To Snitch Or Not To Snitch  part two
The Valkyrie Returns

It's no secret that I hated school, as a child.  My Attention Deficit Disorder meant that teaching me anything that took longer than say....half an hour, meant that I wasn't paying attention anyway.  My lack of friends at school meant always watching my back, because no one else was.  My stubborn outspokenness meant that at any given time, I could shoot my mouth off, and speak my mind about anything to anyone, without thought of consequence.

In my previous story, I described how I learned the valuable lesson in life that goes; In life, failure to act, is an action of itself.

I failed to rat out two steakheads who changed grades in a teacher's gradebook, and for that non-action, I was punished as if I had performed the same action as my two idiot peers.  It's bullshit, I know, but this is life, and life does not care about you or me.

Before I continue, I must ask that you read "part one" first.  If you've already read it, then let me take you back to that gymnasium, where I was brought before the student body, for sentencing.  As you read previously, my grade school principal was a hateful cur of a woman, named Sister Marie Ambrose.  Yes, she was a catholic nun, but somehow I think that God might not approve of the way she acted towards the faculty and most importantly, the student body.

Der Fuhrer was cold, calculating and refused to be proven wrong.  Once, while serving time in one of her religion classes, she tried to explain how humans "breathe" through their skin.  This was in response to some dumbshit kid liked to paint white glue on his hands, so that when it dried, he could spend the day peeling it off, like sunburnt skin.  Hey...to each his own, I guess.  Anyway, being stubborn and outspoken, I raised my hand and asked, "If people breathe through their skin, then why don't they drown while swimming?"  Her response?  An hour, after school.  ...bitch.

Back to the gymnasium (told you I had a short attention span).  After Der Fuhrer's lecture on morals, she approached me and asked why it was Miss Ann's gradebook, that the boys took, and not anyone else's?  Miss Ann's room was down a flight of stairs, and a long corridor.  There were closer classrooms to pilfer.  Why hers?

"Because no one likes her," I bluntly said.

A collective gasp filled the room.  Even the faculty participated.  Hell, it's not like I was lying!  While not as hateful as Der Furher, Miss Ann was disliked by roughly three-quarters of the student body.  Once again, my big mouth got the best of me.

Miss Ann abruptly left the building, and I was escorted from it as well.  My sentencing came in absentia.

Let us now move forward, shall we?  One week after "Hurricane Mom" savagely crushed Sister Marie Ambrose, verbally, for three days' worth of mental torture upon her only child.  My sentence for failure to finger which of the two retards changed grades in Miss Ann's gradebook was janitorial duties.  One hour, every day, after school.

....I was assigned Miss Ann's room.

No shit...Der Fuhrer put me in Miss freakin' Ann's room.  Just me and her.  One hour.  Every day.  ...bitch.

For the next three weeks, I banged erasers, swept the floors, cleaned the windows, and took out the trash for this troll.  I have to admit, she truly forgave me, and we actually had some decent conversations as I served my time.

This caught the eye of the teacher, across the hall.  This asshole's name was "Mr. Larry" (yes, we addressed our teachers by first names.  Probably so we wouldn't go kill them later, as adults or something).  Mr. Larry did not have a teaching degree.  He was hired as a P.E. teacher, but somewhere along the line, someone picked up that he knew a shitload of information on history, and made him a history teacher.  Granted, his lack of a degree was a boon for the students, because he hadn't been indoctrinated on how to "teach," so his methods were both original, and actually entertaining.  I actually believe that Mr. Larry is behind my insatiable desire to watch the History Channel, TLC, Military Channel, and all those other types of stations on my television.  ...but I digress.

Mr. Larry was a bit "white trash."  He kept his cigarettes in his shirt pocket, even during class.  He had greasy jet black hair and a homo Marlboro Man mustache, with a bit of a drawl. Not like a southern accent drawl, but more like a dive-bar accent.  He was a bonafide "good 'ole boy," who was less at home in church, than perhaps a klan rally.

One day, 'ole Mr. Larry approaches me and says, "When you're finished in Miss Ann's room, why don't you come over and clean up my room, as well."  Mr. Larry was a decent enough teacher, so I obliged.  Hell, I was stuck there for an hour, one way or another.

So now, my indentured servitude included janitorial duties for two teachers' rooms.  This went on for about two weeks, and everyone was happy (except me, because I hated school anyway).

