Lt. Col. Fuches' neck vein throbs to the rhythm of "Another One Bites The Dust" with every passing second, with his eyes bulging to the rhythm of Freddy Mercury's silky smooth voice. He doesn't strike me as someone who would enjoy the genre-defining pops of Queen. More like a Creedence Clearwater Revival guy. Maybe that's why he likes Hayden. 

"What in the sweet baritone voice of Freddy Mercury are you wearing, maggot?!" he spits, proving me both wrong and moist at the same time. 

See, this is where the writing medium proves to be a detriment to this story. If I never tell you that I'm wearing my gym shorts and shirt over my leather pants and cotton undershirt, you would've thought that I'm just being my hot self, constantly picked on by a man trying to reconcile boomer thought with zoomer thought without getting canceled. But alas, my skin is still sensible to the cheap gym clothes fabric, and I ain't about to be chafed by something less than a Gucci. 

"Sir," I say, trying my best to give him a best German aristocrat salute by tapping my heels together, "it is a medical condition, sir. My skin is allergic to synthetic materials, sir." 

He immediately takes off his glasses, taking a step back in awe. "What in the sweet head-stain of Mikhail Gorbachev's head did you just do with your feet, maggot? Are you Dorothy from the classic 1939 film 'The Wizard of Oz'? You wanna wish upon a sweet baby Jesus fucking Christ that I don't have your ass for lunch, dinner, and dessert?" 

This guy is giving me seriously mixed messages. I don't know how to act, or what to say. I'll play this like "Fullmetal Jacket" and just go with the flow. 

"Please, don't have my ass for dinner," I whisper. 

Lt. Col. Fuches get so close to me that I can smell what his great-grandfather ate before he died — sauerkraut and sausages, if you want to know — with our noses almost touching. I have to fight my bad boy instincts and not steal a kiss from him. Not that I want to, anyway, but the instincts are in my bones, itching to come out. This is somehow so hot. 

"Well, whoopee-doozie-daisy, Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore," he says, spraying his thick, tobacco-scented spit all over my face. "This is my class now, Dorothy. Here, we don't wear fancy-schmancy dresses. We appreciate the tactical superiority of shorts, and the soft, almost careless whisper of the plain white shirt. Best gear to move up and get up!" 

If that's what the fuss' about, I can easily prove him wrong. I immediately drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. One hand, two hands, red hands, blue hands, no hands, alternative hands. I do about thirty in thirty seconds, all the while counting them aloud. 

"See?" I say, using two fingers to push me up. "My body is a fine-tuned machine, shorts or no shorts." 

"Boo-boo," he says, spitting next to him with such pressure that the spittle bounced on the floor. "Any schmuck can do that. Hell, Hayden could do as many with both hands behind his back. God, he's a perfect specimen of human peak performance. I want to flash-freeze his seed to put in my underground bunker and use it to repopulate the planet once those damn commies get trigger happy. Jesus Christ on a Ritz Cracker."

Very mixed emotions. 

"But sir, my health." 

"Buts are for sitting, shitting, and heterosexual spanking in a sports setting, Dorothy!" he spits. "You will wear the appropriate gear when you're in my class, maggot! You will respect my authority!" 

Every cell in my being is screaming for me to get out in a dramatic, bad-boy fashion that will inspire my love interest to come after me in the hallway, and me calling them off saying that I'm broken and I can't be fixed. After all, if a bad boy storms off and a love interest doesn't follow, is he a bad boy at all? And I can see at least three people ready to sprint after me as soon as I make a pivot. 

But I won't. I have to stand my ground.

"I see your point," I say, "and I respect your authority, sir. But I have a medical condition, so I will have to politely agree."

And then, silent. Complete, and utter silence. A pregnant silent, as they say, but one in the second trimester. Not quite big, not quite small, can still be confused by someone retaining liquid. I know I did. Never went to that bank again. 

"I see," he says, taking a step back, and thus, leaving me out of the splash zone. "If you want to play it like that, I'll play your game, Dorothy. If you wanna wear your BDSM leather gimp suit, fine. But you are gonna have to...earn your right on the battlefield!" 

