Rico slammed into the metal wall behind him, and the door was slammed in his face. He struggled briefly in his prison, but soon gave up. The walls on either side were far too narrow. He was indisputably, hopelessly stuck, crammed into a locker; his own locker, no less. The irony would surely drive him mad, long before he died of thirst or hunger or claustrophobia. Outside, yet mere inches away from his face, a voice boomed.
"Alright freak, you're going to stay in there until you've learned your lesson."
Rico glanced up at the obligatory locker vent slits. Even now their true purpose eluded him, but he was grateful for having them. They would provide easier communication, and sweet, life-giving air. The slits would sustain him, until he and they had bonded. Nay, he was the slits already. He paused for a moment, and then spoke with the voice of a thousand slits.
"I will never bow before your tyranny and greed!"
There was a slight pause from outside. Then, "Well, maybe you'll think twice before you pants me in the cafeteria."
"It was worth it!"
There was a sudden impact on the door, from which Rico flinched. The boy outside growled for a moment, but the sound was soon lost to another. It was clearly the high-pitched giggling of a group of high school girls.
"Hey, what's so funny?!" Yet they didn't answer the boy. Instead, they snickered some more and sauntered off into the hallways, muttering amongst themselves, and pointing and casting surreptitious glances. With a sound of pure disgust, the boy himself trudged away, leaving Rico alone with his slits.
And so he stood, slightly crouched down to accommodate the higher shelves of the locker, but being much too wide to be allowed the luxury of sitting down. Plus he could barely move his arms. Stuck.
"Well Slitty, I guess this is how it ends. Frankly, I was hoping for something a little more dramatic. Instead, I have to waste away in this forsaken tomb." He paused. "I can already feel my muscles melting away. My next breath could be my last." He paused again. "Better make the most of it." He inhaled deeply, but promptly gagged. The standard reaction of doubling over was restricted in the confines of the locker, but was instead reduced to twitching in place. "I hope that's the stench of my own rotting flesh."
He tentatively sniffed the air again. "No...that's more like bologna. Old bologna. Old, putrid bologna. Yet I am not bologna." He slammed his head into the door. "Do you hear me? I am not bologna!" He paused. "But yesterday's lunch was." He craned his head up as far as he could, stretching for a view of the upper locker shelf. Hanging just barely over the edge of the shelf was the edge of a plain, brown paper bag. Yes, he could feel the stink emanating from that bag. It was pouring down over the ledge and collecting at his feet. It would surely consume all in its path.
"Unless..." He looked down. "Yes!" There were slits near the bottom of the locker as well as the top. He considered them for a moment. "No." No, they would clearly not be enough to vent the growing cloud of stench. Not even the aid of the top slits would be enough, though by the time the gas reached them it would be too late anyway. No, he was doomed. He would die screaming due to his own careless stink, and in his own locker as well. The irony was overwhelming.
Yet so was the heat. "Maybe I shouldn't have worn my coat today." He reflected for a moment. "Nah. I'll just roll up the sleeves." He fumbled with his arms for a bit, searching for the proper angle for his elbows such that his arms could reach each other. When he had finished, he had managed to push his sleeves up to his elbows. "Well, I guess that'll do, for now." Almost immediately, the heavy black fabric of the sleeves pulled them down again. Rico started to sigh, but had barely gathered enough air for it when the bologna stink made him gag again.
The odor was rising more quickly than he expected. "This must be one of those exponential function things. I wish I had some graph paper. No, wait, it's too late for that. I'm succumbing. Nooooooo!" His scream echoed down the halls of the school and into several classrooms, but did little more than turn a few heads. "Nooooooooo!" A few pencils jerked, and made errant markings on sheets of paper. "Noooooooooo!!" Finally and completely exhausted, Rico slumped over a bit more in the locker.
The dismissal bell rang several hours later, and students poured into the hallways. Most shied away from a curiously scented locker except for one, who had to return a book to just that locker. Timmy, being quite a puny boy, a few heads shorter than virtually everyone else, had no trouble darting between people to get to the locker. As an added benefit, his unpleasant odor guaranteed a comfortable cushion of space between him and others.
Timmy fiddled with the dial while the crowds filed past, and the hallway was empty by the time he had managed to open the locker. As the door swung open there poured out a wave of stink that made Timmy's eyes water. He rubbed at them, and reached forward to put his borrowed textbook back in place. He was surprised, then, to find some resistance. Suddenly, a black figure fell out upon him, and he was immediately pinned to the floor. Taking a closer look, he was horrified to see the lifeless body of Rico, accompanied by the smell of rot.
He shrieked, and scooted away backwards to the opposite side of the hall. The sound seemed to have some effect on the body, which briefly stirred. A moment later it rose shakily to its feet and brushed itself off.
