It was just another average day at General's Pride for Marilyn Williams. The lessons weren't anything she'd had any trouble with, although the daily 'America Studies' had per usual made her feel pretty small, particularly with the teacher, Mr. Barrett, throwing out the occasional pointed remark. Lunch had been succesfully navigated in a corner of the library and now there was only one period left before Marilyn could head on home. All in all, it hadn't been too bad. Most of the usual suspects had left her alone beyond the odd 'whisper' and somebody that she didn't see properly knocking the books out of her hands. There'd been much, much worse.
Navigating the rush in the corridors between lessons was proving troublesome. Marilyn didn't have the size or the confidence to shove past anybody, so she was finding people brushing past and knocking her about a lot. Not through any malice, she was sure, just because it was hard to take account of a girl shuffling through the crush with her head facing firmly towards the floor. Maybe one or two bumps were a little harder than was strictly necessary to move past Marilyn, but she was used to this kind of thing, it rolled across her back. All she could do was keep her head down and stay on the move.
Marilyn habitually walked like this. It made her shoulder-length hair fall all around the front of her face. It obscured her. She liked the feeling of sanctuary and annonymity, although most everyone in her year (and a couple of the older kids) would have easily picked her out from the lustre of said hair and the scrappiness of the clothes she wore. All the same, it was a nice illusion, even if it sometimes stopped her from seeing where she was going properly. Marilyn would take any shield she could get, even if it inconvenienced her, just to soften the blow...
Then there was an outright push from one side. Marilyn hadn't expected it and she stumbled, losing her balance due to her arms being right at her sides. The girl staggered a couple of steps without hitting anybody, then struck someone with a heavy impact, teetered for a second, then managed to right herself. Marilyn murmured something that might have been an apology and then hurried right along.
Don't attract attention. Don't make a fuss. That wasn't anything, just normal. Just-
The Hair Incident
Bystanders only
Moderator: Sh4dE
Harris wasn't having a good day. Well, it wasn't really a bad-bad day either. Social Studies (or American Studies as it was now called) went into a more in-depth history of how the General came to power, and he was actually quite content to relate how the Van Allens helped mobilize the local Tea Parties to bring back American values. No, what made this day "not good" was the fact that he was called into the guidance counselor's office after lunch to be told that he risked being tossed out of JROTC for behavior a little too unbecoming of his stature. It wasn't his fault that dago cunt had talked shit about him within earshot AND in uniform, he just had to defend the honor and traditions of his country so tantalizingly close to the use of physical force.
But oh, did he feel like using physical force on something just now. After all, actions spoke louder than words.
It just didn't make him feel better when opportunity came knocking, or rather, hurtling into him while he searched around his locker for his math textbook (all good Americans had to learn to add and subtract, as much as it wasn't his forte.)
He found himself knocked close to off-balance as someone managed to bump right into him, knocking his textbooks out of his hand as his body tumbled forward into the locker, his nose impacting with the other books inside. He yelped from the impact, quickly withdrawing and then leaning back against a closed locker, holding his nose as if it were about to hemorrhage (though it wasn't even bleeding. A quick head-shaking to get his bearings back, and he soon turned his attention to the little girl that had found the audacity to 'attack' him - none other than Marilyn Williams.
"The fuck!" he shouted, looking down upon the girl with rage beginning to burn in his eyes, "You trying to spring a VC trap on me, you fucking zipperhead?" The Vietnam War was a thing of his grandparents' era, and Harris' father did fight alongside 'persons' of color during his own tours of duty, but a person like Harris didn't like to make distinctions.
In fact, he didn't wait for her to react before he reached out to grab her by her hair, intending to give her a good ol' fashioned piece of his mind (among other things).
But oh, did he feel like using physical force on something just now. After all, actions spoke louder than words.
It just didn't make him feel better when opportunity came knocking, or rather, hurtling into him while he searched around his locker for his math textbook (all good Americans had to learn to add and subtract, as much as it wasn't his forte.)
He found himself knocked close to off-balance as someone managed to bump right into him, knocking his textbooks out of his hand as his body tumbled forward into the locker, his nose impacting with the other books inside. He yelped from the impact, quickly withdrawing and then leaning back against a closed locker, holding his nose as if it were about to hemorrhage (though it wasn't even bleeding. A quick head-shaking to get his bearings back, and he soon turned his attention to the little girl that had found the audacity to 'attack' him - none other than Marilyn Williams.
"The fuck!" he shouted, looking down upon the girl with rage beginning to burn in his eyes, "You trying to spring a VC trap on me, you fucking zipperhead?" The Vietnam War was a thing of his grandparents' era, and Harris' father did fight alongside 'persons' of color during his own tours of duty, but a person like Harris didn't like to make distinctions.
In fact, he didn't wait for her to react before he reached out to grab her by her hair, intending to give her a good ol' fashioned piece of his mind (among other things).
