Well, so much for a peaceful start to a bad day. I would say that everything can only go up from here on out, but let's face it, we all know where this is going.

As soon as I take a step into the school, I get accosted by a bald man with thick glasses, a tie dye suit that could be considered a public nuisance in a more conservative state, and a can-do attitude that is way too early to try and engage with. I can practically see the squiggly lines of sunshine coming out of him. He doesn't seem to be a proponent of social distancing, practically pulling my arm to shake my hand.

"Hello, hello, hello!" he beams at me with his new-age positivity bullshit patchouli crap, "you must be Ayden Gomez! I'm principal Chillman, but you can call me Steve, or Peter, or Dickwad, as many of my little friends call me — I don't like to call them students, but state-mandated friends that I teach stuff."

Okay, this guy is certainly on some kind of government list. What in the actual, small, baby sandals made out of camel hide of baby Jesus is this dude on?

He seems to feel my discomfort — that, or I said that out loud, which can be possible in my new cliche-addled brain — because he takes a step back, all the while smiling the most sincere smile someone has ever made in a Monday morning school shift. "Not a touchy-feely person. Mental note. I see you are a bit confused."

"Confusion is like pregnancy, or shitting yourself. You either are, or aren't. No such thing as being a little bit pregnant," I say.

The man laughs and tries to touch my shoulder, but a combination of shoulder spikes and my eyes staring daggers at him stops him dead in his tracks. "Oh, you're a hoot. Here at Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Polytechnic Highschool are a little bit more liberal than our counterparts, as you can very much see."

And see I can. Even though the bells just rang, there are a lot of students still out and about, using their cellphones during school hours skating in the halls, a girl just straight up vaping in front of her locker, of which each and every one of them are customized with different colors and styles like a Nickelodeon show. There is a guy at the end of the hall that I'm sure just body-painted a shirt on and called it a day. That, or his shirt is oddly nippley.

"That's an understatement," I say. "Which reminds me, I wasn't given a curriculum when I enrolled here. I don't know which classes I have today."

Principal Dickwad scoffs at me like a teenage boy whose mother told him to get out of that Nintendo, when it is clearly an Xbox, because mothers don't have that much object permanence. I guess. Can't say for sure. Dead mom club over here. Hey, that's a cool name for a club. Where was I again?

"Oh, you," says the Principal, who, seeing that my shoulders were not free real estate, squeezes the back of my neck. Hmmm. "We don't believe in the capitalist, imperial notion of schedules or curriculums. Here at Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Poly High, we believe in free will. We do not tell our students what classes to take or when to take them. You have free time until 3 p.m to choose which classes to take and when. Wanna do physical education all day? Go ahead. Wanna skip math? Fuck that imperialistic science bullshit — we also encourage free expression here, so shit bitch and fuck all you want."

"You also believe in overusing em dashes," I comment. "Also, what the fuck? So, I can just skip classes and I graduate at the end of the year?"

The man tries to squeeze me again, but I slap his hand away, which he responds by squealing in joy? Where the fuck am I? I'm a young man trying to grow a sense of responsibility in my formative years! I need discipline!

"Well, while you are free to choose what you want to do, you still have to have a certain amount of credits to graduate," he says. "Some people take it seriously, others, not so much, like Kyle. This is his tenth year here, just coasting by and having fun. His child is a sweetheart. Look here he comes!"

A man — and when I say man, I mean man, with a full beard, dad bod, and Crocs — skates by us and throws a water balloon at Dickwad. He is unfazed.

"Fuck the police!" yells the man that I assume is Kyle. He does look like a Kyle.

"Excuse me, you have water in your everything," I say.

He laughs like a homeless Santa Claus who inhaled too much whippit before trying to fistfight a clowncar full of whoope cushions. That was a wild July. "Ah, don't worry. We here at Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Poly High, we think it is healthy to rebel against 'The Man.' Which just so happens to be me. Fuck the me, I guess."

This place is a lawsuit waiting to happen. How is this place still running?

"Well, as much as I would like to play with my new homie," he say, who, I must add, is whiter than snow and just about as moist, "I need to yeet myself to my office to TikTok react with a bae, who wants to dab our school into a lawsuit over a minor drug bust, nothing too bad. So, we will begin the tour now."

"The what now?"

"The tour, silly!" he says, wrapping his arm around mine like a gentle quinceanera about to have her first dance. "Or, as the youth says, checking your new digs, you dig?"

"If you touch me again, I'll punch your glasses so hard that they will turn into contacts," I say. Pretty much this is illegal, and if not, it should be. Maybe a fucking policeman is what this place needs.