"Rico! I thought you were dead."
"Grarngflahbm."
"Yeah."
Rico rubbed the unconsciousness out of his eyes and looked around. "Gah! My persecutors have eluded me. Again. They're probably laughing at me behind my back right now...is that my math book?" He turned to look at the paper bag-covered book lying at Timmy's side. He quickly swept it up into his arms. "You've probably gotten all kinds of hand filth on it now." With a sigh he pushed it into its rightful place in the locker, and closed the door. He paused for a moment. "Hm? What's this?"
"I'm really sorry Rico, I was just gonna--"
"Silence!" Rico turned sideways and swept his arm out with a dramatic flourish. He winced as his wrist slammed into the wall of lockers behind him. "You may earn your forgiveness by checking this out, yo." He peeled something off of his locker and held it out for Timmy to see.
"A school talent show?"
"No! Not just a talent show; this is an opportunity to strike out at our enemies with a fleshy fist of vengeance!"
"Ricooooo, I don't wanna be in a talent show. I don't have any talents. I don't even have any enemies!"
"Silen--" Rico stopped himself. "Shush. You still have yet to make up for the Otaku Incident." Timmy paused to study the floor between his feet. He took a deep breath, but began a coughing fit.
"What smells?"
"Oh, that'd be yesterday's lunch in my locker."
"Should we...get rid of it?"
"Hm? Nah, that's alright." Rico leapt over to the younger boy and pulled him up by his shoulders. He then shook him violently. "Now focus, boy! The time of our ascension draws near. I will go sign us up." And with that he darted off down the hallway, his black coat billowing out behind him.
A while later Rico closed the door behind him as he entered his room. He looked around, then began rifling through some of the many piles of assorted junk. Though he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, certainly he had to have something lying around which would be useful for his plan at the talent show, something which could bring the audience to its knees. A stink bomb? Explosives? Risque Japanese anime? Maybe some kind of combination.
"Gah! I wonder if Timmy is having any more luck."
The night of the talent show came more quickly than expected. Rico and Timmy entered together into the backstage area. Rico had only his coat and his pride, but Timmy carried a mop and a can of wax. The items were visibly shaking in his hands; Rico glanced over at him.
"So, what's your act going to be?"
Timmy's voice came out as a squeak. "Well, I...uh..."
He was interrupted as the director of the show called out. "Alright people, the show starts in forty minutes, so you have some time to finish whatever practice or preparations you need."
Timmy took a deep, shaky breath. "I...I hafta go get ready," and with that he was off amongst the crowd of other acts for the night.
"Hey, we need someone to help with the refreshments!" The director called out again. "Anyone? Rico?" Rico looked over his shoulder, thought for a moment, and nodded his assent. Thus, he pushed his way through a crowd of dancers, singers, ventriloquists, musicians, and assorted oddities, shaking his head in disgust.
"Yeah, I'm just going to need you to fill up these paper cups with punch, and set them out on the refreshment table. Alright? Great, thanks a lot."
"But--" Yet the director had left before Rico could get a word in. Rico walked over to a table holding a colossal jug of fruit punch. He half-heartedly attempted to lift it, yet failed to move it more than an inch off of the table. "Gah!" He grabbed the jug handle with both hands and tried again. The jug lifted at a sharp angle, and dumped a sizeable puddle on the floor. Rico looked at the puddle. "Well, at least the jug's lighter now." He felt around in his coat pockets until he had found the proper item. He pulled a small vial out and held it in front of his eyes. "Never leave home without it." After looking around to ensure there were no witnesses, he poured the vial into the jug, and proceeded to pour the new mixture into paper cups.
"Welcome to our annual talent show!" The principal's voice boomed throughout the auditorium as she stood behind a podium onstage. "As you all know, due to school security policy, all doors will be locked for the duration of the program to keep anyone from coming or leaving. But, I think none of you will want to leave after seeing what we have in store for you tonight." The introduction continued while the performers gathered backstage.
"This is going to be sweet," Rico whispered as he walked up behind Timmy.
"I dunno, Rico, I get really nervous on stage. Remember what happened in the fourth grade play?"
"Hey! All you have to do is serve as a front for my master plan. People would get nervous if they saw me here by myself. Remember what happened in the sixth grade play?"
"Jim!" the director called out. "You're up first." A rather generic looking boy emerged from the crowd, juggling several fruits.
Rico shook his head again. "What a bunch of freaks." Thus, the program went on, and the crowd backstage thinned out as the performers joined their families to watch the rest of the show. Finally, only Timmy and Rico were left. "I can't believe I'm last."
"Well, I'm kinda glad I didn't have to go first," Timmy said.
"Even the nose player got to go before us."
