Plastic Hooking

By Will Gardner

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. That’s what they say, anyway. Who are they? I don’t know, but apparently they weren’t very big on good intentions. Whatever their case may have been, we’ve all entered into various courses of action with tremendous intentions only to find the end result far removed from what was initially desired.
Maybe it was a stimulating conversation about politics which somehow devolved into a debate over botched boob jobs. It could have been a road trip in the pre-GPS days which resulted in you being placed smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. Regardless of the scenario, you were left wondering just how in the heck you wound up here instead of there. You simply, somehow, got lost along the way.
If you do decide to hear out this story, Derek Mobley would like all of you to know that he entered into every obstacle with the very best of intentions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Gardner
• Release date: Jan 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503302747

Will Gardner

About A Guy Named Will Yea, so my name is Will Gardner. It's the name I was given at birth. Standard naming procedure, from what I've been told. People in Arkansas pronounce it 'wheel' which is somewhat endearing, I guess...really depends on who's saying it. I began writing at the tender age of 16 in various online competitions. I'm not one to brag or anything, but I was highly successful...like, really, really successful...I mean, we're talking ground breaking levels of success here. In all seriousness, it was a fun, productive way to spend my time and flesh out a talent I had been gifted. Moving on to college, I majored in Creative Writing and wrote for the Texas Tech newspaper. While writing for the politically divisive publication, I penned such controversial articles as "Gay Marriage is a Matter of Evolution" and "You Think White Men Can't Jump, Watch the WNBA." Those may not have been the EXACT titles, but you get the picture. After college, I became the creative head for Gardner Realty. Let me tell you, I can write the heck out of a two story, four bedroom home nestled on five acres. My first book, Plastic Hooking, is based on characters and an idea I developed several years ago. It's a (mostly) comedy fiction novel with just enough action, suspense and violence sprinkled in to keep situations from getting too wacky. It's the first in a three part series. A series I hope to have finished by the year 2067. I am a writer, after all. As my career goes on, I hope to expand this About Me section but, for now, that about sums it up. Thanks for reading! Will Gardner

Book preview

PLASTIC HOOKING

Will Gardner

Copyright (c) 2014 by Will Gardner

[e-mail]

With Contributions from Jason Myers

All rights reserved under International Law.

ISBN-13 978-1503302747

ISBN-10 1503302741

Cover Designed by Scarlett Rugers

booksat.scarlettrugers.com

What Others Are Saying About Plastic Hooking

Happy Endings only happen in Fairy Tales. Fairy Tales are for Children, Plastic Hooking is not for Children.

– Jock Reasoning, co-founder of Mediocre Excellence

Don’t be fooled by the inflatable whore-doll that adorns the cover of this book—the words inside are much, much worse. Will’s easygoing, down-to-earth personality illuminates his writing from within, lending a delightfully weird authenticity to even the most unapologetically ridiculous plot points. Reading Will Gardner is like cracking open a couple of beers and swapping zany stories with a good pal you haven’t seen in a decade. This cozy, benevolent tone makes it all the more unsettling when the sensational violence and unconventional boning inevitably commence.

- Keith Blackwater, author of Hardcase McDougal and the Huge Fucking Mystery

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 ~ Dylan Scott

Chapter 2 ~ Derek Mobley

Chapter 3 ~ Warrick Hill

Chapter 4 ~ Eugene

Chapter 5 ~ (The) Dean

Chapter 6 ~ Satchell Johnson

Chapter 7 ~ Plastic Hooking

Chapter 8 ~ Collision Course

Chapter 9 ~ Emma

Introduction

New Years Eve

Monday, December 31st 2012

Have you ever noticed people tend to gauge their level of achievements based on years? Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly not mocking the way in which a person reflects on their ability, or lack thereof, to attain individual goals. In fact, in a life filled with common practices of the nonsensical sort, this particular behavior actually makes a bit of sense to me.

What did you do last year? How’s the current year been treating you? One might even reminisce by claiming, That was a good year. Those are just a few examples of how individuals go about breaking down the entirety of a life span into manageable increments. In my adolescence I developed the opinion that a year was akin to an eternity. It was only as I grew older that I began to realize entire years could be squandered with relative ease.