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Abruptly, Marilyn's head snapped back as something seized hold of her from behind, whiplashing her neck painfully. The grip on her hair was harsh and uncaring and Marilyn let out a little whimper, dropping her textbooks to clutch at the hand on the back of her head. The mystery assailant was extremely strong, and had no trouble hauling her a few steps towards them by tugging on Marilyn's hair, causing her to grit her teeth in pain. In a few seconds, the girl was in front of the one who had hold of her (the clutch getting tighter all the time, Marilyn could've sworn the attack was working their fingers in between the strands), and face to face... she whimpered again, tears starting to spring to her eyes.
It was Harris Van Allen. God why'd it have to be Harris Van Allen? She'd heard him yell out, but hadn't realised it had been directed at her, lost in the general hubbub of the people moving through the corridor. Speaking of which... the crowd had spread out. People were still moving past slowly, but they were giving Harris and Marilyn a wide berth. A good proportion of them though... well, they'd turned into an audience. As always. Somebody was always watching, always cheering whoever had decided to beat Marilyn up on, telling them good job, she got what she deserved...
Marilyn writhed in Harris's grip on her hair, still on the verge of tears but a somewhat desperate look on her face. Harris was... Harris was bad news, had been since that first day he'd stalked in wearing those boots of his and stomped on her foot. There had to be something, anything she could say to get him to...
Beat her up a little less, more than likely.
"H-h-huh-Harris!" she said, hardly audible. "I-I-Iuh-I-I'm s-suh-suh-suh," Marilyn scrunched her face in for a second, trying to work her tongue over the word. "Sorry!"
It was Harris Van Allen. God why'd it have to be Harris Van Allen? She'd heard him yell out, but hadn't realised it had been directed at her, lost in the general hubbub of the people moving through the corridor. Speaking of which... the crowd had spread out. People were still moving past slowly, but they were giving Harris and Marilyn a wide berth. A good proportion of them though... well, they'd turned into an audience. As always. Somebody was always watching, always cheering whoever had decided to beat Marilyn up on, telling them good job, she got what she deserved...
Marilyn writhed in Harris's grip on her hair, still on the verge of tears but a somewhat desperate look on her face. Harris was... Harris was bad news, had been since that first day he'd stalked in wearing those boots of his and stomped on her foot. There had to be something, anything she could say to get him to...
Beat her up a little less, more than likely.
"H-h-huh-Harris!" she said, hardly audible. "I-I-Iuh-I-I'm s-suh-suh-suh," Marilyn scrunched her face in for a second, trying to work her tongue over the word. "Sorry!"
Bringing her to him took almost no effort, as he worked out quite often and she was, well, Marilyn. Now that he had her in his grasp, he could do anything he wanted with her, regardless of who was watching them now. Marilyn stuttered an apology, something he'd rejected out of hand before she'd even started talking. Her tears did nothing to calm his nerves, instead causing him to actually feel good about the rage channeling through his veins from his shaved scalp through his fists and into her hair. This is gonna be fun, he thought to himself.
"You should be fucking thankful we let nips like you stay in this country," he said sadistically, his saliva practically flying into her crying face, "Otherwise my father would be out stacking you fuckers waist high in your goddamn tunnels."
Without any further ado, he pushed his grabbing arm out to get a good distance, then pulled his other hand back with its clenched fist before bringing it down in a swift hook upon her face, knuckles pointed forward to make sure she got the point. After that impacted her, he pulled her face toward his to literally add insult to injury.
"You want your five dollar now?!" he shouted, his voice practically reverberating off her face, "I no love you long time!"
"You should be fucking thankful we let nips like you stay in this country," he said sadistically, his saliva practically flying into her crying face, "Otherwise my father would be out stacking you fuckers waist high in your goddamn tunnels."
Without any further ado, he pushed his grabbing arm out to get a good distance, then pulled his other hand back with its clenched fist before bringing it down in a swift hook upon her face, knuckles pointed forward to make sure she got the point. After that impacted her, he pulled her face toward his to literally add insult to injury.
"You want your five dollar now?!" he shouted, his voice practically reverberating off her face, "I no love you long time!"
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Sheri Schatcher stood at her locker, holding the door open with one slender, manicured hand. Her locker was neat and tidy, her textbooks and notepads all in order of height, straightened and standing uncreased and in near-mint condition. There was a small makeup bag with a fake Louis Vuitton print propped up against a scruffy looking Mr. Wabbit. Hanging from the inner door was a small heart-shaped mirror into which she was gazing as she reapplied her lipgloss.
The day had been fairly slow, nothing special really, just sitting at quietly in her seat and watching teacher after teacher scribble things on the board. She took notes whilst at the same time memorising Act 3 Scene 5 of Romeo and Juliet, she had been cast as Lady Capulet, a relatively small role but she was happy with it. Just another boring day, sure, a girl or two had made a snarky comment about her fashion sense but those were mainly freshman year girls who didn't realise that high school had a dash more of individuality and diversity than middleschool did as everybody fought to be mainstream and cool. She knew she looked good, and that was that.
She blew a kiss at the mirror then screwed the cap back onto her lipgloss, she delivered a wink to her reflection before staring at her nose again. The beak. Oh how she just wanted to raise a couple grand and let a surgeon hack it off and replace it with something cute, something pretty. She gave a small sigh as she tucked the lipgloss back into the "Fuitton" bag and pulled out a tube of liquid foundation. She took a step back as she applied it, bumping into someone, and turned her head, issuing a stock apology, before being drawn back towards her mirror.