He lets go of me, rubbing his arm in the process while wriggling like a worm out of the ground, and pretty much as pink. "No touchy, got it. Shall we start?"

"I don't think I have much of a choice in this, do I?"

"Well, we can skip it if you want to," he says, kicking the ground shily.

"Then we better not," I say. "Just point me to, let's say... biology lab. That sounds like a cliche way to start."

"Great!" says the principal, trying again to grab my arm, but backs away after one of my signature scowls. "Well, thing is, we don't really have assigned rooms. Students just go to a random room and send word to a teacher. So, we have to go room to room, asking which one is the biology lab today. Maybe we can check the rest of the school in the meantime?"

"So, a tour of the school?"

"I guess it is!"

Well, so much for free will here. "Alright, lead the way."

The man squeals like a seal, further accentuated by some wide applauds while swaying left to right. "Excellent. Please follow me. Don't be afraid to latch up to me with your strong arms if you do get lost. You are 18, right?"

"Yes?"

"Good, good, let's start with the cafeteria!" he says, skipping all the way to the place I already know the cafeteria is, because all these buildings are scientifically designed to be as cheap and uncomfortable as possible. The word "Brutalist" comes to mind for some reason. "You know, this is usually the job of the newest student in school. Kind of a tradition over here. Sadly, our newest student got expelled a few weeks ago, and every person I asked told me to go pogo stick a dildo. He went to that heathen school of yours. You might have met him. Aiden with an I?"

Oh, so that's where he came from. "Yeah, I had the displeasure of meeting him. May I ask what did he do that was so horrible as to get expelled? This place looks pretty chill."

Principal Dickwad touches the handle of the cafeteria door before tensing up. If he had any hair on his strangely smooth body like a dolphin with alopecia, I would say all his hairs would be standing up at this point. The veins of his arms start pulsing and throbbing as the grip pressure rises. "Well, let's just say that I had hair until a few weeks ago, I had hair, a pet monkey, and a brand new Prius. Let's keep going and not ask any goddamned questions."

Somebody woke up with a dirty diaper today. Wait, is that why I hear him crinkle every time he moves? I don't kink shame but, damn.

As I suspected, the cafeteria is very much a cafeteria, with many cafeteria-like qualities, such as chair and tables, and weirdly homo-erotic motivational posters, all seemed to be drawn by a furry artist.

"Like the posters? Made them myself," says Principal Dickweed. "I also do NSFW commissions on the side."

"No, thank you," I say, making a mental note to thoroughly clean myself from all of the furry germs this man might have given me by touching me all over. Actually, this explains a lot. It is definitely a diaper I hear.

"You sure? All the proceeds will go to me buying a new fursuit. Those damn Hill Valley Mountain Woods Highdouches stole mine two years ago, and are now using them as the mascot for their heathen school! Fuck Hill Valley Mountain School!"

As if to punctuate the idea, a ball comes flying towards his head, making a comical bonk onomatopoeia, making the featherweight weirdo fly backward.

"Sorry your face got in the way of my balls, Dickweed!" says a boy in jim shorts, because they say "Jim" all over them. I don't know where this is going either.

Principal Dickwad or whatever his name is springs back with a smile, grabbing the ball and tossing it back towards the boy. "Don't worry, McKenzie. I'm used to getting balls in my face. Just be careful next time."

"Whatever, weirdo," says McKenzie, grabbing the ball and continuing to play basketball with five other guys, mostly shirtless.

"When you said you were getting used to getting balls in the face," I ask, "you mean..."

The director grabs me by the shoulders, digging his hand on my shoulder spikes. "Ayden, there are three things you never ask: A woman her age, an Argentinian why his grandfather has a German name, and what a furry does in his free time."

"I think I need an adult," I say.

"I am an adult," whispers the principal with a moist breath.

Lucky for me, another ball hits him in the face.

"You gotta get the pair in there," yells McKenzie, this time running towards us and grabbing the ball. "Hey, handsome. DTF?"

"Excuse me?"

"DTF. Down to friends," he states.

"Uhm, no, thank you," I say.

"How about down to fuck?" he says.

This school is both Sodom and Gomorrah, I swear to Christ. Or I would swear. This place reminds me of the words of philosophy's weirdest bad boy, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, who said "God is dead, God remains dead, and we have killed Him." I thought my former school was bad but holly fucking shit.

"How about you get some holy water and go fuck yourself," I say. Not ask, say. Not a suggestion, but an order.

"I tried, but I ain't flexible enough," he says. And with that, he returns to play his game.

Why is there a game of basketball in the cafeteria? Why is there a huge group of people sitting around singing kumbaya? Why is there a teacher where the lunch lady is supposed to be?