I’m not too proud to sit here and admit that an entire stroll through the yearly calendar has taken place on more than one occasion with literally nothing in my life advancing. From the second the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve until that oh-so familiar countdown ensued 365 days later, my social status, relationship situation and outlook towards the future had failed to budge an inch. It became very apparent to me that entire years could be lost to the common pitfall known as complacency.

As the clock wound down to zero with the New Year’s ball ready to drop, I convinced myself never again. Never again would I succumb to complacency. Never again would I look back on a year’s worth of time and say nothing life altering took place. After all, a year is too precious a thing to waste. That night would be the final night of my life when I would look back and say, What little can happen in a year. I was determined to seek out the necessary change my life sorely needed. What I didn’t expect, was for change to find me.

My name is Derek Mobley. I don’t come from a famous family, I have no special talents. My parents are about as middle of the road as the phrase intends. While being far from deprived, it’s safe to say my childhood gifts were more along the line of needs than wants. Not much of a socialite, I was never popular in school. Nor was I some sort of outcast subject to bullying or ridicule. My existence amongst my peers mirrored the entirety of my life, just kind of there.

At an early age I was introduced to the game of football. The introduction was an organic one. My father was never the sort to force the issue when it came to my interest in sports or any other stereotypical boyhood activities. Becoming entangled in the web of sports was my choice and mine alone. A choice made for the sole purpose of creating a bond with my father by finding sufficient time to spend with him when neither of us had other obligations standing in the way.

Like most sons who came from a loving household, I looked up to my father. I found myself intrigued by his passion for the game and soon joined in with the hopes of understanding what it was that captivated his interest. It didn’t take long before I was hooked. The passion, atmosphere, competitive nature and, most importantly, experiencing it all with my father was a tremendous experience as a child. Those several hours during the weekend became our time, free from any outside interference. It was a time I looked forward to all week long.

The thought of actually competing in sports was completely foreign to me. The totality of my childhood was spent with an extremely protective mother hovering over my daily activities. Probably due to the fact that prior to the latter half of my seventeenth year I was short, pudgy and awkward. The idea of me in physical competition was downright frightening.

That was, until one night when a sharp pain burned through my legs. Being a healthy seventeen year old, jaw clinching pain out of nowhere was something I was far from accustomed to. It struck during the middle of the night in frightening fashion. A pain which jolted me from a dream I can no longer recall.

Fearing for my health, my immediate instinct was to hop out of bed and run for my parent’s room. I lay there, however, scared my legs would give out the moment I attempted to use them to stand. Afraid that by some freak occurrence I had suddenly been paralyzed. The discomfort became too much. I decided I would crawl to their bedroom if necessary. Slowly, I rolled out of bed and to my immediate relief found that my legs remained operational, albeit in a painful manner.

We took a trip to the ER that night, against my father’s wishes. As I said, my mother was quite overprotective, she was not about to let such a situation go unattended. I recall sitting on that chilly leather seat which folds back into a makeshift bed. The doctor had asked me to get comfortable while awaiting the results of my tests. As if that was seriously an option.

After a period of time which felt longer than that entire pathetic year of my life, the doctor returned with the life altering diagnosis: Growing Pains. Yep, little Derek Mobley had finally hit his growth spurt.

I wound up growing nearly a foot over the next few months. While not completely unheard of, it was certainly a rare instance of physical maturation procrastination. Several people at school took notice, including the football coaches. In their eyes a six foot, five inch student had suddenly appeared on their campus out of thin air. They simply wouldn’t have been doing their jobs if they didn’t try convincing me to come out and play in the fall. Being a fan of the sport, the choice on my end was an easy one.

I gave it a go and had, I guess what you would call, a typical Derek Mobley season. Our football team won as many games as it lost with my stats falling right in the midst of my peers. The words raw and potential were often used, not just by my coaches, but by scouts who attended our games in search of the next great college football prospect. I never gave it much thought outside of a flattering verbal accolade. Much like when an elderly woman looks her granddaughter in the eye while stroking her hair, claiming she could be a model. It just seemed like one of those things people said in an effort to be nice.

That lackadaisical attitude quickly dissolved when the school I grew up watching invited me down for an athletic visit. It was an opportunity to meet the coaches, view the campus and, if all went well, receive a scholarship to attend and play for their esteemed university.