"Maybe they're...saving the best for last?"
"Hm. Yeah, I suppose they are."
Two men carrying what appeared to be a piece of wooden floor walked past. "You're up, kid," one of them muttered as he trudged past.
Rico turned to look at the boy. "By the way, just what is your talent?" Timmy opened his mouth to respond, but was quickly interrupted by the principal onstage.
"Now, our next act will be Timmy...no last name given, who will be...what is this? Getting down with his bad self. Man."
Timmy stepped out before the assemblage. Only a shiny piece of floor and a few scraps of dignity were between him and the audience. He looked to the left, then to the right. He raised a hand. He snapped his fingers. Multicolored, psychedelic lighting beamed down onto the stage. He cracked his neck and took two steps forward. He seemed to to slip on the waxed square of floor, yet as he hit the ground, he began spinning around on his back, while simultaneously there came over the speakers the tremendous base rhythm of trance music. The audience leapt to its collective feet in cheers and flailing and general unruliness.
The madness went on for nearly ten minutes before Timmy had breakdanced himself out. Panting and soaked with sweat, he dragged himself and his floor off the stage and past Rico, who stared blankly after them. It was time. Rico stormed out onto the stage, and looked out over the sea of faces. They looked back at him. Some groans and booing drifted up from scattered pockets, slow clapping from others, and silence from the rest. He grabbed the microphone from the principal's podium, and strolled out to the center of the stage.
"How are you gentlemen! I trust you enjoyed the laxative fruit punch?" This elicited several sounds of outrage, as well as people spitting out the beverages they had in their mouths. A few bolted for the doors in the back of the auditorium. Rico held his hand out, as if to signal a stop for an oncoming train. "Oh no, there will be no escape. However!" He pointed to the ceiling. "If anyone would like some mercy, I am now accepting offerings and various forms of worship." He reached into his coat and pulled out a remote control, which he pointed at some unseen thing stage right. The sound of a well-known classical composer's more obscure pieces drifted out over the congregation. Few found it to their liking. "I suppose I could have simply blown you all up, but this way you will all descend into madness, and subsequently destroy yourselves. Now that's irony."
It was then that a lone figure approached the stage down the center aisle. "Yah-hah! Here is the first convert!" Rico looked down at the figure, and felt a sudden pang of familiarity.
"I guess you didn't learn your lesson." The figure leapt up on stage and crouched before Rico. A split second later he hurled himself at the would-be messiah and firmly gripped its waistband. As he landed on the floor the waistband came with him, and lo, Rico was exposed before the audience. The sounds of discontent suddenly grew ten-fold, and many more people began clawing at the sealed doors.
"Ah, crap. Alright, nobody panic! This has happened once before." He turned around to consider his options, but only succeeded in inviting his opponent to land a rather inappropriate kick. He jumped at the sensation and immediately whirled around, only to be pounced upon and pinned to the ground. Rico looked up. His opponent used only his knees to keep Rico down, leaving his hands free to hold two paper cups. "Ah, crap."
"You got that right." The boy poured the first cup before Rico could think to shut his mouth. The second came after a few punches caused Rico to cry out. A great din came up from the crowd as a helpful janitor finally got around to unlocking the doors. People poured out into the hallway; some ran to the bathrooms, others to their cars, most into each other. Rico, finally allowed up, ran to join them, but a tug from behind on the clothing around his ankles sent him to the floor. He kicked wildly to break free, and continued his sprint out the door.
Some time later, Rico walked down the moonlit streets surrounding the school. Timmy followed as best he could while balancing his waxed floor on his back. Rico fastened a few buttons on his coat. "A bit drafty tonight."
Timmy cleared his throat. "Rico..."
"Hup! No. Don't want to talk about it."
"But--"
"Hup!" He sighed. "That didn't even come close to what I had planned. I've got to start carrying some mace or something."
"But...you do."
Rico stopped and checked his pockets. Sure enough, he pulled out a small spray bottle. "Gah! Well then you have to stop watching me get stomped seven ways to Sunday. And taping it, no less." He looked at the video cassette in his hand. "This content of this video must break at least a few state laws."
A sudden gust sent Rico's coat billowing up around him. A new voice rang out from a few yards behind him, between snorts of laughter. "Hey, it's a full moon tonight!"
"Rico, the...the mace!" Timmy stuttered.
"Of course! Back to hell, fiend!" He turned around, wound his arm back, and lobbed the canister as far as he could. It sailed off into the darkness, making only a faint sound of impact a few moments later. Rico stared off after it, and there was a full minute of silence. "Meh, close enough." He cleared his throat, and looked over at Timmy. "Look, about the video..."
"Yeah?"
"I'll make the copies. You e-mail Stile."