The silence in the classroom was rather awkward as Miss Crockett, the reasonably human English teacher, spoke in the doorway with non other than smoking hot… Ms. Engle. Every dude there wanted to bang the school shrink, who was quite a head case herself, climbing on the back of some biker’s Harley on Fridays— “No way,” he hissed half under his breath as he pulled out the biker wallet and saw a Chosen Sons stamp in the leather.
He hushed and mused, as he handled the meth man purse, ‘The dude that is banging Edward’s mom is a Chosen Son. The Chosen Sons are a cop gang that feeds into a 1% club. They fence stolen shit, a link between the One World Government—fuck you teenage John Birch Society punk rocker reject—and the retarded normal horde…’
Sliding the wallet back into his back pocket, he—who was he, really?—stopped and thought, ‘Scott, did I ace that test, really?’
‘Scott, who the fuck is Scott—Scott is dead—I’m Nat Star!’
He felt a chill for taking on the identity assigned to him by these suck ups, momentarily afraid his mind had been colonized by Edward.
‘Here she comes, what a rack, what legs, what an ass—does she even have a face?’
‘Damn, and she’s pretty too.’
He could smell her Cinnabar perfume when she glided up to him, the class was silent. Her overlong fingers had intimidatingly suggestive green nail polish which matched her too tight dress. When he looked up into her face, he realized, after lusting after this shrink bitch for three years, that she had crazy green eyes offset by the red hair he had so often imagined sinking his fingers into as he dragged her whimpering from her burning hut! [0]
“Scott,” she smiled, her evil little nose twitching over her pursed lips, “Our visitors would like to discuss your test in the Principal’s office.”
There was a snicker from the row of varsity douche bag football players, to which Nat, it was Nat now, turned a vicious glare as he rose from his little gay chair some how for the last time he knew, for a certain, and hissed, “Fuck off cleat nig.”
That big meat head winced, as did the mop headed quarterback seated next to his square-headed protector.
Ms. Engle, winked at him with one crazy eye and lead him towards the door with that fertile lure.
As he followed her right towards the door, he looked away from Miss Crockett’s motherly, ‘I’m so sorry you are in trouble baby,’ expression, and caught Liza Bonus, owner of the biggest tits in Perry Hall High, who had banged like the whole varsity squad, seated in the first row. She was winking at him and licking her lips, in such a way he could not tell if his obvious crime against the adult ranks they were about to join had made him attractive to her, or if she was teasing. So he just bracketted down and dominated and said, in a cooler tone than he had imagined he had, “Later, Bitch,” and imposed silence on the room once again as Liza’s mouth fell open and her eyes grew wide…
As her heels clacked down the hall, Ms. Engle turned and smiled, weirdly, “You’ve made an impression on our guests, Scott. My son told me all about Nat Star—he was transferred in this week, so excited to have you for a friend. I must agree.”
She looked ahead and he followed, his mind darklit with a picture of poor Edward pinned under a smoldering roof timber in the burning hut as he dragged Ms. Engle off by her red hair, Edward pleading, “Nat, don’t fuck my mom—please!”
…
Moments later, in the Principal’s Office, Scott—‘No, Nat! Might even change my name legally’—stood by the door to its right, back to the wall, as Ms. Engle closed it and sat to the left in the padded witness chair, crossing her legs tastefully.
To her left, in the corner, behind his desk, was the Principal, who had used the intercom to spell his name every year on the first day, a name which Scott/Nat had refused to register in his mind. For this balding, comb over, fink was nothing but a warden for strip-mined baby brains. The Principal seemed nervous.
‘Faggot,’ thought Scott as he glared narrowly at the walking dead master, a thought that it seemed was heard by the two uniformed men seated in folding chairs to the left of the fidgeting Principal and directly across from him, who rose to their feet like guboment gargoyles. Of the two men, the tall one, an Airborne Army Major, who looked like some bad ass cowboy from an industrial ranch with arms like a chimp that were really two long for the sleeves of his jacket, loomed silent and judge like, looked down into him like some apish eagle.