With my high school years nearly exhausted, I had given little thought towards my future. My grades were in solid shape and I was scheduled to take all the tests required to attend the next level of education. Outside of that, I was severely behind my colleagues in regards to the admissions process.

I had finally received my first real opportunity at piecing together a future and, more importantly, living life. Midway through my senior year, on the heels of an incredible growth spurt, I stood, watching the calendar about to start over. Determined to prevent another year from slipping through my fingers, I decided to take hold of what I could control. No longer would I sit back and wait for life to hand me something. Fate had done its job. It had not-so-subtly laid out a path for me to follow, displaying a detour from the dead end I was rapidly approaching. It was up to me to take it.

I had come to the inevitable conclusion that change, real change, would have to start with me.

~~~

Elementary School

Monday, February 10th 2014

A person never fully realizes the ripple effect which may emanate from a certain course of action they take. Tossing a simple rock into a quiet pond creates a disturbance that resonates across the entire surface. Sure, from the top it may seem like no big deal, but what’s going on underneath? Does the rock land on top of a creature, agitating it from a peaceful slumber? Do the ripples inadvertently scare off a food source from a starving predator, forcing it to look elsewhere which could escalate into an unnecessary incident with a fellow rival?

It all boils down to the consequences of our actions. Whatever choice we make has to be made with the knowledge that others are going to be impacted aside from ourselves. Including individuals we may never meet.

Take for instance a substitute teacher called into work half an hour before school was set to commence. She was a simple, middle aged, married woman working a side job to help fund her hobbies. Not once in her life had she ever broken a law nor had she ever found herself placed in a questionable situation. The epitome of a model citizen, she worked every day of her life to be the most responsible person she could be.

Yet, due to the actions of another, her seemingly mundane day of substitute teaching had taken a sudden turn into an unexpected realm completely beyond her element. Bound to a bright seat, she sat anxiously, fearing what the end result of her impromptu imprisonment might render. She had no idea why she was bound. Racking her brain, she attempted to unearth some forgotten memory which might lead to a logical explanation as to why she was in her current predicament. However, as previously stated, she was a model citizen, there was no logical explanation aside from the horrific, yet true adage of ‘wrong place, wrong time’.

With each leg duct taped to the corresponding metallic limb, she looked down at her wrists which were joined by rope, secured tightly underneath her right knee. The rope was coarse and dug into the soft skin of her lower thigh. It was an area of her body which saw little attention aside from her loving husband. As physically painful as her situation was, it could not rival the sadness she felt with the very real thought of never seeing him again.

Motivation has always been key to going above and beyond what a person deems themselves capable. Feeling the eternal flame which represented the love she had for her spouse, the substitute ignored the physical discomfort and wiggled her body in an attempt to escape. Her position was located in the middle of what appeared to be a standard communal break room, a bold location to bind a victim. Hanging in the far corner of the room sat an old television broadcasting the local news. After a quick weather update, the weather man tossed the show over to a female newscaster for some late breaking news.

Two college students are wanted for the murder of an unidentified local businessman. The screen shifted to a split shot of two photos featuring the young men in question.

One of the young men projected a very well kept appearance. He was the kind of guy everyone, men and women alike, deemed harmless. While it seems almost impossible not to judge a person based on their appearance, with this guy you felt no preconceived notions just by looking at his image. He was your standard, average, ordinary fellow looking to make his way through life without anyone causing unnecessary interference. It was obvious by the pieces of his appearance he could control he was extremely well versed on how to present himself. From his hair, to his teeth, all the way down to how the collar of his shirt was positioned, nothing had gone unattended as everything sat in its proper place.

The other young man sported long, dirty blonde hair and a classic chiseled face with handsome features covered in facial scruff. His expression formed a cocky half-smile which threw off a haughty impression. He was a jerk. Life came easy to this slacker. Anyone with a solid pair of eyes could tell by one quick glance of his photo that he hadn’t showered, shaved or bothered to comb his hair. Yet, he still had that irresistible image his clean cut counterpart could work years to achieve yet fail to emulate. Everything the guy had was given to him at birth. Nothing in his life had ever been earned through hard work, dedication or commitment.

The name Derek Mobley flashed underneath the clean cut photo while Warrick Hill was displayed beneath the other.

