, all treble.

"Sorry about that," says Hayden. "There's a tape of Creedence Clearwater Revival's Born On The Bayou stuck on the radio player. Can't turn it off, can't change it. But she is now roaring and ready to go. Where do you live?" 

"123 Street Road," I say. "Not that far from here." 

Hayden switches gear, pulling out and onto the road. "Brother, I wanted to thank you for today."

"You already did," I say.

"No, like, really thank you. You know that our life can be a bit lonely, so to have a friend like you going above and beyond for me, it means a lot. Thank you, brother."

Almost enough to make a grown man shed a tear. But I am small and soft, so I shed two tears. An angel receives their wings when a bad boy cries. 

"Don't mention it," I say. "I've been pretty alone myself. These past two days have been a blast. Not because of the whole queen bitch fiasco, but because I feel I have a friend around for the first time ever. Hopefully, next time, we will just chill." 

"Well," says Hayden as we went above a speed bump, I think. Either that, or we ran over a car. Both are possible. "We will have more time to be around each other once the club is officialized next week. It will be a haven for bad boys to sit around, in peace, without plot happening."

"I had forgotten about that," I say. Not like it is the title of the story or anything. "Speaking of, you said you had another bad boy friend willing to sign up. When do I meet this kindred spirit."

Hayden's colors change from Espresso to Cafe au Lait in less than a second. Still delicious, but not as strong. "Yeah, he hasn't been to school yet. Has a few family things he has to deal with, brother. But I need to warn you, he is not like you and me."

"What do you mean? Is he a vampire?" I ask.

"No, not that. I mean...he is eccentric."

"More eccentric that riding a war machine through a suburban town?" 

"Don't diss the Dick until it takes you all the way," he says. "No, he doesn't have any impulse control. Like, he is the type to try and shoot a fly out of the air with a pistol, just because it landed on a cake."

"You're exaggerating."

"No, I've seen him do it," says Hayden, dead serious. "He emptied a clip, reloaded, and emptied it again. He missed, so he threw the revolver at it. It missed."

"What is he, a gangster?"

"Well," says Hayden, scratching his chin, "yes."

You know that feeling of dread that creeps up your spine like a spider when you stub your toe in the middle of the night, only to realize that you actually got a splinter between your nail and toe? That wave of cold that gets replaced by the warm piss of pain? That's how I feel. Like something has gone very wrong. 

"You're fucking with me," I say. 

"I would never fuck with you, brother. He is the gang leader of the Hill Valley Mountain Woods Bangtan/Sicilian mafia, the Kimchi Cannoli."

"That sounds like a plot waiting to happen!" 

"Don't worry, he, too, is fighting against his fate," he says. "His father is in jail for tax evasion, so, in the meantime, he's the one handling the family business, if you know what I mean." 

"Mafia stuff," I say. "Because he is a mafioso. A gang leader. A hooligan. A rascal." 

"He is mischievous, at best," says Hayden. "Do I take a right here?" 

"No," I say. "You have to take...eh..."

Where are we? I've been so engrossed in the conversation that I didn't bother to narrate where we were going. And this is definitely not 123 Street Road. This is the wrong side of the tracks. Literally, I can see tracks. And hangars. Are we in an industrial district?

"Hayden," I say, now realizing where that sense of dread is coming from, "where are we?"

His color came down a notch further. Too much creamer, I say. "Remember I said that he is dealing with some family business, and that's why he hasn't gone to school yet?" 

"Yes..."

"Well, he is kinda hiding from the police right now. Something about a subpoena. I told him about you, and he said he wanted to meet you before accepting you into our club. He is very particular with his friends. Sadly, he has been backstabbed a few times — literally."

Both of them are crazy. Why did I ever think that joining other bad boys would make my life easier?

"But do me a favor," says Hayden, placing his hand over mine. 

I could see the fear reflected in his eyes. That, and the passenger's door opening in a flash, followed by a bag being pulled over my head. 

"Don't scream," is the last thing he says before I'm dragged away from the truck. "You will alert the cops."