My confusion at his nonsensical statement is drowned by the sound of all the other kids being complete fuckwads. Everyone started to murmur, but the murmur of other people is being louder than their own, so they speak louder, to a crescendo of nonsense. 

"Silence!" screams Lt. Col. Fuches, and everything fizzled out. "See, Dorothy, here in the real world, if there is a disagreement between two people, two nations, whatever, we solve it by beating the shit out of each other until the other surrenders, usually France or Canada. In my court, we go by real-world rules, and we fight for our rights. Got cramps and can't run? Gotta fight for it. Broke your arm and can't climb the rope? Fight for it. You wanna wear your greaser uniform? Well, you gotta fight for it on the battlefield...of the court!" 

And the chickens went cluck cluck again. I could somehow hear the ughs and omgs from Leila and Leeland over everything, but it is mostly an orgy of idiots. 

You know, this isn't worth it. Not worth it, at all. But if this is all it takes, I'll take my chances. 

"Bet," I say, "sir. What do I have to do?" 

You already know how the rest reacted. Everyone, except Hayden. He looks concerned for some reason. 

"Alright, Dorothy," says the coach. "There's only one game that combines the strategy of war, the cunning of strategy, and the ouchies of a bullet. And that, my dear maggot, is dodgeball!" 

"I'm game," I say. That's it? A simple game of dodgeball? Easy. How bad can it— fuck. I didn't say that, did I? I had to speak my mind. Stupid monologuing genes!

By the sound of everyone gasping at the same time, I chose...poorly. 

As Lt. Col. Fuches walks away to find the dodgeballs which we will use to ball and dodge, I lean towards Hayden and whisper as quietly as I can. 

"Dude, what's the big deal? Why is everyone freaking out?" 

But he remains silent, only staring at the horizon, like a goat, kicking on the early morning mildew. A hand grabs me by the shoulder. I should probably invest in shoulder spikes. Many hands lately. By the way they're grabbing me, and the clammy, moist feeling of it, I can guess who it is. 

"Hey best friend," says Billiam's punchable voice. "It's me, Scooter! Bill Scooter? Scooter Bill? Man, I feel like forever since we talked last time, aren't we?" 

If he is here, it means only one thing: exposition. Destiny wants me to know something, and it has sent their mouthpiece to tell me. 

"It is by design," I say, shaking him off. "I prefer to be pelted in the head by balls than talking to a walking thesaurus of exposition like yourself." 

"Haha, classic Ayden," he says. "Next, you're gonna offer me $20 to leave, right? What a third chapter callback." 

"Just tell me what you want to say and let me move on."

"Whoa, cold, man," says Billiam. "And here I was gonna tell you that everyone is freaking out because you have to play against Hayden, which is the star athlete of Hill Valley Mountain Woods High, and, like, school royalty."

Oh, so that's the sense of dread and pain I'm feeling. I'm totally fucked, am I not?

"Dude," I say again to Hayden. "You gotta let me win."

This enough makes Hayden snap out of his electric sheep's dream, but not in the way I want him to be. "Sorry, brother. Fuches is also the football coach. If I throw the game, he's gonna make my life a living hell. If he benches me or something, there goes my scholarship. I'll try to go easy on you, brother, but I'm afraid I'll have to smack you in the face with my balls." 

Cue innuendo.

"Alright, Dorothy, listen up," says Fuches, now with a sack full of balls. "I'll be lenient with you, since you seem to be squirming place like a bachelor on his wedding night, about to go into the forbidden hills. Or valleys. Or bunghole. Whatever tickles your fancy. This is gonna be a 6 v 1 fight. On the one hand, you will have my nuclear bomb of machismo, Hayden. God, just look at him. Almost seven feet of pure, unfiltered muscle. Man, I wanna eat you when you die. No fat, all muscle. God damn delicious."

"And on the other side?" I ask. If it's gonna be 6 v 1, it would be easier than I thought. And I said it again, didn't I? "What's the catch?"