If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of these two suspects, please contact your local authorities. Do not, we repeat, do not approach them, as they are considered to be armed and highly dangerous, the newscaster announced while shuffling a couple of papers before switching positions in her chair.

The broadcast cut to another camera angle, maintaining its focus on the female lead. In an unrelated story, university officials have reported that varsity football player Dylan Scott is wanted for the abduction of female student, Emma Hatcher. These two were last seen driving away from Miss Hatcher’s residence in a mid-90s blue van, the reporter paused, allowing a photo of Dylan Scott to emerge.

An extremely tanned Caucasian, Scott’s eyes appeared very wide in his photo with a slightly off-putting facial expression. He had an extremely thick neck to go along with a neatly shaved head. Scott portrayed the expression of a person who always held a physical advantage over his peers and used it as a means to get what he wanted. He picked up football to maintain the genetic superiority he enjoyed, refusing to let go of the intimidation factor that had advanced him thus far in his social life. Plainly put, he was a bully, a bully with a purpose for revenge. Why he craved that revenge wasn’t clear at the moment but it no doubt stemmed from someone finally calling his bluff.

His photo faded into one of Emma Hatcher, a beautiful young woman of mixed heritage. Her skin was golden brown; her hair was dark with a silky smooth texture. Her features were exquisite, piercing blue eyes to contrast against her dark hair and sandy skin. Her hair, clothing and overall look conveyed that she was born from a privileged house hold. You could almost sense a hint of air about her, driving you to the assumption she was stuck up. That sense was completely abolished once your eyes were greeted with that heart melting smile she possessed. She was daddy’s little girl and knew how to get exactly what she desired.

The images instilled fear in the bound substitute as she began to struggle wildly, doing whatever she could to try and loosen one of her limbs. Something within the broadcast had set off a sense of urgency in her mind, altering her entire demeanor.

A toilet flushing behind a closed door drowned out the television, causing her to pause with terror. She stared at the door, dreading what was about to emerge from the other end. Slowly, it opened underneath the television with Dylan Scott appearing from behind it. Drying his hands with a paper towel, he noticed the woman’s eyes darting back and forth from him to the television screen. He stepped out from under the TV and turned around to view the broadcast, catching a split screen of his and Emma’s photos. Why does my picture look like a mug shot whereas hers looks like a damn glamour photo? he angrily tossed the paper towel aside. This better be freakin worth it.

Dylan walked up to the bound substitute and leaned over placing himself at eye level with his captive. She turned her face to the side, hoping to create as much space between the two as possible. Dylan smiled at her uneasiness and raised his hand to her cheek causing the teacher to rapidly jerk her head from side- to-side attempting to avoid any and all contact. Scott’s hand found itself inches from her hot skin as she finally settled on a position and held still. He kept his hand close so she could feel the tension in his palm radiating down onto her soft face. The fresh smell of hand soap filled her nostrils. Her heart pounded through her chest, never in her life had she ever encountered anything close to what she was currently experiencing. True fear gripped her on the inside, knowing that at any split second everything she had built, all her hopes, dreams and memories could be washed away without her having any say in the matter.

Scott slowly moved his hand down, inches from her chin to her neck and chest. The substitute squealed underneath the tape covering her mouth, having not expected such a frightful outcome. It didn’t make any sense to her. Why would he pursue a forced sexual encounter with a middle aged teacher when he already had a gorgeous college co-ed in his grasp?

That is, if she was still alive. That frightening revelation freaked her out with all kinds of doomsday scenarios filling her overactive, creative mind.

To her relief, he bypassed her chest and moved his hand down to her waist where a set of keys were clipped around a belt loop. Scott ripped them from the loop, tearing the material in half. At first she hadn’t realized what happened, simply feeling a pull on her hip to go along with the sound of fabric severing.

Scott stood upright and dangled the keys in front of his face, flipping through each one. The substitute returned her head forward. Fear shot up her spine when she suddenly realized what he was after. Scott settled on a key with a label that read ‘3rd Grade Class room’.

He smiled and winked at the substitute, I love teachers, always so organized and predictable. He patted her on the head and moved to exit the break room, leaving the bound woman behind.

Suddenly, her life was of no concern as the children she had been placed in charge of were in true, mortal danger. Feelings of remorse consumed her. The potential end of her life seemed so miniscule in comparison to the recent development. Desperately, she knew she had to stop him before things went to a place they never should. She attempted to scream for help, but the tape around her mouth rendered her pleas to an unintelligible muffle. Tears began streaming down her face. She was utterly helpless with unfathomable chaos about to reign down a few doors away.