She squeezed a pea sized dollop of a camel semisolid onto her finger tip, then massaged it into her cheeks. She began silently reciting her lines as she began concealing her freckles. Ho, daughter! Are you up? Fancy calling your daughter a ho, lady. She stopped her fingers and let out a dry chuckle, before resuming her quick cosmetic touch up. Why, how now, Juliet! Sheri worked the last of the foundation into her face, before wiping her fingers on a tissue. She gave one last inspection of her reflection before taking her anthology textbook from the locker, a disapproving grimace formed on her face due to her dislike of poetry, before her eyes widened as she heard the obnoxiously loud voice of Harris Van Allen, shouting in anger.
"The fuck! You trying to spring a VC trap on me, you fucking zipperhead?"
Zipperhead? How articulate, Sounds like a toy. Sheri shut her locker door and turned, placing her back to it. A silent gasp escaped her lips and she suddenly clutched the anthology to her chest, she watched as Harris pulled a clump of pretty black hair from the scalp of a petite asian. The girls head whipped back with such speed that Sheri thought that her neck would snap. Sheri raised a hand to her mouth, watching the scene unfold. Tears streamed down the girls face. No, not any girls face, Marilyn's face.
The meek asian girl who always pointed her face to the floor, as if ashamed of her exotic features. The one who barely spoke, not wanting to be noticed. The one who was always picked on, snide comments from passers-by, antagonised by Harris, hell, even Mr. Barrett was a complete douche in her presence. The girl in the shitty clothes, one dirtcheap outfit after the other, normally Sheri would have some distaste towards somebody who took no pride in their appearance, but it wasn't hard to guess that Marilyn lacked the funds for a proficient makeover.
No disgust came across Sheri's mind whenever the girl rarely entered her head, she never noticed her in person, at least most of the time. She was just a sweet girl who drew the short straw in ancestry, and lived each day a reclusive wreck for something that was always out of her hands. The girl even shared a name with one of Sheri's many favourite Hollywood icons, she couldn't conjure up any hatred for Marilyn Williams, when all she could feel was the bitter taste of pity.
"You should be fucking thankful we let nips like you stay in this country,"
Sheri sometimes felt unlucky for her distant upbringing, and even though she knew little to nothing about Marilyn, she had that strong feeling that the shy "nip" had it alot worse than she did. Marilyn Williams, the film adaption of her autobiography would be a real tear jerker, that was for sure. Harris, he hadn't antagonised Sheri or poked much fun at her, he hadn't been directly mean to her face, and for that, as much as she cringed about it, meant she couldn't class him as an enemy. But she could hate him with all her guts, she'd allowed herself that luxury.
"Otherwise my father would be out stacking you fuckers waist high in your goddamn tunnels."
A fist connected with a face. People filed past, not wanting to be drawn in. Sheri stood there for a moment, her eyes welling with tears. She shut her eyes and sucked in some air, and turned back to her own locker and began fumbling with the combination. She had wanted to help, she really did, but she was too scared to think about what may happen to herself. Would Harris track her down and beat her into a pulpy mess? Send her beak caving inwards with his big fist? Would others look at her with shame because she did the big 'no no' by sticking up for a minority? She felt sick, and Lady Capulet's lines didn't seem so important.
She knew she couldn't help Marilyn Williams or stand up to Harris Van Allen, even as big a hypocrite he was with a surname that practically screamed "I'm Dutch or German!". She found solace in the hope that one day he'd be put into his place by someone bigger and stronger than he was, and she'd like nothing more than for it to be captured on film and sent to herself and Marilyn to watch with glee and buttered popcorn in their own private screening room.
"You want your five dollar now?!"
Sheri turned, averting her eyes from the monster and his prey, and quickly joined the line of people abandoning the scene. Evermore weep...weeping for your...cousins death? Sheri shut her eyes and left the scene, ashamed at her own cowardice. But much of grief shows still some want for wit. Shit! I missed a load! and as she began practicing her lines again, Sheri abandoned Marilyn with a monster and an audience who wouldn't intervene. They wouldn't have done this to Marilyn Monroe, so why Marilyn Williams?
The day had been fairly slow, nothing special really, just sitting at quietly in her seat and watching teacher after teacher scribble things on the board. She took notes whilst at the same time memorising Act 3 Scene 5 of Romeo and Juliet, she had been cast as Lady Capulet, a relatively small role but she was happy with it. Just another boring day, sure, a girl or two had made a snarky comment about her fashion sense but those were mainly freshman year girls who didn't realise that high school had a dash more of individuality and diversity than middleschool did as everybody fought to be mainstream and cool. She knew she looked good, and that was that.
She blew a kiss at the mirror then screwed the cap back onto her lipgloss, she delivered a wink to her reflection before staring at her nose again. The beak. Oh how she just wanted to raise a couple grand and let a surgeon hack it off and replace it with something cute, something pretty. She gave a small sigh as she tucked the lipgloss back into the "Fuitton" bag and pulled out a tube of liquid foundation. She took a step back as she applied it, bumping into someone, and turned her head, issuing a stock apology, before being drawn back towards her mirror.
