"Okayden McHuman, you magnificent son of a nice lady," says Lit. Col. Fuches, taking his glasses off with dramatic flair. "You come crawling back another year, eh? Once a maggot, always a maggot." 

Okayden's arm hairs stood on ends almost instantaneously, making that weird leathery noise you hear in old-timey horror movies where the werewolf is just some dude with the connective pubes of the cast superglue to his skin. You know the one. 

"Autumn leaves gently fall down;" he begins to say, or growl, mostly, for that voice comes from within the deepest reaches of his windpipe, "and so, the promise of change; and also, fuck off, perv."

Well, he's got quite a mouth there. Literally. Row upon rows of teeth, like a shark made out of kitchen knives, from ear to ear on a thin line. His mouth smelled like cabbage, oddly enough. 

"Okay...then," says Fuches as he puts his glasses back on, only to remove them again for dramatic effect. "Just because you earned the right to do whatever you want in my class doesn't mean you can do whatever you want in my class, maggot! What are you, Hayden? God, look at those glutes, as if made by Hephaestus himself. You can bounce a quarter off that butt."

Okayden takes one massive step forward, way past me, and grabs a ball from the ground. It looks like a pebble in his hand. 

"Do you even hear that; the nonsense spewing from your mouth; 

You bag of old dicks?

If a brother needs; I shall ever be there for him; short shorts suck, you dick."

Okay...then. This kid has something against shorts. I can respect his groove. I mostly don't want people to see my magnum dong being hot-dog in short shorts. I already convinced everyone I have a micropenis, and that would mean not having an excuse to bail out of everything. Hey, that's an idea!

"Hey, sir," I say, trying to defuse the situation. "I have a micropenis." 

"Omg!" I hear Laila from the bleachers. "See? I told you he told me that. But I don't care I still want him so soft so broken ugh."

"I told you he was the bottom to Hayden's top," replies Leeland. "But now, Okayden is trying to steal him by defending Ayden from Hayden! A love triangle. Ugh, I wanna have a love triangle. And of course, it has to be with Hayden's rival, the only one who has managed to win against him in dodgeball ugh."

The plot thickens, I suppose. I don't have enough energy to correct them. Let's just get this over wi-

"Yo, I didn't lose!" screams Hayden, taking everyone's attention. He walks over to where we are with lumbering steps, only slightly mitigated by the squeezing sounds of his shoes on the basketball court. "That oversized rat kept dodging my balls left and right. I couldn't pin him down, the sneaky bastard. But today, I'm gonna smash my big, meaty, coarse balls all over that face of yours." 

Oh, shit. Whatever Leeland said stuck a nerve with Hayden. He, being a natural-born bad-boy Jock was surely hit right in the pride. The jock, being one of the most common bad-boy archetypes, has many natural enemies. The artistic bad-boy, the new kid bad-boy, and the Christian-kid-who-changes-him-by-the-power-of-praying bad-boy kid, to name a few. 

But there is only one that can get under their skin like any other, and that's the nerdy bad-boy. The one that doesn't fit, the outcast, the renegade. They are natural enemies, like cats and dogs, or cats and mice, or cats and birds, or cats and being and wanting to get married. And a tall, hairy kid who only speaks in haikus must've put Hayden over the edge. Him, lose to a nerd? One cannot fight their nature that easily. 

Bad boys are cats, using sheer instinct and adorable features to be assholes that people think can be tamed, but, like, nah. You don't own a cat — a cat owns you. Same with bad boys. 

Okayden, in an act of escalation not seen since Nixon and Khrushchev's Kitchen Debate — look it up, it's hilarious — tosses the ball he is holding towards Hayden, who catches it flawlessly, but not before tumbling back for a second, eliciting scream of awe from the peanut gallery, and new ire in Hayden's eyes. 

Fuches, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be able to stop smiling at the two, who were moving fast towards each other. I seem to have accidentally stumbled upon the biggest beef in Hill Valley Mountain Woods High, literally, for I try in vain to step in between them, but their abs are too hard and I'm getting squeezed by them. 

"Harder, daddies!" I hear someone scream from the crowd. You can guess who said it. 

"That's it, back up, back up, maggots, and Hayden," says Fuches, using his height to tower over the two, separating them from the world's weirdest panini. "I know yer eager to duke it out in the blood-filled orgy of death and pleasure that is the battlefield, but let's set some things first."