~~~

National Signing Day

Wednesday, February 5th 2014

The thing about dedicating yourself to change is that you open up to all kinds of change. Good change as well as bad. I assumed with hard work that the change I sought would be nothing but beneficial towards my ultimate goal.

Wow, was I mistaken.

They call these things life lessons, from what I’m told. A night in jail, a harmless car wreck…heck, maybe even a surprise pregnancy. I would’ve taken any of those as opposed to the situation I unknowingly marched right into.

The problems I faced a little over a year after my dedication to change more or less focused on me crouched behind a Porsche, shielded from several gunmen while I held a severed arm.

Man, a lot can happen in a year.

Chapter 1 ~ Dylan Scott

Elementary School

Monday, February 10th 2014

I remember when I used to frequent the hallways of elementary school. Stuck all day in the same classroom, time inched by while some monotonous instructor bored me to death going over each and every mandatory subject. Thankfully those horrific learning experiences were nothing more than fading memories. Long gone were my days of elementary education. On that particular day far removed from childhood, I was about to teach someone else a lesson.

Third grade was an interesting year. My first kiss took place in third grade, at least that’s the story I told often enough that it became fact. I remember my third grade teacher being such a bitch. She always looked at me as though I was a mentally challenged being. Come to think of it, that happened a lot, actually. Even as recent as last week I had to deal with ‘the look’ from my English professor. You know, that look where your ability to tie a pair of laces together, let alone differentiate between a verb and an adjective, is called into question.

Teachers are nothing more than mile markers in the marathon of life. Stationary objects that sit back and watch helplessly while each participant passes them by. In fifteen years I would be rich, working for the most powerful family in Florida whereas every teacher I had ever known would remain right where they belonged. If ever posed with the question as to who my favorite teacher was, the answer would simply be my last.

Each of the doors lining the hallway had some kind of crudely drawn mural on them. I assumed the wretched renderings came from the minds and hands of the students attending the equally sorry excuse for a school. At least I hoped because if anyone actually paid for those, they’d be well within their rights to sue for damages.

Despite their unpleasing nature, they were proving to be extremely helpful in my efforts. Each mural identified the classification of the kids inside via large, block lettering. First grade, second grade and, yep, I could count to three, third grade, just the class I was looking for.

I didn’t have any sort of lingering connection with third graders, there was no pre-existing grudge I held from a memory which took place at the age of nine. Simply put, their teacher was the first one to leave her class unattended, affording me the opportunity I so desperately sought.

Looking inside, through the small, squared window I could see why she felt the need for a break. Some educational video was airing on an old television set atop a rolling metal platform. I’m not even sure the device beneath the television was a DVD player. For the life of me, it looked like a fucking VCR machine. I hadn’t seen one of those since, well, hell, let’s say my first kiss. Hmm, I think I’ll toss that VCR reference into my first kiss story. Small details such as those make a fabricated tale all the more realistic.

There they were…little brats. You could already predict the future success stories apart from the impending failures. It was as simple as who sat in front and who hung out in the back. The kids out in front were watching the amateurish video with the utmost intensity whilst the ones in the rear passed notes back and forth, snickering at whatever juvenile humor had been scribbled within.

As a drunken man once told me, it was time to fuck up their Christmas.

I burst into the classroom, catching the kids off guard. For emphasis, I slammed the door behind me and turned the lock as tight as the device would allow. Brightness filled the room as I flipped on the lights, sending all the tiny humans into compulsive blinking fits. Turning my attention to the VCR, I realized just how archaic that piece of machinery really was. I couldn’t quite figure out how to turn it off so I leaned toward the one method I knew to never fail. I bashed it in with my fist. The TV screen flipped to snow seconds before I shoved it off the stand and watched it crash and shatter onto the tiled floor.

Finally, silence, I had their attention. The kids were scared stiff, which came as no surprise given what had taken place in a mere matter of seconds. My ultimate goal was to create a ruckus and make headlines with my little visit, but first I desired a snack for the road.

Hey there, kids, I forced a smile, hoping it didn’t come across as psychotic as it felt on my face. Your teacher is a little tied up at the moment, so I’ll be filling in until she can return.