She squeezed a pea sized dollop of a camel semisolid onto her finger tip, then massaged it into her cheeks. She began silently reciting her lines as she began concealing her freckles. Ho, daughter! Are you up? Fancy calling your daughter a ho, lady. She stopped her fingers and let out a dry chuckle, before resuming her quick cosmetic touch up. Why, how now, Juliet! Sheri worked the last of the foundation into her face, before wiping her fingers on a tissue. She gave one last inspection of her reflection before taking her anthology textbook from the locker, a disapproving grimace formed on her face due to her dislike of poetry, before her eyes widened as she heard the obnoxiously loud voice of Harris Van Allen, shouting in anger.
"The fuck! You trying to spring a VC trap on me, you fucking zipperhead?"
Zipperhead? How articulate, Sounds like a toy. Sheri shut her locker door and turned, placing her back to it. A silent gasp escaped her lips and she suddenly clutched the anthology to her chest, she watched as Harris pulled a clump of pretty black hair from the scalp of a petite asian. The girls head whipped back with such speed that Sheri thought that her neck would snap. Sheri raised a hand to her mouth, watching the scene unfold. Tears streamed down the girls face. No, not any girls face, Marilyn's face.
The meek asian girl who always pointed her face to the floor, as if ashamed of her exotic features. The one who barely spoke, not wanting to be noticed. The one who was always picked on, snide comments from passers-by, antagonised by Harris, hell, even Mr. Barrett was a complete douche in her presence. The girl in the shitty clothes, one dirtcheap outfit after the other, normally Sheri would have some distaste towards somebody who took no pride in their appearance, but it wasn't hard to guess that Marilyn lacked the funds for a proficient makeover.
No disgust came across Sheri's mind whenever the girl rarely entered her head, she never noticed her in person, at least most of the time. She was just a sweet girl who drew the short straw in ancestry, and lived each day a reclusive wreck for something that was always out of her hands. The girl even shared a name with one of Sheri's many favourite Hollywood icons, she couldn't conjure up any hatred for Marilyn Williams, when all she could feel was the bitter taste of pity.
"You should be fucking thankful we let nips like you stay in this country,"
Sheri sometimes felt unlucky for her distant upbringing, and even though she knew little to nothing about Marilyn, she had that strong feeling that the shy "nip" had it alot worse than she did. Marilyn Williams, the film adaption of her autobiography would be a real tear jerker, that was for sure. Harris, he hadn't antagonised Sheri or poked much fun at her, he hadn't been directly mean to her face, and for that, as much as she cringed about it, meant she couldn't class him as an enemy. But she could hate him with all her guts, she'd allowed herself that luxury.
"Otherwise my father would be out stacking you fuckers waist high in your goddamn tunnels."
A fist connected with a face. People filed past, not wanting to be drawn in. Sheri stood there for a moment, her eyes welling with tears. She shut her eyes and sucked in some air, and turned back to her own locker and began fumbling with the combination. She had wanted to help, she really did, but she was too scared to think about what may happen to herself. Would Harris track her down and beat her into a pulpy mess? Send her beak caving inwards with his big fist? Would others look at her with shame because she did the big 'no no' by sticking up for a minority? She felt sick, and Lady Capulet's lines didn't seem so important.
She knew she couldn't help Marilyn Williams or stand up to Harris Van Allen, even as big a hypocrite he was with a surname that practically screamed "I'm Dutch or German!". She found solace in the hope that one day he'd be put into his place by someone bigger and stronger than he was, and she'd like nothing more than for it to be captured on film and sent to herself and Marilyn to watch with glee and buttered popcorn in their own private screening room.
"You want your five dollar now?!"
Sheri turned, averting her eyes from the monster and his prey, and quickly joined the line of people abandoning the scene. Evermore weep...weeping for your...cousins death? Sheri shut her eyes and left the scene, ashamed at her own cowardice. But much of grief shows still some want for wit. Shit! I missed a load! and as she began practicing her lines again, Sheri abandoned Marilyn with a monster and an audience who wouldn't intervene. They wouldn't have done this to Marilyn Monroe, so why Marilyn Williams?
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Shawnee. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3448
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Another day, another press of people, another trundle through the halls. Karl Chalmers was, well, not quite sick of it all, but certainly disinterested in the monotony. There was very little of worth to be gained during the transition period between classes. Worse, he was jostled by the other students, though less than most (an upside to being willing to actually stand up for his rights to the principal when required). Karl did not like being bumped, and he did not like bumping into others, slowing or stopping as required to avoid such an outcome.
And then, the incident. All of a sudden, up in front, people circled up. Someone was being awfully loud. This looked like action. Looked like violations of the school code all over the place, too, and, as a patriotic member of the student council, it was Karl's job—nay, his obligation—to go find out what was happening so that he could make sure no guilty parties escaped unpunished. He wormed his way through the crowd, slipping past a grumbling senior, nearly tripping over a rotund freshman girl, until he was at the edge of the crowd. Pausing, he looked over the shorter students in front of him.
