Little Wings: Chapter 2: The Reckoning (That Never Was)

This isn't much but you might want to see what direction this story wasn't going in.

Feeling awkward I decided to leave the school grounds and visit the surrounding town. I first come onto a Pizzeria named Tony's. Thinking this to simply be a witty name I went. Arriving in the warm establishment I was greeted with a sweaty fat man in a stained tank top behind the counter. Two fans lazily turned humid air onto the row of tables-

That's it.

I might continue this thing one day, if I feel motivated enough (I won't).

Little Wings: Chapter 1

What you are about to read is the first chapter of a book that never got passed the first paragraph of the second chapter. I wrote this very late at night and while being very bored. I must say the inspirations ( and once you know them, they will become very apparent as you read it) is the movie The Shawshank Redemption, Catcher in the Rye, the video game Bully, and a handful of my personal High School experiences.

I was sent to New England's Regional Public High-school, a place who's alumni consisted of Lawyers, Politicians, and cops, total scum, and who had a reputation of having a football team who's every game since 1998 ended in the team being disqualified for inciting riots, in the fall of 2008 because my parents didn't believe in private schools. The School was more like a boarding school, they had they're own tiny little rooms for the students who wanted to stay overnight, or the few students that had paid extra money to have they're own room. I was one of them, the school was a long way away from home and my parents were having a bad time getting along so they decided that it would be best for me if I stayed at school full time. I didn't mind, it meant I could sleep until school started which meant I could sleep until school started which would give me about at least an hour more of sleep. What I did mind was being sent at that damn school in the first place. The school was thick with kids who came out of foster families and juvenile correction services.

I arrived at the school with my bags in hand, ready for the worst, my parents where so pre-occupied that I had to take the bus there. Walking through the gates I was already being harassed by the regulars, called names like "fresh fish" and "jailbait". I could feel my buttocks clenching together,as to keep the invading forces of another gentleman's throbbing manhood from prodding me with all nine inches of vanquishing glory for him and horrible painful, shame for me. I hurried the hell out of the front yard to the dorm, which surely had seen better days, as not a single portrait had been spared the fate of being defaced, the crimson red wallpaper torn up, gratifies covered the walls and the pungent aroma of urine filled my nostrils. The gratifies in question described unprintable acts of deviance. My room was on the third floor, where the fall would be high enough to break my legs, but not enough to kill me. My door number was 101, which makes no damn sense since it was the third floor and they were 80 rooms in total. Arriving at my room I noticed that a strip of duct-tape reading "420" was stuck underneath the door number, I immediately recognized this as a bad sign. Opening the door resulting in myself being swarmed by a cloud of thick grey smoke. I grasped for breath, rolling on the floor like I was on fire choking myself with this sweet, intoxicating smoke. After a few moments the smoke had made it's way to the hallway and I was free to enter my room. Inside the room was a beat up old mattress on a bed made up of four concrete blocks and a plank of plywood covered in a pillow consisting of a rolled up old Grateful Dead T-shirt and a Led Zeppelin Stairway to Heaven towel as a blanket. The wall was plastered with one of those Pink Floyd posters with all those naked chicks and a graffiti which read "Doobie Hauser was here". A mini fridge was full of cold lasagna and Mountain Dew cans. Under the bed was a box of old Playboy and Hustler magazines and a bag of weed. A dirty window was hidden behind a backlight poster of a black panther. The desk was littered with Red Bull cans and a dictionary with half the pages torn out. Lastly there was a little TV tuned in to the Cartoon Network. I decided that going out and exploring the quad would probably end in me losing my virginity, for the worst, so I decided to stay in and watch the Cartoon Network and finish a half eaten bag of moldy Cheetos I found laying on the ground.
I awoke, fully dressed, because there was no way in hell that my skin would come in contact with that dirty mattress and figured that I couldn't lock myself up in this room forever. So I put all my valuable items in the rolled up Grateful Dead T-shirt, locked up the door and went off exploring the school. The first thing I did was leave the dorm. Once outside I finally had a breath of fresh air it was still pretty early, around 9 a.m. so the surroundings were empty. The air was crisp and fresh, like a cold autumn morning, even tho it was still August. I walked around the quad, it looked pitiful. Toilet paper covered the trees and beer bottles littered the ground. A billboard in the middle announced upcoming theater plays on poorly xeroxed flyers, along with the theater plays was an announcement for a Led Zeppelin tribute band named Let's Zep, pretty clever actually.

"Beautiful morning isn't it?"

I damn well nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to see a middle aged man
wearing a brownish-grey suit who reeked of after shave and tobacco. He had
a five-o'-clock shadow, wrinkles, and a stern look on his face.
“Yes, lovely” I managed to say
“I know what you're up to boy, and I don't like it. I don't want to see you cause
any trouble now you hear?”
“Yes sir”

And with that the man turned around and entered the building, locking the door after him. I guess he was the principle or something. I wonder if he greets everyone like that.

Plagarizing Salinger

If you really want to know about it the first thing you'll want to hear about is where I was born and what my parents are like and all that A&E Biography kind of crap but I really don't want to talk about it if you want to know the truth, and my parents would get two haemorrhage's apiece if I told anything personal about them, they're quite ashamed of me and don't want anything to do with me. All I'm supposed to tell you about is that crazy viking story that happened to me last year.