Now, I'm a month or so into my sentence, and Der Fuhrer is jack-booting around the corridors.  She peeks her evilness into Mr. Larry's room, and notices me working away, diligently.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked.

"Mr. Larry wants me to clean his room too."

"That's not what you were told," she coldly replies.  "You are only to do Miss Ann's room.  Now, get back in there and finish up."

That was on a Friday.

Next Monday...I clean only Miss Ann's room.

On Tuesday, while school was still in session, Mr. Larry is disgruntled.  He wants to know why his room wasn't cleaned the day before.

"Sister Ambrose said I didn't have to."

Ok, now he's pissed off.  We immediately march together to Der Fuhrer's office, and he "explains his side of things."

Mount St. Ambrose suddenly erupts.  "I didn't say that!" she bellowed.

"But..."

"I only said that I didn't tell you to clean Mr. Larry's room!  If he asks you to clean it, then you DO IT!"

"But..."

"Stop lying about what I said!"

(Goddamnit, my big mouth got me in trouble again.)

With that, she orders us both out of her office.  Mr. Larry is now enraged.  As I turn to go back into his room, to class, he stops me.  Spinning me around, Mr. Larry throws me against the wall of the corridor.  "You think you can play games with me," he yells.  "You think it's gonna be that way?"  He begins slapping me.  Not hard, but more of a show of force.

All the while, 20 children are all cramming their faces together, in a little window in Mr. Larry's door, trying to check out this physical smackdown between a teacher and "the kid who was expelled, but somehow is still here."

"You're nothing but a little pussy!  You're a pussy!  What do you think your daddy would think, if he saw you here, all acting like a goddamn pussy!"  He continues to slap me around.

"I don't know.  He's gone," I cry out.

Immediately, Mr. Larry stops.  Apparently, he has a soft spot for boys who "don' have a dadduh to look up to."  "I didn't know that," he says, feebly.  With that, he simply tells me to return to class...the same class that has just witnessed me getting cuffed around by my teacher.  I was mortified, but helpless to do anything.

The next day was a typical day for me.  I had an uneventful time at school, and when the final bell rang, I headed for the janitor's closet while all the other students headed for the door.

Something was different.  There was an electricity in the air.

As I grabbed that cool pink, zamboni-like sweeping thing that I used to sweep the floor, there was a faint clicking of heels.  The clicking sound grew louder, as all the other sounds of school grew fainter.

There...in the corridor...stood the Valkyrie.  My mother had returned, in all her seething, evil glory.  I would have sworn a rush of blazing hot air preceded her, as she walked.  ...you're damn right I sniched!

Our eyes met.
         All she asked was..."Which one."

It wasn't even a question, as much as a blunt command for information.  I pointed to Mr. Larry's door, and she opened it.

"Hello," Mr. Larry said, all cheery and shit.  "Who are you?"

"I am the mother of the child you beat up yesterday."

I shit you not, she literally threw desks aside, in order to get to him, as quickly, and as efficiently as possible.  Tossed 'em around, like they were paper.  The room was a shambles.  I remember hearing her ask if he would like to try to beat her up, as he did her child.  She used quite a bit of profanity, and I wouldn't doubt that she even got a few punches in on him.  It was glorious.  Miss Ann even got up, and lingered in the hallway to eavesdrop on the carnage.  When Mr. Larry's door violently swung open, I'd never seen that fat bitch run so fast back to her room.  There was NO way she was gonna tangle with "Hurricane Mom."

The Fury now sought out Der Fuhrer.  I don't know what happened in Sister Ambrose' office, but when my mother emerged, she announced that I no longer had to serve janitorial duties for anyone...anymore. 

From that moment on, Mr. Larry spoke very differently to me.  It was as if he was either brainwashed...or had a second asshole chewed open by some raving woman.  Hell, by my count, Der Fuhrer now had three assholes in which she could decide which one to shit out of.

Two years later, I'm a freshman in high school.  It's January, and the radiator that I sit next to, in my classroom, is broke.  The janitor was summoned to repair it.

...it's Mr. Larry.

Our eyes meet...

"Aren't you Mr. Larry, from my grade school?"

He wouldn't even look at me, much less respond.

                       Yeah...who's the pussy now?