Oh. Harris. Predictable.
Harris was taller than Karl by a good notch, strong enough to succeed on the football team, and patriotic enough that Karl actually couldn't find much to fault with his motives. He clearly didn't understand that violence was a tragically-necessary means, rather than an end to itself, but it took all types to make the system work, and Harris would be a brilliant drill sergeant or middle school administrator in twenty years' time.
Especially if he kept up his discerning ways. Right now, he was bashing Marilyn Williams' face in. Karl winced in sympathy. He'd been on the wrong end of a punch or two in his time, before he'd learned to take matters into his own hands, in a very loose manner of speaking. He wondered what had started the fight. No way Harris had just flipped in the middle of the hall. He was unstable, but not to that degree. No, the little Asian girl must have goaded him somehow. Could've been anything, really. She was fair game, an acceptable target. All because her parents were from Korea or something. It was, in its way, an awful shame. Racial profiling wasn't fair to everyone, but, like the majority of the governments' actions, it served its purpose.
The institutionalized racism of the United States was actually one of its better achievements. To start with, foreigners and their descendants really were potentially dangerous. They often knew languages most Americans could not understand, allowing clandestine communications even in public. They would also be easy recruits to the causes of their nations of origin, having divided loyalties.
But, more than that, an "other" against which to measure oneself did wonders for the self esteem of the school. No matter how bad things got, hey, at least you weren't Marilyn Williams. On a national scale, this meant that there was nearly always someone who had it worse. It was a warning: there, but for the grace of the General, go you. Yes, the seemingly-arbitrary ease with which one found oneself a pariah was a constant reminder to work hard and follow the laws.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't nice. But it was the best thing for the nation, and hey, can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs.
Karl had this speech, these reasons, memorized. He had to whip it out with alarming frequency. Ironically, by arguing against his points, his classmates more often than not proved their validity, showing just how easily dangerous dissent could endanger the lives and wellbeing of the whole.
Harris was screaming some sort of crude racial insult into the girl's face. It was pretty barbaric, but it wasn't worth reporting in the slightest, not in the least because the administration wouldn't do anything about it. Besides, as he'd surmised, there was no way Harris had gone off unprovoked. Had Karl seen the initiating action, he could have shared that, but given that Marilyn wasn't getting away unpunished anyways, it seemed almost pointless.
So he just stood, watching as casually as he could, trying not to stand out.
And then, the incident. All of a sudden, up in front, people circled up. Someone was being awfully loud. This looked like action. Looked like violations of the school code all over the place, too, and, as a patriotic member of the student council, it was Karl's job—nay, his obligation—to go find out what was happening so that he could make sure no guilty parties escaped unpunished. He wormed his way through the crowd, slipping past a grumbling senior, nearly tripping over a rotund freshman girl, until he was at the edge of the crowd. Pausing, he looked over the shorter students in front of him.
Oh. Harris. Predictable.
Harris was taller than Karl by a good notch, strong enough to succeed on the football team, and patriotic enough that Karl actually couldn't find much to fault with his motives. He clearly didn't understand that violence was a tragically-necessary means, rather than an end to itself, but it took all types to make the system work, and Harris would be a brilliant drill sergeant or middle school administrator in twenty years' time.
Especially if he kept up his discerning ways. Right now, he was bashing Marilyn Williams' face in. Karl winced in sympathy. He'd been on the wrong end of a punch or two in his time, before he'd learned to take matters into his own hands, in a very loose manner of speaking. He wondered what had started the fight. No way Harris had just flipped in the middle of the hall. He was unstable, but not to that degree. No, the little Asian girl must have goaded him somehow. Could've been anything, really. She was fair game, an acceptable target. All because her parents were from Korea or something. It was, in its way, an awful shame. Racial profiling wasn't fair to everyone, but, like the majority of the governments' actions, it served its purpose.
The institutionalized racism of the United States was actually one of its better achievements. To start with, foreigners and their descendants really were potentially dangerous. They often knew languages most Americans could not understand, allowing clandestine communications even in public. They would also be easy recruits to the causes of their nations of origin, having divided loyalties.
But, more than that, an "other" against which to measure oneself did wonders for the self esteem of the school. No matter how bad things got, hey, at least you weren't Marilyn Williams. On a national scale, this meant that there was nearly always someone who had it worse. It was a warning: there, but for the grace of the General, go you. Yes, the seemingly-arbitrary ease with which one found oneself a pariah was a constant reminder to work hard and follow the laws.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't nice. But it was the best thing for the nation, and hey, can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs.
Karl had this speech, these reasons, memorized. He had to whip it out with alarming frequency. Ironically, by arguing against his points, his classmates more often than not proved their validity, showing just how easily dangerous dissent could endanger the lives and wellbeing of the whole.
Harris was screaming some sort of crude racial insult into the girl's face. It was pretty barbaric, but it wasn't worth reporting in the slightest, not in the least because the administration wouldn't do anything about it. Besides, as he'd surmised, there was no way Harris had gone off unprovoked. Had Karl seen the initiating action, he could have shared that, but given that Marilyn wasn't getting away unpunished anyways, it seemed almost pointless.