The kids looked to one another, feeling the unnatural vibe I was no doubt exuding. I wasn’t going to underestimate the little beings in front of me. I realized kids weren’t as stupid as they looked. I had to appeal to their leader if I wanted to gain any good will from the group. Each class had a ring leader, it was a form of natural selection; I just had to locate who the hell it was.

There he sat, a short kid with blonde hair leaning against the wall, the only member of the class seemingly at ease with the current situation. He was surrounded by several of the cuter girls in his grade. Every kid took notice where my eyes had shifted which led to a girl whispering into his ear. I’m not sure what she said, but it was enough to get him out of his chair, ready to address me.

No you’re not, he responded. The kid had guts.

Look, I know it’s standard procedure to give the substitute a little grief, but please sit down so we can continue. I didn’t want things getting out of control, yet.

He refused to sit down, instead choosing to further his challenge against my verbalized credentials. First of all, you’re too young to be a teacher. Second, we saw you on the news last night. You kidnapped that girl.

I was blown away. You mean to tell me kids watched the news? What happened to cartoons or sports or video games? Weren’t we in the social media age? Didn’t these kids have some forty year old pedophile stalking them online they should have been spending their evenings chatting up? What the hell kind of parents let their kids watch the news anyway?

I’m getting the principal, the blonde kid announced, turning towards the door. Rushing over, I stood in his way and gently placed my hand on his chest, applying a mild form of intimidation.

Okay, fine, I sighed. You’re right, I was on the news. My name is Dylan Scott. I figured I’d give honesty a shot. A few of the kids gasped, having missed the nightly news from the previous evening. They must have been the normal ones.

Take a seat, I instructed the blonde kid. He stared me directly in the face, not wishing to give in to my demands. The kid had some serious swagger. Take a seat, I said as sternly as I felt necessary when facing a stare down with a nine year old. He reluctantly backed away and headed over to his chosen desk.

Now kids, I know you must be a little nervous and I understand that. So, listen to me carefully, I’m not here to hurt anyone. All I want from you is your lunch money. That’s it. Give me whatever cash you’ve got and I’ll be on my way. Simple enough, I promised Emma a meal, meals required money and seeing as I was a broke college student fleeing from the police on half a tank of gas, it was the best idea I could come up with.

Some random kid yelled out in response, But we don’t have any money, we are only nine! Why are kids so into yelling?

What I had hoped would be an untapped oasis of funds was merely another dead end, stupid kids. A chubby one in the back not-so-slyly reached underneath his seat and clutched a lunch box. He was protecting his food.

Okay, fine, give me your lunches then. I decided to call an audible, thinking my little endeavor might work out better than anticipated. I assumed the room to be a gold mine of nutritional value, aside from the chubby kid’s box.

All of the kids, in unison, grasped at the various lunch containers situated underneath their desks. I had forgotten how much kids dug their lunch. The little jerks weren’t moving an inch. I realized I was capable of physically removing each and every lunch from their tiny hands, yet something about that didn’t sit right with me. Sure, I might have been down to do some deplorable shit, but beating up a classroom full of kids? I wasn’t sure I could stomach that.

Look, you guys think you know who I am because you saw me on the news, I paused, not wanting to move too fast for my audience. Let’s say you’re correct. Let’s say that I am a ruthless kidnapper, I paused a second time noticing the timidity amongst the collection of kids rising. Now, if that’s true, do you really think it’s smart to deny me? There, that should instill the necessary fear required for me to get what I desired.

Tell us what happened. Every head in the class moved in the direction the verbal command emanated. It was that fucking blonde kid again. I want to know what happened. There was something about that kid. He was different from the others. It wasn’t just the fact he was their leader, there was more. There was something in him, a sinister potential.

I leaned up against the teacher’s desk, crossing my arms. I had some time to spare. It wasn’t like anyone had caught on to what was taking place within those walls. Plus, it did present the opportunity to avoid a physical pilfering. Ah, what the hell.

Okay, fine, I will tell you what really happened. The blonde kid smiled as the rest of the class adjusted themselves, preparing for story time. But first, I want one lunch, I held up my index finger. I hate telling stories on an empty stomach.

The entire class turned their attention to the presumed loser of the group. Long, shaggy hair, completely untamed, clothes way out of fashion and a bag of tissues situated at the top left corner of his desk. Why are nerds always sick?