It all started at Wembley Prep, some phony preparatory school in New England. It was mid-December and snowing like hell outside. Most of the other guys in my dorm had gone back home for Christmas holiday, but I was stuck here on account of my parents hating my guts. Anyway I was laying in bed reading this book I had checked out of the library called Nine Stories, it was a book with a bunch of short stories in it, there was this one about a guy who was in bed with this chick and he gets a call from his friend asking if he had seen his wife and then ranting about how she kept sleeping around, and in the end it turns out that the girl who was in bed was the other guys wife. That killed me. Anyway that's when Alex, the guy next door, burst in. He was brushing his teeth, he's always brushing his goddamn teeth.

"Don't you have a date?" Asked Alex.

"Do I look like I have a goddamn date?" I said, not looking up from my book. "Why aren't you home?"

I caught a glimpse of him shrugging in the corner of my eye. Poor bastard, I don't even know if he has a real family. That makes me sad as hell, when you get a lousy kid like Alex that doesn't have a real family, that spends his time in the halls of some phony prep school brushing his goddamn teeth.

Alex kept asking all these questions except I really wasn't thinking about what Alex was saying, I was thinking of Saint, my old roomate.

A few weeks ago everyone was invited to this big gala ,held at this big phony hotel called the Conchord where every doorman treats you like shit if you look sorta lousy but kisses your ass when you're some kinda goddamn hotshot, thrown by the school for some good goddamn reason. I was only there for the after party, to tell the truth. The schools principle was giving a speech about how he was "truly proud to see such fine students that would continue to feed the moral fiber of what Wembley Prep was made of". Strictly for the birds. First of all, everyone at the school was either some jock bastard, a stuck up bitch, or some kind of pathetic nerd. I stopped listening to the principals goddamn phony speech when I saw Saint sitting with Marion Gallagher. Old Marion Gallagher, she knocked me out. She was this terrific girl and all, but she had the ability to always date a horrible guy. A few months ago she was dating this scumbag hockey player and last year she was dating this guy who I'm pretty sure is a flit. Not that I'm sure and all, just that when a guy spends so much time getting well dressed they always kinda look like a flit. Anyway, Marion was sitting with old Saint a few tables away from me. It worried hell out of me because I knew just what a sexy bastard Saint was. I finally talked to him after that goddamn speech which only lasted about a million years and asked him what he was gonna do after the after party.

" I rented a room here. I'm coming back to sleep with my girlfriend."

I knew just what he meant by "sleep". He was gonna give her the time. I wanted to sock him right in the goddamn mouth after he said that, but I restrained myself. After all he did carry a goddamn dagger in his cane. What a bastard. I felt so lonesome that night.

Anyway, that was what I was thinking about while chewing the fat with Alex. Saint in that damn hotel room with Marion.

"Listen, wanna catch a movie?" I asked to change the subject.

"Nah, I'm too tired."

That's another thing about Alex. He's always tired, you have to twist his goddamn arm if you want him to do anything.

A Rant About Axe Hair Crisis Shampoo

If there's one thing I hate it's men getting pussy-whipped. That being said I fucking loathe those fucking commercials. "Get girl approved hair"? Fuck you. Go to jail. I don't need some skanky broad to tell me how to wear my hair. What happened to men? Now all we have is a bunch of metrosexual assholes who do whatever their bitch of a girlfriend tells them.

A Rant About Conspiracy Theorists

I thought I would use the eighth year anniversary of the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center ( give or take three days) to deliver a rant on the group of people I reserve a special little ball of hatred in my cold black heart for. I am talking about (as you already know from the title) conspiracy theorists. Those gutless worms who give the government way too much credit.

A key factor to me writting this entry was Charlie Sheen's sudden outcoming that he believe's that the tower's collasp was due to a controlled detonation, disregarding all logic that comes when you ask yourself "How the fuck is it possible to wire 110 floor building with enough explosives without anyone noticing, not even the bomb sniffing dogs that where sent in the building on a regular basis?" And worst of all was Rosie O'Donnell screaming in her usual obnoxious way that if one truly wanted to know what was going on in America it would need to watch media from another country. Try saying that in a country where there really is government censorship and see how that goes.

How can someone think that the government is run by satanic cults, or the Illumanati, or fucking reptile people? How does one come to the point of thinking that everyone one is either a mindless sheep, fucking corupted and evil, or "crusading for truth"? I'm fucking sick and tired of these fuckwits analyzing every single little gesture someone makes to come to the conclusion that Ron Paul is an Illumanati because he throws up the horns at the end of the speach and that it means "I love you Satan". Can't you people fucking get a life and start basing your skewered views on reality on somthing else than 1984 and The Matrix?

I'm won't even bother trying to debunk your crazy fuking theories as many reliable sources already have.

A rant about Bob Marley "Fans"

Something that has been anoying me for the past 2 years was the abundant number of douch bags who consider themselves Bob Marley fans. Don't get me wrong, I love Bob Marley and his music but people who have yet to listen to the CD Legend, and who confuse the Bobby McFerrin classic "Don't Worry be Happy" for a Marley song have no right to consider themselves fans. An example of such a person comes from a scool colleague of mine. A person I may of respected in the past, when asked what Marley stood for and what he fought for he simply answered "rastafari" as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. This is a person who still enjoys Chuck Norris jokes despite them being irrelevent since begining of 06' and who gains his culture by watching Family Guy and going on Wikipedia to understand all the nonsensical references, although, deep down I have some respect for him doing that as at least he does not condone the bad gags as "random". Another example comes from another school companion, a bald, two-times-too-small pink Abercrombie & Fitch polo wearing jock who requested a Bob Marley song during art class and proceeded to sing "Don't Worry be Happy" while making grotesque gestures with his hands suggesting the recreational use of cannabis.
Also, guys, can you stop refering to Bob Marley simply as "Bob"? It's getting annoying as when I hear Bob, the first thing that comes to mind is Bob Dylan.