The one that had whistled slightly at his mean thought directed towards the Principal was a short man with fleshy face and a beer keg belly, jammed into a U.S. Marine Gunnery Sergeant’s uniform. This man was holding the test, a folded paper with four quizzes, one each for math, science, language and history, with his morning’s sketch stapled to it. The man grinned, saluted sardonically to Scott and erased that lingering identity for good with a stentorian, “Nat Goddamned Star!”
The Principal, who seemed a little groggy despite his fidgeting, objected, “Sergeant!”
The Major turned his head only and suggested, “The janitorial closet. Assist the janitor with the maintenance of his floor scrubber. A Board of Education surprise inspection is in bound.”
The Principal rose on shaky legs, as if he did not want to go, but did, breaking out in a beady sweat, looking up briefly into his eyes in some kind of wimpy apology. He was gone.
Ms. Engle had her legs spread and was looking up longingly at the tall Major. The sergeant said, “Master Sergeant Crook, is my name, son. This is Major Pitt. Baby killers, huh?” he mused as he glanced at Nat’s morning art.
Nat swallowed hard as the Major eyed him with critical intent. The Sergeant grinned, “Son, I never napalmed a baby that didn’t have it comin’! Least ways not any righteous white ones.”
“What the fuck?” gaped Nat.
“Son, I was not always the hog-bodied individual you see before you. I was once young and dumb and full of cum—making refrigerators fly when I was your age—volunteered for Nam when I was 17! Now, you strike me as a young man who is ready to serve in the righteous cause of the survival of the Great White Race.”
“What—am I hallucinating? Did you people put PCP in the water fountain?”
“At ease, Soldier,” said the Major with a strange western drawl.
The men, he noted, were still in their dress hats with the duck bills of oppression and Nat lit up, “Fuck you, war pigs!”
The men grinned and the Major spit on the Principal’s desk, Ms. Engle still looking at him like he was a god. The dude seemed old, like 60 maybe.
Sergeant Crook, who might be 70—like ancient—then bugged his eyes out comically and said, “You mean like...” rubbing his hands down over his fleshy face as if he were being bathed in heavenly light,
and then chanted, “Generals gathered in their masses!”
Then pointed to Major Pitt who was taking off his hat and shaking out a long head of blond viking hair, as the sergeant continued, his hands reaching to some invisible vantage, “Just like witches at black masses!”
The Major’s hat was tossed on the Principal’s desk and Ms. Engle was on her knees looking up at her master, formerly some kind of army major, as the Sergeant chortled off comically, “Scoring some hot teacher asses?”
Scott then noted, as he was jealous of “the Major” that he was wearing cowboy boots, snakeskin by the look. The Major was petting the mesmerized woman on her red haired head and turned to Nat, “I’ll have my wallet back, if you don’t mind.”
Nat handed it over into that big, pale chimp hand—the guy’s arms were just too long—and turned to the Sergeant who matter of factly said, “A fork in the road, Nat “By Golly” Star: you stay here with your memory wiped clean, just another sloe-eyed steer in this feed-lot of conformity, or, and listen to me good here, Son… you ride off with us, into ten thousand sunsets, to fight the right fight—not the bullshit wars we fought, but the ones we had ought.”
Ms. Engle was cooing like a dove as she worshiped the cowboy major’s hand.
The impulse caught like fire as he imagined hitting the Lincoln Memorial with an RPG, and barked, like a fresh dog of war, “Hell yeah.”
…
Notes
-0. Nat Star, here, is not as unique as the female and Millennial and GenZ male reader might think. Such were once the normal fantasies of high school youth in the half forgotten time before “everything got gay.”
-1. Sergeant Crook is patterned directly on my friend Gunnery Sergeant Kenneth [last name redacted to protect the guilty] USMC, Retired. Most of the lines delivered by this Character have been spoken to the author in various Portland Dive bars from 2022 thru 2024.
-2. Major Pitt is patterned directly on my friend, Major Wolf, who straight up quit the U.S. Army as an acting colonel in order to righteously deprive his evil X of her half of that juicy retirement! Stud! This man has joined the Time Force for a good reason! Likewise, his lines have actually been spoken to the author over 4 winters in the Cascade Mountains, where I was his domestic servant. See Timejacker.