"Well, you can choose whichever other maggot you want for your team," he says. "That is, if somebody is willing to go against this incredible beast of a human being. God, he's so tight. Why wasn't I born Hayden?" 

So that's the catch. Like it or not, Hayden is...school royalty, ugh. I'll have to clean my tongue with bleach later. He has supernatural Jock-type bad boy powers with his balls, and the ringing in my head fork my last head-smacking hasn't completely dissipated yet. Imagine him hitting me at full force.

I turn around to face everyone. Sadly for me, nobody was facing me. Everyone was looking up, down, sideways, or, in the case of Brayden, his phone. "So, any volunteers?" 

The silence is more pregnant than ever. This wouldn't happen with sex education that goes beyond maybe not having sex cuz Jesus gets sad. 

"Don't bother, Dorothy," says Fuches. "Nobody is crazy enough to fight my man here. God, your arms look like babies." 

It looks like this is the end. I'll be smacked in the face by Hayden's balls, and that's the end of it. 

"I'm crazy enough," says a voice, a voice I wanted to punch a few seconds ago. "Ayden is my best bud. Right, best friend?" 

Billiam, you crazy bastard. You're actually coming through. 

"Well, that's hardly any better," says Fuches. "That maggot is the last in the class. If anything, he brings the whole thing down a peg."

Hey, better than nothing, eh? I just need a few more. And I just know where to get 'em. 

"Hey, Brayden," I say. "Wanna join me?" 

"pass," he says without so much as looking up. "i'm usually the one slapping balls in people's faces, if ya know what daddy means. it means daddy fu-"

"I know what you mean," I say. "But you owe me one, remember? From the warehouse? When you accidentally kidnapped a man-"

"alright, alright. bet," he interrupts. "just keep it quiet. snitches get caskets. they ain't worth stitches. Besides, stitches are bad for the environment."

"And bring Dumb and Dumberer with you," I say. 

"That's...five," says Fuches. "And I'm not sure two of those are students. Well, if no other maggot is gonna join..."

"Wait! Let me ask who else wants."

But nobody else wants. Not Leila, nor Leeland, nor any other incidental weirdo around. Everyone avoids me like the plague, which means not at all. Seriously, we have to stop using that word. We suck at avoiding plagues. 

"Alright, Dorothy," he says. "Seems like no magott is gonna come save you. Now, if you would-" 

Something caught his eye, and stole his breath while it was at it. He immediately shuts up and takes a step back at something somewhere behind me. 

There, behind me, and Billiam, and Brayden, Jungkook, and Harry, a new body joined the fray. 

It is a tall body, not as tall as Hayden, but taller than me, and that's about the only thing I can say about him, for he is covered from head to toes with clothes. From a trench coat, boots, at least three scarves, and a hat that seems crafter by a fluffy wizard. It's the weirdo that's always in detention reading books. His name escapes me. 

"That's Okayden McHuman," says the human exposition machine that is Billiam. "We are sure to win now!"

"Why?" I ask, like the fool I am. 

"Because," he says, grabbing me by the shoulder, "so far, he is the only person in Hill Valley Mountain Woods High to beat Hayden in dodgeball by dodging all of his balls from four hours straight until Hayden collapsed from exhaustion." 

I have an ill feeling about this guy. To be able to beat a Jock bad boy, you have to be a jock yourself from an opposite school. There is no other way about it. That, or be a protagonist. But he is irradiating bad-boy energy. So mysterious!

Only one way to find out. I walk towards him, and every step I make towards him makes him look bigger, more ragged, as if feral. 

Uh-oh.

"Hey," I say, "so, uh, hi? My name is Ayden, and thanks a bunch for coming to help me, but...can I know why?" 

The guy looks at me for a second — a bad boy trait to be sure, for he is monologuing — and raises one Jesus bejeezus giant hand, using what I can only describe as a bullet nail to peel back his scarves. Behind it, a row of teeth, as sharp as nails, clank up and down as he speaks in a soft, almost caressing voice. 

"You and me, brother,
Born from the same bad-boy cloth,
Not wearing short shorts."

Of course, he speaks in haikus. Who the hell is this guy?