Fat lip

Drev was going to get his if it was the last thing I did. When I swore to myself I worded it just like that, all melodrama. Mr. Drevenkar, or as we used to call him, Coach Tubby Fuck, had come around the corner with way more agility than physics should have allowed; maybe that was the advantage of teaching it to half-asleep horndogs after homeroom. Before I could comment on his white sock, black loafer combo - a Thursday tradition - my face turned into hot needles. Through blurry tears I could make out his impossible gut catching up to the rest of his sloppy slapping momentum, like watching Keanu Reeves dodge bullets if he was carrying a half-ton too much Twinkie around the middle. He stepped in closer and I could practically see him criss-crossing the body spray he'd spattered over his muffin top watching Fox this morning. It was just like how the commercials trained him to, except the Axe models didn't have an inner tube to get around when they hosed on their B.O. guard.

"How stupid can you be, Southard?" He said. I almost forgot the pain in my jaw in the optical illusion of his rosy, bouncing cheeks. "Unless you want to trade the mats for detention, spit out the dip, dipshit."

Even out of school suspension sounded preferable to this sexually-repressed mongoloid verbally assaulting singleted teens for another afternoon, but if that were true, why did I still plan to go? That was not the type of masochism-inducing reflection this hormonally-challenged ball of fuck-off needed right now.

"Easier to get away with dipping in detention than it is in the halls, anyway," I mumbled, not meeting the beady eyes of today's oppressor. Said black beads, set behind a bone brow deep enough to make you wonder how dominant those supposedly-dormant neanderthal genes were, narrowed even further and went black, the same black as the desk-stashed chocolate pudding he couldn't quite keep off his Bears polo.

"The fuck did you just say?" Said the big high school teacher to the runt sophomore, his sloped shoulders trying to broaden, the evolutionary equivalent of posturing away a predator. I flinched, but only for fear his belt buckle would burst at the incredible pressure it was under. Seeing me deflate made him lick remnant pudding from his thin goatee as a gesture of victory. This Tubby Fuck was seeping with what he thought was justice, but I could see the retribution-wrapped vengeance getting him off under those dime-store slacks. It was the moment I knew I was going to put folded-up ketchup packets under the studs of the toilet seat in the physics lab bathroom he used as a personal break area.

I could see exactly what he was feeling in the way the muscles of his jaw flexed and relaxed. I knew that's what it was because it's exactly what I did when I thought someone was getting their just desserts. The only difference was I could do it without my jowls jiggling. "I said I don't have a dip in," I said, peeling down my lower lip like Gretchen did when bragging to everyone that her brother gave a minor a lip tattoo that said, "Fuck."

Devoid his Indian given hall monitor award, Drevs shoulders slumped back to their customary rounded shape. I knew what came next and was on the run before another ham-handed blow could land. You don't want to be close by when you make someone realize their anger was paper mache, especially when their only way of admitting it was more abuse.

I don't care what anyone says, understanding someone doesn't mean you can't hate them. You just wait for it, fat boy, your next shit ticket is taking you right to tomato town terminal.