Fagboy and Friends
Monday, April 26, 2004
Fagboy and Friends
...By Josh the Emp and Twisted Asuka
You’ve got blonde hair and light violet blue eyes. Slanted.
You’re five feet and six inches tall and weigh a hundred fifteen pounds. Thin and short.
Your mother runs a successful internet company, and your father’s anonymous rapist whom you know nothing about, except of course for that one disturbing fact.
You are bisexual, leaning in the direction of homo as opposed to hetero, and are far from being in the closet. Your blonde hair is dyed pink, and you dress the part too. Everyone at school, with a few exceptions calls you Fagboy. You are beaten up. A lot. You don’t have any real friends. You’re a loner. Add to that: You’re sexually frustrated. A virgin.
You have a twisted sense of humor that drives you to joke at inappropriate or weird times, and sometimes makes you seem manic. A defense mechanism. Sometimes you joke to yourself that you’ll blow up the school and kill all the people who call you “Fagboy.” You never share the joke with anyone, or even say it aloud. Suppose in that way it feels less joke-like.
There are some kids at school that have made attempts to indoctrinate you into their group. They are not gay or even bi as far as you know, but an annoyingly accepting and liberal-slash-happy-sappy Dawson's Creek type bunch. Around Ramscliffe High they’ve been nicked*: the Creekers. Sometimes they annoy you. You never let them get too close. They probably just want you to do their homework for them anyway.... and sometimes it's easier to just not make friends. No risk. Still: occasionally you talk with them. They’re the closest thing you have to friends. Maybe the closest thing you’ll ever have.
(*nicked – nick named,)
You listen to heavy metal. And good music. Nothing in particular, but whatever strikes your groove. Not shit “gay people” (note the quote unquote) are supposed to listen to. Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Rocky Horror picture show: all that. “Just cause I’m gay doesn’t mean I have bad taste in music” you sometimes say when someone’s willing to listen.
You’re an A+ student. Your best subjects are math and art. You’re not good at gym. It is made difficult by those that beat you up and harass you. Closet gays who hate you for being what they can’t. Homophobes who hate you for being what they aren’t. Them... and everything in between.
You don’t fight back much. You don’t like to fight. You’re not good at it.
You were born August 21st, 1987.
The town you live in is called Ramscliffe. Upstate NY. Not far from Rochester. It’s kind of a weird place. But actually... you don’t know that yet do you? Heh... now I’m getting way ahead of myself which is something I shouldn’t do. Not if I want to tell this right.
Your mom’s company is called Shunichi Co.
It's not exactly famous, and you have no idea what it is. But it keeps you in a nice house and with nice clothes. It bought you your car. And you always have pocket money.
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I told you before that I was a story teller. But that wasn’t really true was it? At least not in any traditional sort of a way. I’m going to tell you a story now about yourself. And not the story of something that happened to you in the past... or will happen to you in the future. But the story of something that is happening to you... right now. And as I tell it to you will see it, hear it, smell it, feel it, and taste it all around you. Ready? Don’t answer that. Was a rhetorical question. You see them now don’t you. To the right and to the left of you. All those trees, on the side of road, slowly passing by as you walk. It begins.
So: you’re walking to school, on a typical Monday in August. Your place is close to school so there's no need to drive. You’re wearing the usual: tight jean shorts and a white t-shirt, despite the slight cold. What with the outfit, combined with the pink dye job on your head, you stick out like a sore thumb, but that’s what you do best. In a town like Ramscliffe you might as well hang a sign around your neck with “I’m gay.” written on it.
A red convertible is coming down the road behind you. Fast. It's engine shatters what would have been very nice nature sounds. Crickets and wind and all that. (What this town’s best for.) You know the car and know what it's about to do.
This happens about once a week. If not a little more. You could avoid this on a regular basis, if you would just walk cut through the woods to school instead of taking the main road, but you don’t make it a habit of adjusting your life for assholes like Derek Shaw. (It's his car.) He's a massively large (mostly in the wide direction) jock who will probably grow up to fill cars with gasoline, or become a cop and beat the shit out of people. He's not in great shape, but he is thick enough that he has a presence on the field. He is the guy that hikes the ball to the quarterback and then throes himself at the guys trying to tackle him. He's known for being very violent
Every once in awhile he mugs you on your way to school. You never carry much cash because of that. You carry exactly 40 dollars in your wallet everyday. Any more, and you’d give him too much satisfaction, and if it were any less, he would beat the living crap out of you. You know: that outraged consumer thing.