So he just stood, watching as casually as he could, trying not to stand out.
Marilyn had heard it all before. Over and over again, from more mouths that just that of Harris, too. That didn't mean it cut any less deep the thousandth time than the first. It was years after the day she'd pried open her locker door (naturally, somebody had kicked it in, denting the metal) to find that someone had systematically scribbled out her name from every last exercise book and replaced it with 'slant-eyed scum', but all that hadn't gone towards numbing... this. Harris's spit splattered straight into Marilyn's face as he snarled down at her, his grip on her hair forcing her onto tip-toes to stop it hurting so badly. The apology had fallen onto deaf ears, not that she'd expected much of anything else. Right then, the one thing Marilyn wished more than anything else was that she could just curl up into a ball and vanish.
Instead, she just braced. Marilyn didn't struggle or try to shield herself, the girl simply... submitted. There was nothing she could do, she knew it form experience. This was just her 'due'. ...And she didn't understand it. Marilyn came from here, she'd grown up in Pittsburgh and had the accent to go with it. She couldn't speak Japanese any more than she could hold a polite conversation with a stray dog. Just because she looked a little different than most, that made this all okay? ...But of course it did. Barrett's little smirk when he called her an 'inferior' student said that. The resigned looks on her parents' faces when she came home with a fresh crop of bruises said that.
"Fuck her up Harris!"
"Show that Jap cunt what a real American can do!"
Tears had already started streaming down Marilyn's face in earnest when Harris hammered her in the cheek with a blow that made her knees fold and let out a cry of pain in the meantime. A cheer went up from the crowd, whooping and whistles. Harris's grip on her hair ensured that she didn't drop to the ground, and just seconds later she was hauled back up to something approaching her feet. Then Harris screamed at her, meaningless words, really, but considering Marilyn's dark eyes were already filled with anguish, they served as a pretty good coup de grace. Her entire slender frame was wracked with sobs.
"Puh-puhp-p-p-p-please..." Marilyn's voice was pleading for Harris not to do anything else. She had no dignity, she wasn't above begging, just to get this to stop, just so she could get away...
Yup, all in all, a pretty average day.
Instead, she just braced. Marilyn didn't struggle or try to shield herself, the girl simply... submitted. There was nothing she could do, she knew it form experience. This was just her 'due'. ...And she didn't understand it. Marilyn came from here, she'd grown up in Pittsburgh and had the accent to go with it. She couldn't speak Japanese any more than she could hold a polite conversation with a stray dog. Just because she looked a little different than most, that made this all okay? ...But of course it did. Barrett's little smirk when he called her an 'inferior' student said that. The resigned looks on her parents' faces when she came home with a fresh crop of bruises said that.
"Fuck her up Harris!"
"Show that Jap cunt what a real American can do!"
Tears had already started streaming down Marilyn's face in earnest when Harris hammered her in the cheek with a blow that made her knees fold and let out a cry of pain in the meantime. A cheer went up from the crowd, whooping and whistles. Harris's grip on her hair ensured that she didn't drop to the ground, and just seconds later she was hauled back up to something approaching her feet. Then Harris screamed at her, meaningless words, really, but considering Marilyn's dark eyes were already filled with anguish, they served as a pretty good coup de grace. Her entire slender frame was wracked with sobs.
"Puh-puhp-p-p-p-please..." Marilyn's voice was pleading for Harris not to do anything else. She had no dignity, she wasn't above begging, just to get this to stop, just so she could get away...
Yup, all in all, a pretty average day.
And the crowd went wild with every swing, Harris thought, as he started to figure this really would be an 'average' day for him. Or more specifically, a day that "averaged out" for him. Sure, it as bad up to here, but maybe he could do something good (for himself, in his own twisted sense) that would compensate for it.
It was time for a coup de grace. With a good heft (and this took quite a bit of effort, given that he wasn't exactly lifting weights) he swung himself and Marilyn to one side, slamming her directly into the locker next to his with a very audible clang. The fact that people were actually cheering for his rampage only helped him swing her even harder. Indeed, the force of the impact rattled through her, back up his arms and into his torso as a sort of physical return for all the rage he'd "channeled" into her only moments ago.
But oh no, he wasn't done yet. Or at least he hoped he wasn't, up until somewhere on the rebound when he noticed that she suddenly seemed to have gotten a LOT lighter, enough to send him staggering back on his feet. Then he realized quite gruesomely that he no longer had an actual grip on his favorite punching bag. It was as if she really did get her wish to suddenly disappear, before he then noticed that she was, in fact, still there.
"Jesus what the fuck!?" he exclaimed as he opened his hands to find the clumps of Marilyn's hair he had grabbed were no longer attached to her head. He shook it out of his hands in a rather flamboyant manner as if he'd grabbed a fistful of manure. "You trying to contaminate me!?" he shouted, reaching his arms out to grab her again. His eyes almost seemed to burn from the rage.
Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be a perfectly 'averaged out' day. If she wanted the opportunity to escape, this was it.
