March 16, 2009: School Musical

LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: March 16, 2009

Auditions for annual school musical today. Determined to land leading role. Practicing all week.

Step into auditorium. The nauseating odor of hair gel and Axe Body Spray nearly incapacitates me. Writhing, chattering blobs of yuppy larva purchase such quantities of luxury products with their daddy's money, then proceed to use them so liberally. Meanwhile, an old man dies alone and cold on the street. The cost of one pre-faded retro Ninja Turtles t-shirt from Hot Topic could have bought him food for a week. Hurm.

Step up to the stage. Drama treacher, Mr. Chernagle, eyes me. Eyes start at chin, then unmentionables. See the look on his face and realize the part is lost. "Drama teacher". Synonym for "child molester". Wants a boy who'll sit quietly on his casting couch, clutching his manhood in their mouth while he dries their tears with promises of roles to come. No interest in me: hopes for lead role die along with his insustainable protuberance.

Sing heartwrenching version of "Carmen". Chernagle stops me halfway through and tells me to leave.

Did not get the part. As suspected, part goes to Brent Springwood.

Brent. Captain of the varsity football team. Lead contender for valedictorian. Senior yearbook's pick for "Most Popular". Mr. Perfect.

The whores rush upon him like a torrent of cheap perfume and plunging necklines showcasing breasts of eight year-old boys. Serenade him with medley of dull praise. Brent looks at me, completely alone. Flashes me sparkling, shit-eating grin that probably got him that red convertible from daddy.

Enough.

Right hook my way through the pile of pre-legal hookers and seize Brent by the collar, slamming him against wall. Two hundred and six bones in the human body. Could break them all three times over before the police pull out of the donut shop.

People screaming. See Chernagle leaping from his seat and rushing for the exit. I unsheath my grappling hook, take aim. Hook catches him in the buttocks and I reel him in. Catch a glimpse in his eyes an instant before his consciousness fades. Look of pleasure. Sick little man. Enjoyed every minute of it. Slam my boot down on his jaw. Slam it down four times. Five. Lose count. His pleasure will cost him a year's salary in dentistry bills.

The police arrive. Fail to notice them until they're upon me. Stupid. It takes four police officers to subdue me. They drag me out into the parking lot. See my reflection in the window of the back door.

Mid thirties. Not even in high school. What am I doing here? Who the Hell is "Brent"? "Chernagle"?

I leave the police in a pile of groaning, career-ending injuries and return home.

Find my medication still sitting on the kitchen table.

Forgot to take it. Again.