In typical loser fashion, he succumbed to the peer pressure of a thousand angry stares by standing up, lunch in hand, and making his way towards me. He reached the front of the class and extended his trembling appendage. At the end of it resided a torn, paper sack.

I slapped it away, The hell is this? The trembling child lowered his head in shame. Get that out of my sight and tell your father to find a real job!

But I don’t have a father, his voice shook the words from his lips with the hint of shame only a bastard would know. I almost proceeded to ask for his mother’s digits, figuring a single mom wouldn’t be too difficult to rob. I then recalled that nine year olds rarely memorized simplistic mathematic equations, let alone a sequence of ten numbers. No worries, if my little coup proved itself less than satisfactory, I’d just stalk the kid after school. I’m sure, despite the kid’s pathetic appearance, his mother had something of value in whatever trash bin they called a home.

The kid’s hair suddenly shifted ever so slightly, alerting me toward the windows to see if one might have been opened. They all appeared to be tightly secured. What the hell was wrong with that kid’s hair? I witnessed what looked like a bug hopping around the matted rug atop his head. Ugh, he was truly disgusting.

Tired of dealing with the waste of space in front of me, I gave him an aggressive shove. Gross, kid…get out of my face. He bent down to pick up his pathetic sack lunch. I stuck my gigantic foot out, stepping on the paper bag. The kid slowly looked up at me, teary eyed and confused. I don’t think so, kid, I informed him. He slowly pulled his twig like arm away from my newly acquired snack.

In what must have been a daily occurrence, the kid gave up and sulked back to his desk. I snatched the paper sack and tore it down the middle. Inside was a small bag of knock off potato chips with the brand spelled out in a language I couldn’t understand, one celery stick and a sandwich.

I held the contents up where everyone could see. Seriously? No freakin juice? Who ate lunch without juice in third grade? Was that kid’s mother determined to raise a future sociopath?

We can’t…

I cut the poor bastard off, Whatever, this will do for now. I had made my point. Besides, there was a perfectly functional water fountain right outside the classroom if the chips wound up tasting as dry as they looked.

I propped myself up onto the sturdy, wooden desk. I wouldn’t be there long; there was no need for any kind of back rest. The story wasn’t one worth wasting a whole lot of breath on. All the kids needed to know by the end of my version was that Derek Mobley was and remains a colossal dickhead.

Biting into the stale celery stick, brown at both ends, I realized the kids had no idea of Derek Mobley’s existence. That posed a very convenient scenario. Maybe I could get away by starting near the end to decrease the mental anguish and fatigue of languishing through the entire tale. Yea, that’s what I was going to do.

Instinctively, I went for another bite of celery, the brown discoloration caused me to hesitate. There was no need in finishing off a glorified twig, so I tossed the rest of that sorry excuse for a vegetable into the trash. What kind of mother couldn’t prepare a celery stick properly? Geezus…

Ripping open the foreign bag of chips, I began the ending of my account chronicling the lecherous Derek Mobley.

~~~

National Signing Day

Wednesday, February 5th 2014

The story of Derek Mobley all began in the middle of a shoot out taking place in a garage owned by Dean. You see, Derek Mobley had screwed Dean over and was now asked to take his punishment like a man. So, in typical Derek Mobley fashion, he decided to buck authority and endanger the lives of several people in an effort to evade facing the consequences of his selfish actions. Oh yea, his even dumber friend, Warrick Hill, was there too. Man I really hate that guy.

Anyway, there Derek and Warrick were, crouched behind Dean’s prized, remodeled vintage Porsche which was littered with bullet holes. Shots were fired, tragically missing the duos skulls, millimeters away from striking a certain fatal blow. Warrick held a gun of his own, a scene as comfortable as a straight man in drag. Derek, meanwhile, possessed a giant severed arm in his grasp. What he intended to do with that severed arm was beyond any rational logic. Rest assured, though, that the arm most likely came from some innocent bystander who was probably about to cure cancer or something before Derek savagely ripped it off only to claim it as some sort of sick trophy.

Anyway, I digress…there the dumbass duo sat crouched behind a car, attempting to avoid death. Warrick, clearly high, glanced over at Derek and asked, stupidly….