It was time for a coup de grace. With a good heft (and this took quite a bit of effort, given that he wasn't exactly lifting weights) he swung himself and Marilyn to one side, slamming her directly into the locker next to his with a very audible clang. The fact that people were actually cheering for his rampage only helped him swing her even harder. Indeed, the force of the impact rattled through her, back up his arms and into his torso as a sort of physical return for all the rage he'd "channeled" into her only moments ago.
But oh no, he wasn't done yet. Or at least he hoped he wasn't, up until somewhere on the rebound when he noticed that she suddenly seemed to have gotten a LOT lighter, enough to send him staggering back on his feet. Then he realized quite gruesomely that he no longer had an actual grip on his favorite punching bag. It was as if she really did get her wish to suddenly disappear, before he then noticed that she was, in fact, still there.
"Jesus what the fuck!?" he exclaimed as he opened his hands to find the clumps of Marilyn's hair he had grabbed were no longer attached to her head. He shook it out of his hands in a rather flamboyant manner as if he'd grabbed a fistful of manure. "You trying to contaminate me!?" he shouted, reaching his arms out to grab her again. His eyes almost seemed to burn from the rage.
Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be a perfectly 'averaged out' day. If she wanted the opportunity to escape, this was it.
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3448
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
It kept going. The crowd was getting into it too, cheering, shouting out in solidarity. Karl just watched. It was odd. He felt a little sorry for Marilyn, a little excited at it all, but mostly just somewhat apathetic. This sort of scene rapidly lost its diversion value. Still, better not to wander off, lest someone mistake it for disgust. His reputation would never recover if people thought he actually cared about this sort of thing.
Then, there was a change. Specifically, Marilyn lost a good amount of hair, something that seemed to confuse Harris greatly. Well, confuse and infuriate him. It was rapidly becoming clear to Karl that Harris was using anything and everything as an excuse to maintain his beatings. He was quite skilled in the art of justification. A good fact to file away: it meant that Harris was the sort whose bad side it would be a mistake to get on. There was nothing worse than being cheated out of justice by a sly manipulator.
Well, okay, maybe "sly" was a stretch. Still, he and Harris were ideologically compatible, thank goodness.
It seemed like this was the best opening if Marilyn wanted to escape. Karl checked his watch. Still a few minutes left before they had to be anywhere. Yeah, getting going would definitely be the girl's best bet.
Then, there was a change. Specifically, Marilyn lost a good amount of hair, something that seemed to confuse Harris greatly. Well, confuse and infuriate him. It was rapidly becoming clear to Karl that Harris was using anything and everything as an excuse to maintain his beatings. He was quite skilled in the art of justification. A good fact to file away: it meant that Harris was the sort whose bad side it would be a mistake to get on. There was nothing worse than being cheated out of justice by a sly manipulator.
Well, okay, maybe "sly" was a stretch. Still, he and Harris were ideologically compatible, thank goodness.
It seemed like this was the best opening if Marilyn wanted to escape. Karl checked his watch. Still a few minutes left before they had to be anywhere. Yeah, getting going would definitely be the girl's best bet.
He wasn’t done. God help her Harris wasn’t stopping. Marilyn had thought, maybe for just a second that the boy would be done after the punch and the insults and the hair pulling. He’d come after her before, even outright hit her a couple of times, like now. But… that was usually the end of it. Harris was usually content to leave her hurt, but not severely injured. You couldn’t get away with hospitalising somebody, even if they were of non-American descent. Not in school, at least.
He’s crazy. He’s actually insane. He’s gonna kill me and they’re all gonna stand there cheering. Somebody… please...
But of course there was nobody. The audience were watching because they loved the spectacle, because a fight was always interesting. Some of them – probably a majority, were enjoying seeing her get beaten up. Marilyn was used to that. Others, fewer now that lessons approached, were filtering past, keeping to the edges of the hall. None of them would meet her eyes. Some pointedly looked away from what was happening. That was the other kind of people. The ones that didn’t want to rock the boat or cause a fuss. The ones that just kept their heads down, because this was just the way things were.
And then of course there was Marilyn, at the centre of it all. At low times, Marilyn resented her parents. She sometimes even outright hated them for their selfishness. They’d known this would happen. They’d known that if they had a kid, they’d look the way she looked. Suffer the way she suffered. Now was one of those times.
Harris hauled her up and around, and Marilyn’s eyes had time to widen before her face exploded with pain and an ungodly clang of bone on metal. She cried out again as the impact reverberated through her skull and indeed her whole body. Marilyn felt something trickling down her forehead in the brief moment before Harris wrenched her back again and fresh pain sprang up on her scalp. The young Asian, small in size, suddenly went flying, the momentum sending her to the floor and causing her to slide a couple of feet.
M-my hair! Oh god he r-ripped out my hair!
Marilyn, sitting on her butt on the ground, looked back at Harris to see him clutching at two clumps of black locks. He proceeded to hurl them away like they were some kind of poison, his disgust keening through her. Was… was she really so abhorrent?