"Ah, here it is," says Principal Dickshnozle, now with a cartoony bump on his head. "As I previously told you, this is a free school. If people want to see classes in the cafeteria, they can very well do so. We at Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau Poly encourage freedom and creativity, creating a self-contained society where people can be free to be themselves, and hate those thieving assholes at Hill Valley Mountain Woods High! Fuck those assholes!"

Almost as if on cue, everyone in the cafeteria yell "Fuck Hill Valley Mountain Wods High!"

All this for a stolen fursuit? Kinda going overboard, don't you think?

"First, they stole my fursuit, then, they stole our LaCroix machine!" says the Principal, pointing at the set of vending machines at the other side of the cafeteria. One sells Oreos, just... Oreos, another one Avian Water, and another one Sushi. This place is way too bourgeois for my taste. It would also explain where the LaCroix machine comes from. Tasteless water for tasteless people. "What will they steal next? Our new mascot? Our fursonas? The statue of our founder, Sir Athanasius Finch, esquire?"

"Yeah, I don't care about any of that," I say. If this were a dating game, I would see two options floating in front of me, and one of them would definitely get me on a path with this Moby-looking weirdo. "Can we get a move on?"

Oh, I get a move on, against my will, that is. All of a sudden, up is down, down is up, the floor is the ceiling, and all my valuables are clanking against the ceiling/floor. My face quickly follows my things as they smash against the ceiling. I'm not an expert on sudden gravity shifts, but I am an expert on my leg, and I have to put a pretty penny on what just happened, I would say some huge cro-magnon just grabbed me by the ankle and shook me like a piñata for my precious candy, which in this case, by mere coincidence, are my pretty pennies, and quarters, and a few bucks, of which a hand that looks like a loaf of milkbread grabs from the floor and moves towards the oreo machine. To the surprise of nobody, it's Haiden.

"What in the butt-sniffing, Four Loko, bread shunning Californian fuck just happened?" I ask, still on the floor. Surprisingly clean, if I might add.

Principal Dillhole stares down at me with a sober expression. That, or it is a very unfavorable angle. "I told you, we live in a society. We give you a wide berth for you to develop your own hierarchy. And in this school, Haiden is on top. He's-"

"School royalty, yeah, yeah," I say, standing up.

"Oh, we don't support monarchy here. I would say school prime minister, like Canada."

"Canada is part of the Commonwealth, which is ruled by monarchy."

"Well, whatever the case, that's your problem," says the principal, extending his hand to pull me up, as if I don't have flawless abs to pull myself up.

"Let me get this straight," I say, "you saw a student bully another, and you won't do anything? Is there no detention in this school?"

"Well, we are libertarians here, so we believe in minimal state intervention," says Principal Dickhole. "We only give detention if there is huge personal harm or a violation of personal liberties."

"Like getting turned upside down and robbed blind?"

"Yes," he says, touching the tip of his fingers together like a manic spider while looking away all kawaii and shit, "but, just like real life, the rich and powerful get some special treatment. That kid is the only reason why our lights are still on. He's a football prodigy, and as long as he's here, the sponsors will keep us afloat. Today is the big game, and we need his pretty little bum in the field at 3 p.m for warm-ups."

Great, even here sports are corrupt. "Fine, wanna play the libertarian game? I'll play your game. Hey, Buttchug McGee!" I yell towards Haiden, finishing up an entire package of Oreos in one go. Did you know Oreos are both vegan and kosher? Wild. "You owe me $2.35. Pay up, or-"

"Or what," seems to say his fists as it connects to my face, which connects to the floor a second later in a perfect example of a Newtown's cradle. Honestly, I don't know what else I was expecting. It was just the cliche thing to do. Being a dumb protagonist bad boy sucks balls.

"Haiden no like puny greaser," says Haiden. "Haiden remember you Haiden beat shit at three."

"Now, now, Haiden," says the principal, who has been standing right there the whole time like a weirdo, "you need to be at the pre-game warm-up at three."

"Oh, okay," says Haiden. I have to point out he doesn't take any time to monologue, which means he is super smart, or with so few neurons that he can think in an enlightened, if stupid way. "Haiden beat shit at 2:99."

"59," I say. "Dumbass."

And that earns me a punt in the dick. Thanks, I hate it.

Although, it gives me an idea. For once, I think being a bad boy is gonna help me out in the end. If I manage to get detention today, I could be unavailable for Haiden to beat my shit up, me being in the safety of mediocre pre-war punishment.

That, and it will ensure me not running into Hayden once he comes for the game. I see no flaws in this plan whatsoever.