He, yet again, takes off his glasses, using them to punctuate his words by tapping them against Okayden's chest. "If you're going back into the battlefield, you maggots need something to lose. If you win, y'all can do whatever you want in my class. Anything." 

"like," pipes Brayden, who I kinda forgot was there, "i can use my phone in class without having to wear a poncho to protect me from your saliva-ridden yells?" 

"Yes, maggot," he says. "Anything."

"And, like," says Billiam this time, "can I dye my hair white? I've always wanted to get a new look that screams 'Scooter!', you know? Maybe get a piercing? Just spitballing ideas."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," says Fuches. "Everything you want. But!" he punctuates with a smack to his butt, "if you lose, not only do y'all have to write a 1000 words essay about why shorts offer the tactical superiority over all other buttwear, but golden-boy Okayden here loses his privilege as well. Capiche, Hairry Truman?" 

Today's chapter is brought to you by the dead president's society. 

Okayden simply nods and walks backward, menacingly, almost as if floating, standing somewhere near the basket. 

"Okay...then," says Fuches, standing back. "You have one minute to strategize between each other, maggots. Then, blood shall flow from your veins, but not too much. We don't want to repeat the same mistake that we did with Richie Williams."

"Rest in peace," said everyone, almost in unison, before taking three seconds of silence. What the fuck. 

Before sprinting back, I lean towards Hayden. "Hey, bro, remember: go easy on me. Do me a solid there." 

However, there is no Hayden behind those eyes. The only thing I see is the single-minded focus of a jock with a wounded pride about to brute-force his way into delivering a victory for his team, by any means necessary, which will mean that the moral victory will be given to the other team after a valiant, if fruitless effort to carry the ball to the finish line. 

Meaning, I feel like I'm getting fucked.

I jog back to my side of the court, waving my hands toward me in a huddle, which the rest quickly do. "Alright, fuck-os, listen up. This is a 6 v 1, which means that we have the numerical advantage. He can run better than us, which means that he will most likely get to the ball first. Harry, Jungkook, you will be the first line of defense. Take the hit, try to catch the ball before it hits you. You are two huge walls of beef that can tank the hit." 

A single tear rolls down Jungkook's cheeks, but he nods in agreement. I think I hurt his feelings.  

"Billiam."

"Here reporting for duty, sir!" he says. 

"You and I are the offensive line. As soon as we start, we walk behind the two beefcakes and try to nab a few balls. For as good as he is, he can't dodge two balls at the same time."

"Alright! Scooter to the rescue!"

"Okayden," I say. "You are our plan b. Try to stay alive as much as possible. If we were to fall, your stamina is the only thing that will allow us to survive."

"On orchids blooming,
One must be swift as the wind,
And sexy like a snake."

"Okay, then. Brayden."

"whatup," he says, not looking up from his cellphone.

"You stay back and try not to mess us up."

"word," he says.

"That's the plan. Stick to it, and we might survive. Don't fuck it up on three. One, two-"

"Don't fuck it up," we say in unison, and in various levels of energy, from jittery nervousness to dead-ass not giving a shit, to sobbing like a kindergartner.

A whistle takes us from our inspirational moment, which, in hindsight, didn't have any big inspirational moments. Six balls were in the middle of the court, all in a line, as well as Hayden, already in a starting position. 

"Alright maggots, are you ready?" Fuches say. 

"Aye, aye!" I scream. 

"Hayden, my boy, my Adonis on Earth. Are you ready?" 

"Hoo-haa!" he screams, far more convincing than us. 

"Stick to the plan, stick to the plan!" I manage to yell just in time for the starting whistle to ring the start, as starting whistles tend to do. 

And you know, for a moment, I thought my plan could work. We have the numerical and tactical advantage, the previous winner on our side, and a solid plan overall. If this is a battlefield, Hayden is a lone wolf, with a unit already blown to smithereens, about to have a last stand. He can take one or two, yes, but his days are numbered. What can one soldier do against a whole battalion? 

That moment lasts a whole two seconds, for I hear something whiz past me, followed by a hollow, yet distinctive thunk, followed by both the sound of something soft and dumb screeching against the basketball court to the surprising sounds of a whole audience that has seen something horrible. Somehow, a splitting sound is also mixed in there, somewhere.

