You might be asking, "Ayden, why is there a huge life-size condom in front of you? And what do you use to style your luscious, fluffy hair? It looks like a wave covered in an oil spill, but with that all those mucked seagulls," and to both of those things I answer: fuck if I know. We are not meant to know the mysteries of the universe. Would sure like to know, though.

"Put it on," says Principal Dickwad, slowly stroking my back in the dank closet next to the even danker football field.

And when I say dank, I'm saying "420 blaze it" kind of dank. Seems like somebody has taken the little shack as a modest pot plantation, with an UV light and a humidifier that made the oversized condom moist and drippy. Did I mention the condom has a little Roman helmet? Because the condom has a little Roman helmet. Maybe Athenian, but most likely Roman.

"What? You're not going to buy me dinner first?" I ask with a smirk. "But seriously, what the fuck are you playing at? I thought we were going to detention."

Principal Dankhole walks towards the mondo swordsheat and strokes it lovingly with an equally smug smirk. "This is detention."

"No, this is, at best, a pretty fucked fetish," I state. "Detention has other people, and an underpaid teacher, and desks with boobs and swastikas carved into them. Besides, I'm mostly a bottom, so wearing a condom ain't my style."

I cannot say if he looks intrigued or horrified, but he quickly shakes his head, dismissing any notion of such things. Glad I didn't walk in a student/teacher smut book. There are too many already and each and every one doesn't seem to understand the nature of such unbalanced power relations. That's not a joke. Please don't write those stories anymore. It's borderland rape.

"Oh, you want to stay in a conditioned room for a while with your friends and have an alone time in an ever-revolving world that shuns peace and quiet in favor of a revolving door of shit?" he says, still with the smirk, now twitching, because he doesn't have bad boy mouth muscles. "Tough luck. You're not going to mooch off the sweat of the working man's brow. Your punishment must be equal to the crime. You destroyed a piece of art-"

"Can't you just print another one?" I ask.

"I mean, yeah, sure, but I'll have to drive to the nearest Staples and try and gauge the mood of the salesperson, then I'll have to explain why that beautiful lion man has huge balls, then I'll get judged, but, like, silently judged? And that's gonna make me self-conscious because it will remind me of my dad and how he always silently judged me, and that one time he called me a failure after that artwork I made of Obama and Sonic pregnant of each other's children became viral, and then I'll just wanna go home and eat pistachio ice cream," he says, all in one breath, as if it was nothing. "So, yes, but you're missing the point."

"Do you need help? Do you have anybody you can talk to?" I ask. "Is there a psychologist here? Maybe BetterHelp.com? A cat that likes to meow? An Alexa device?"

"I"m fine," he says, not fine. "The point is, your detention today will be to guard this here mascot suit. Those heathens at Hill Valley Mountain Woods High have the tradition of stealing something from our school every year on the first game of the season. Last year was my precious Fursuit, Monsieur Flufflybottom. The year before that? Our LaCroix machine. Before that?"

"Your will to live?" I say, half-joking. Or half-serious, depending if you're one of those assholes who like to see the glass half-full.

He grabs me by the shoulder, giving me a smile so melancholic that one would think he's a young Russian writer during the revolution whose commander ordered to shoot a bus full of kittens and rainbows. "You can't lose something you don't never had in the first place, Mr. Gomez."

I can't pinpoint if this guy is horny or depressed. But, let's be real, that's two sides ofthe same coin in this day and age.

"So," I say, slapping his clammy hands away, "let me get this straight. You think they're gonna come and steal this condom-suit thing? And you want me to, I dunno, avoid that?"

"First, it's not any condom-suit thing!" he says. "A Trojan condom! Proud sponsors of the Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Poly!"

Oh, I get it. It's a Trojan helmet! "Why is the school mascot a condom? How are parents even okay with this?"

"Well, Redbull passed on us," says Principal Dickweed, grabbing a small blue bottle from a shelf and spraying the marihuana plants laying around. "And we already had the Trojan name, so, win-win! Anything to keep the UV lights on."

"I was meaning to ask. What's the deal with the weed?"

"Anything to keep the lights on," he says.

Okay, fair. Suppose is none of my business. Seems like some doors are meant no to be open. Like that door on the corner that says "Do not open." Kinda wonder what's the deal there, but that's just plot to be found, and I already have too much on my plate.

"So, what's the second?" I ask.

This caught Principal Suckem a bit off guard since he practically jumped out of his shoes for a second there. Ah, no, wait. He's literally taking his shoes off and stuffing the soles with dimebags full of kush. Weird. "What second?"

"You said first, then the condom-suit thing," I say, leaning against the work table with my arms crossed. A pair of shears poke me in the butt, but he doesn't have to know that. Let it be our dirty little secret. "Can't say first without saying second, you know?"

He puts the shoes back again, having gained at least two extra inches. He starts to unbutton his shirt to stuff dimebags underneath it. "Mr. Gomez, I'm the principal. I can do whatever I want. Now, put the condom on already!"

Cue the door opening and a very confused Lila staring at the last few seconds of interaction. If she were my PCL, it would be an awkward moment. I mean, it's still pretty awkward, but I couldn't care less about what she thinks.

"Uh, do I need an adult?" asks Lila.

"I'm an adult," answers Principal Wankerman, "now, get in, Miss. Winslow. You're late."

"Sorry," says Lila, whose last name is Winslow, and I say it because I'm going to forget it... right... now. "Got caught up."