~~~

Elementary School

Monday, February 10th 2014

Hey, wait a minute! A child’s voice screamed out, breaking my fucking concentration. It was that pain in the ass blonde kid again.

Do you want to hear the story or not? I shouted back angrily, failing to understand how people have children on purpose.

We do, but from the start, the blonde kid returned. Who is Dean? Who is Warrick? Start from the beginning!! The classroom grew restless. They were making way too much noise for my comfort. I needed to do something to settle them down, fast.

Alright, fine! Have it your way, I will start from the beginning. My willingness to cave sent the kids into cheers of jubilation. Outsmarted by a bunch of nine year olds, blame it on hunger and expired produce. I continued with my version of the true events, The true story of Derek Mobley began nearly a year ago…

~~~

End of Official Campus Athletic Visit

Sunday, February 3rd 2013

The biggest night of his life had come and gone, a moment he had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times. The football program of his dreams had offered him an expenses paid visit with the opportunity to earn an athletic scholarship at its conclusion. In a sense, it was the job opportunity of a lifetime. If you knew anything about Derek Mobley, it’s that he always came prepared, or so he wanted us all to believe.

Now, if that were true, why was he passed out on an apartment floor the morning after his final night on campus?

Sprawled out on the floor of some arbitrary apartment, his eyes began to flicker. He tilted his pounding head to the side, attempting to piece the hazy puzzle of the previous evening together. Alcohol bottles littered the eternally stained carpet along with a multitude of half naked, young, hard bodies of the male and female variety. There may have even been a couple of animals strewn about. The details as delivered to me are a bit muddled, but knowing Derek Mobley, I wouldn’t be surprised.

In typical Mobley fashion, he reached his feet and stole a nearby t-shirt which smelled of whiskey and bodily fluids before promptly exiting the apartment like the true weasel he is. He sprinted through the parking lot and reached his Mighty Honda Civic.

The ‘Mighty’ Civic, ha! What a piece. We’re talking about a 1980’s white, hatch back Honda Civic featuring more rust than a prison shank. Hell, I’m not even sure the bumper was a hundred percent secure…endangering people’s lives on the road, typical Derek Mobley.

He used his electronic device to disarm the security system which was probably twice as expensive as the entire automobile before opening the driver’s side door. The door let out a screech which left no ear drum unscathed within a ten block radius. While piling into his crime against cars, an apartment resident passing by couldn’t help but comment, I didn’t know a piece of shit like that came with an electronic alarm.

Derek responded by removing a locking device from the steering wheel, full of arrogance. I had it installed, he replied, tossing the locking device into the backseat and concealing his deceitful eyes with a pair of cheap shades.

But wouldn’t that cost more than the entire car? What a waste, the resident rationalized. Ignoring the perfectly normal citizen, Derek fired up the overly loud engine and peeled out of the parking lot, hurling dust and rocks into the resident’s face, possibly ruining a very nice outfit in the process. Whoa, the resident uttered, obviously shocked by the amount of disrespect shown by Derek Mobley.

Speeding dangerously down an interstate filled with mothers driving their young, adorable children to and from church on a Sunday morning, Derek decided to further endanger their lives by using his cell phone. To make matters worse, he dialed the genetic embarrassment known as Eugene.

As the phone rang, Derek swerved into a convenient gas station, taking out a rare bundle of flowers in the process, or so I heard. He cut in front of an elderly couple, stealing the final, open pump and began to put fuel into his car. Eugene finally picked up on the other end. I can only assume Derek caught him in the middle of an internet porn session.

Eugene, it’s Derek, he blurted out before Eugene had an opportunity to speak. Why he felt the need to instantly shout his identity into his good friend’s ear is beyond me. Perhaps he just liked hearing it from his own lips.

Derek! Hey buddy! Eugene shrieked like a small boy having bypassed puberty. Derek extended the phone away from his ear, valuing his future ability to hear and placed the damn thing on speaker.

Hello? Derek? Are you there? Eugene grew concerned by Derek’s delayed response.

I’m here man, calm down, Derek said, scolding his friend.

Oh thank goodness, I thought I had lost you, Eugene replied creepily which was picked up by a trucker on the other side of the pump who responded by shooting Derek a questionable look.

Yea, so maybe speaker was a bad idea. Embarrassed by the friend he chose, Derek took Eugene off of speaker, Can you hear me now?