See, in my hubris, I failed to calculate Hayden's athletic prowess. So far, I've only seen him cook, and slam me in the face with his balls. I didn't think he could make the distance from start to ball in less than two seconds, grab the ball, and toss it with the finesse and strength of a trebuchet. 

The sound whizzing by? The ball. The thunk? It hitting Billiam straight in the face. The screeching? Billiam's head and entire body being dragged by the ball, now lodged inside his head, until it hit the basket pole. And what about the splatting sound, you ask? 

Hayden hit him so hard that it separated the melanin from his hair, now a brown paste across the court. He literally balled the color out of his hair, giving him wispy white hair. 

"Whoops," says Hayden with the smile of a sadistic bully. "Seems like I saved you the trip to the hair salon."

The silence is more pregnant than ever. Like, three whole seconds of pure, unadulterated stillness and awe. 

"oh, hell naw," says Brayden. "i ain't getting my face balled for no cellphone. this is my smelling nose, i need it to smell!" 

And with that, he walks out of the court. We, are, fucked. This isn't a battalion fighting one man. This is a bunch of civil war reenactors fighting a fucking tank. 

Not a second passes by that another ball whizzes by, this thins hitting Jungkook in the side of his ball, meatball of a head, which bounces off and hits Harry in his own meatloaf head. This continues three more times until both run away, perfectly in sync next to the other, thus perpetuating their ball curse. 

I sense a ball coming my way, but I dodge it just in time, hitting the floor just where I'm standing. Seems that one didn't come with as malicious intent as the last one. But then, another comes, and I, again, dodge it just in time. And another. And another. 

"That's right, dance for me, monkey!" says Hayden, juggling three balls with his left hand and priming another one with his right. "Dance!" 

He continues to barrage me like a gunslinger in a canteen, making me dance the macarena, the shuffle, and even the nae-nae. He's gone full Jock. 

My luck, however, is not eternal. I take a wrong turn while recreating Jojo's torture dance, and I fall to the ground. I can already see a ball moving towards me, as if in stop motion. So this is how an anime protagonist feels before being hit by the bad guy's last move. Fitting, for my end is near. 

I close my eyes, I hear the thunk, but don't feel the pain. 

I open my eyes to see Okayden standing in front of me, arms open, having just received the ball meant for me. The ball bounces down, as so does he, kneeling, like the hero he is. 

As he leans back to be in the sweet bye-and-bye, I catch him. He is so tall, yet so frail. Like a baby being cradled for the first and last time. 

"Idiot!" I say, grabbing his hairy paw. "That ball was for me! It had my name on it. It was my time to go, dammit. My time! Why did you go and sacrifice everything for me?"

Okayden doesn't say anything. He simply reaches out, opening his wallet, and retrieving a simple white card. It read: Okayden McHuman, Registered Libertarian. And with that, he goes limp. 

War is hell. War is a fucking hell. Okayden took a ball for his beliefs, his libertarian beliefs, that any person is the master of their fate, and the captain of their ship. To the last second, he believed. You, Okayden, are the true hero. But you defeat won't be in vain. For as long as I live, I will fight for you. And for Billiam, and Henry, Jungkook, and even that little bitch Brayden. For everyone who believes that we are entitled to the sweat of our brow. For everyone who believes that we are responsible for us, and not the collective. For you, Okayden, I will fight-

Why is everything dark all of a sudden? And why does my head hurt like hell? Maybe if I open my eyes, I can see what is happening. But all I can see is the ceiling. And Hayden, looking down at me. 

Oh, I know what happened. 

"Lemme guess," I say, standing back to a resounding headache, "I was monologuing, and you hit me in the head."

"Yeah," says Hayden.

"We lost, didn't we?" 

"Yeah," says Hayden, again.

"You suck."

"Yeah," admitted Hayden. "Sorry about that, brother."

I think I'm concussed. One hit is all I needed to black out. And here I go back again. 

As I lean back, ready to be taken by the darkness, I see from the corner of my eye Okayden taking off his trenchcoat, only to reveal a furry coat beneath him. 

Only, it's not a coat. He is just incredibly hairy, and surprisingly ripped, too. He has a six pack...no. He has a ten pack. Is that even possible? 

Whatever it is, I'll think about it later. Concussion time.