"Yeah, yeah," says Principal Boner, just, boner. "Mr. Gomez, Miss. Winslow here will also be guarding our beloved mascot as a punishment. It falls on both of you to avoid those motherfuckers at Hill Valley Douchebag Farts from taking it. Again, why are you not putting on the suit, Mr. Gomez?"

"Why do you want me to put in on, Mr. Fuckwad?" I say. And great, of course I get to spend detention with a TAB/G. I wonder what she did to get here? Then again, I don't care.

"Because," says the principal, now looking like a chew toy with all those ganja bags on him, "if push comes to shove, you're not gonna carry a 30-pound condom through the school while people in peak human condition chase you down and call you a discount Moby and toss cupcakes at you. Put it on, and it will be harder to catch you. Miss. Winslow, you stay here and assist him if needed."

"Just to be clear, your idea of detention is to be in a room for hours without being able to leave?" I ask. "How is that any different from regular detention?"

"You will be wearing a huge condom," says the principal, "which I am yet to see put on. Come, on with it."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm all about protection," I say, trying to avoid eye contact with Lila, which is a foolish endeavor, given my dark glasses. Sorry for wasting your time. "But, I'm allergic to synthetic materials, and it seems kinda small. I'm a big guy, after all. Can I, like... not wear it?"

"And what? Just risk it? I'm sure when push comes to shove you will let poor Miss. Winslow alone to take care of things. Man up and take responsibility, or don't do it at all!"

Are we still talking about a mascot suit? I feel we stepped into an after-hours PSA.

"Besides, the inside is made of lambskin," says the human dimebag as he opens the door. "Eyes open, don't let anybody enter, and whatever happens, don't take daddy's premium kush, k? See you in an hour."

And with that, he leaves us alone, in a small, moist room, us two alone. With a bunch of subpar purple. Honestly, this place is like someone in an RPG made all the wrong decisions. Fun, but it's a matter of time until the whole thing burns to the ground. For now, I'll wear the damn thing. You know, it's kinda hard getting into a suit when you don't know which is the front and which is the back. I don't even think this thing has any eyeholes.

As I predicted, it's way too small for me. I'm just built differently, you know? I look like a barrel with weirdly defined legs, like two tree-trunks fighting for domination. Over what? I'll leave that to your imagination. You filthy b.

"Here, let me help you," says Lila, squeezing the top and pulling the sides down, reaching all the way to below my knees in one swoop. Well, how about that? It's bigger than I thought. Only problem is that I definitely put it on backwards. I can't see a thing! And I can't move much either. As someone who constantly makes dumb plans, I can say for sure this one should've been held back a grade or two.

"So," I say, as it is considered bad manners to remain silent as a girl puts a condom suit on you, "what are you in here for?"

Her answer, most peculiarly, is to hit me with a lead pipe to the side of the head. Might've been copper, but pretty sure it was led. It has a characteristic twang, like a deep south Belle about to kick her cheating husband to the curb, that can't be mistaken. Lucky for me, the condom suit is thick enough so I don't feel anything, making it the one and only time making you feel less is a godsend.

"Excuse me, miss? What the actual, God-given fuck are you trying to play here?" is all I can say. I could say more, sure, but why bother with a TAB/G?

I can feel myself being spun around to my sides, an easy feat to do since I'm a lambskin burrito at this point. "Crap. One hit to the head is usually good enough to do the job. You're quite thick, Gomez."

"I prefer to be called curvy, thank you. Now, could you please get on with your monologue? Let's finish this. Are you a stalker? One of them Yandere I've heard about? Look, dunno what you've heard of me, but I actually have a perfectly above-average penis."

"Don't you play dumb with me, Gomez. I know you know who I am. And you're my ticket to avenge my parents," says Lila.

Okay, this one comes from the loony bin. Not my first rodeo. Just nod and smile, and at the first time of conflict, run for the hills. "Sure, sure, whatever you say."

I'm again reminded of the power of industrialism via head bonking, this time to the forehead. My ball-repellent glasses weren't made for this, dammit!

"Oh, don't patronize me. Don't tell me that you don't recognize me deep down. A part of you must've known the moment your sorry ass came crawling here," she says, insulting both my intelligence and my sweet ass.

"Look, lady," I say, trying to stand up, but as I tried, and not did, I'm denied that pleasure via a knee in the neck, "I don't know you. Now, could you please don't step in my carotid? It's the only one I have."

Increasing the pressure like a very rude person she is, she gets as close as she can to where she might believe my ear is. Which is to say, not close at all. "Oh, you know, the girl with the prophecy? Avenge my parents? Creepy cult?"

"You have to narrow it down a peg," I say. "I've been around the prophetic block a few times already."

"Well, how about now?" she says.

"What now?"

"My real hair!" she says. "I just took out my wig!"

"Sorry. Can't see shit. I think this thing doesn't have eyeholes," I say.

I can see myself being yanked and pulled from left to right, the suit shifting around me, until I can see the light. And hair. Lots and lots of hair. Red locks that weren't there before, hiding two oddly huge green eyes with almost no white around them. Where have I seen them before?

"It's Leila-Sue Higgins, and you are In cahoots with the man who killed my parents. Prepare to be fainted in a cliche fashion."

The last thing I see before the led pipe hits my face is a very distinct mark, one that juggles my memories just enough for me to match the face and the name. After all, how many people do you know that have a LaCroix Pure can recreated with moles and freckles on their arm?