The car swerves to a halt in front of you almost hitting you. He's done this before. Always does it. One day he will screw up and paste you onto a tree or into the pavement. But you never flinch. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. That… and you just don’t care. Do you?
"You know the routine Fagboy!" Derek shouts from the drivers seat. He not even getting out of the car this time. Just sticks his hand out expecting you to open up your (book-bag) and toss him your wallet. Without thinking about it, you stick up your middle finger at him, refusing to reach for your bag. He doesn’t look very happy. You look at him and he is the same as always.
Derek Shaw: Asshole. Homophobe. Violent. Big. Six feet tall and almost half that wide. Shit-brown hair and shit-brown eyes. He is always wearing his football jersey like most of the team. Bright red. With crossed swords on the back. Their badges of power. The team name’s “The Warriors”, though “The Gestapo’s” what the Creekers call them. Ultimately Derek answers to Jock, and kisses his ass all the time. Next to Jock Derek is a pitiful little crooning yes-man. You take some comfort in that.
Jock’s full name is Brock Angelo Marzan. Brock the Jock. He runs the school. He’s a sports prodigy, he's also the local celebrity/legend the whole town is proud of him and he can do no wrong one day he will probably put Ramscliffe on the map if you consider a famous person growing up in a town, enough to do that. This kid is a year older than you, and he plays basketball, baseball, football, and soccer. All of them like a pro. Even you can’t help but be a little impressed by that.
You’re definitely attracted to him physically. Though his personality leaves a lot to be desired. He carries himself like a mob boss and orders the football team around like thugs. The epitome of alpha male, and brutal barbarism at once. He seem to hold himself up above everyone, and respects no one. He is an Arian giant, wavy blonde hair and sky blue eyes. Solid superman looking, square jaw.
You are drawn back to reality by Derek getting out of the car. Angry look. “I’m gonna let that go cause I’m late for a very important date... but I want that money now Fagboy!” he says.
What do you do? You say “Go fuck yourself” to him. Not the smartest move by a long shot. You know this, but you like to get on his nerves. Pissing him off. The only way you can ever feel above him. Even if it’s only for a moment. He’s out of the car and walking toward you. Looking mildly irritated, but happy too ... in that: predator about to eat sort way. You can’t do anything now but stand there. You’re terrified. Frozen. Deer in the headlights and all that.
He’s in front of you now. Reaching for your back with his left hand, arching back a fist with his right. Without thinking you kick. The flat of your leg slamming into his crotch. Hard. He goes, over. Falling to the floor cradling his groin. His eyes squeezed shut in pain. In your gut, this is both a glorious and a terrifying moment. It’s a victory and an amazing one, but also one you know you’re going to pay for later. Possibly in blood. You take a moment to enjoy to enjoy the sight of Derek writhing on the floor underneath you, and then you run. As fast as you can. “I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU FAGBOY!!!” You hear him scream behind you. You just keep running.
To school. When you arrive, you slow to a walk and it occurs to you that it doesn’t really matter what Derek does to you. You slide open the large metal doors of Ramscliffe High. They slam shut behind you with a loud metallic clunk. You have arrived. This is the first time you ever got away with your money, and also the first time you injured and humiliated a member of the football team. The Warriors. You smile a little wondering what will happen. Then you stop. You know you’re going to pay. Still there is that pleasant memory of juggernaut figure of Derek Shaw whimpering underneath you cradling his balls. And in the end, there’s nothing anyone can do to make anything any worse.
You reach the security guard, and show him your ID. You're late for class, but not the type to rush to lectures: you walk on. Your first class is biology. It's upstairs, but you won’t make it all the way there. Not right away at least. On your way up you hear some familiar voices, one in particular is speaking over the rest. You don’t stop till you spot the red of their uniforms. And by then it’s too late.