Maybe. Important thing was that Marilyn actually had some space. Fighting back or resisting was a no go. Running? There was nothing wrong with running. Marilyn had no shame left to burn. On her hands and knees, she scrambled away, eluding Harris’s grasp just barely. Through the pain that seemed to suffuse every part of her head, Marilyn was dimly aware that was still crying. Trying to regain her feet, Marilyn put her hand on the handle of a door set into one side of the corridor.
Marilyn looked up. Saw a simple sign and in that saw sanctuary. It was the girl’s bathroom. Even Harris wouldn’t follow her in there, if only because somebody else who wasn’t such an acceptable target might be inside. The teen managed to get back to her feet and looked back at Harris, Harris and the crowd around him. Her face twisted for a second as something dripped into her eye.
“I-I huh-huh-h-HATE yuh-yuh-you! –uh-uh-All of y-y-yuh-you!”
Then she ducked inside, ran to the row of sinks positioned along the opposite wall, and clutched one of the basins like a lifeline. Then Marilyn looked into the mirror. She saw a girl with her hair in a mess, missing noticeable chunks. She saw a girl wearing tattered old clothes. She saw a girl with a tear-streaked face, a two inch cut on her forehead streaming with blood. She saw a young girl in distress, in pain. But most importantly, Marilyn saw a girl with skin that wasn’t exactly the colour of everyone else’s, and with dark brown eyes, streaming with tears, that happened to have a slight slant to them.
And to all the others, that was all that really mattered.
Marilyn turned from the mirror and slumped against the sink. Allowing herself to slide down until she was sitting on the floor, Marilyn buried her head in her hands and wept.
He’s crazy. He’s actually insane. He’s gonna kill me and they’re all gonna stand there cheering. Somebody… please...
But of course there was nobody. The audience were watching because they loved the spectacle, because a fight was always interesting. Some of them – probably a majority, were enjoying seeing her get beaten up. Marilyn was used to that. Others, fewer now that lessons approached, were filtering past, keeping to the edges of the hall. None of them would meet her eyes. Some pointedly looked away from what was happening. That was the other kind of people. The ones that didn’t want to rock the boat or cause a fuss. The ones that just kept their heads down, because this was just the way things were.
And then of course there was Marilyn, at the centre of it all. At low times, Marilyn resented her parents. She sometimes even outright hated them for their selfishness. They’d known this would happen. They’d known that if they had a kid, they’d look the way she looked. Suffer the way she suffered. Now was one of those times.
Harris hauled her up and around, and Marilyn’s eyes had time to widen before her face exploded with pain and an ungodly clang of bone on metal. She cried out again as the impact reverberated through her skull and indeed her whole body. Marilyn felt something trickling down her forehead in the brief moment before Harris wrenched her back again and fresh pain sprang up on her scalp. The young Asian, small in size, suddenly went flying, the momentum sending her to the floor and causing her to slide a couple of feet.
M-my hair! Oh god he r-ripped out my hair!
Marilyn, sitting on her butt on the ground, looked back at Harris to see him clutching at two clumps of black locks. He proceeded to hurl them away like they were some kind of poison, his disgust keening through her. Was… was she really so abhorrent?
Maybe. Important thing was that Marilyn actually had some space. Fighting back or resisting was a no go. Running? There was nothing wrong with running. Marilyn had no shame left to burn. On her hands and knees, she scrambled away, eluding Harris’s grasp just barely. Through the pain that seemed to suffuse every part of her head, Marilyn was dimly aware that was still crying. Trying to regain her feet, Marilyn put her hand on the handle of a door set into one side of the corridor.
Marilyn looked up. Saw a simple sign and in that saw sanctuary. It was the girl’s bathroom. Even Harris wouldn’t follow her in there, if only because somebody else who wasn’t such an acceptable target might be inside. The teen managed to get back to her feet and looked back at Harris, Harris and the crowd around him. Her face twisted for a second as something dripped into her eye.
“I-I huh-huh-h-HATE yuh-yuh-you! –uh-uh-All of y-y-yuh-you!”
Then she ducked inside, ran to the row of sinks positioned along the opposite wall, and clutched one of the basins like a lifeline. Then Marilyn looked into the mirror. She saw a girl with her hair in a mess, missing noticeable chunks. She saw a girl wearing tattered old clothes. She saw a girl with a tear-streaked face, a two inch cut on her forehead streaming with blood. She saw a young girl in distress, in pain. But most importantly, Marilyn saw a girl with skin that wasn’t exactly the colour of everyone else’s, and with dark brown eyes, streaming with tears, that happened to have a slight slant to them.
And to all the others, that was all that really mattered.
Marilyn turned from the mirror and slumped against the sink. Allowing herself to slide down until she was sitting on the floor, Marilyn buried her head in her hands and wept.
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3448
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Huh. Seemed like things were rapidly coming to an end. Karl checked his watch. Still plenty of time to get to class. He wouldn't even have to rush. Should've been simple. After all, everything was done. Harris was ticked, Marilyn seemed to be on the retreat, and order would soon reign again. A little force never did permanent damage, after all.
Then Marilyn had to go and mess all that up. She yelled t them. Not Harris, but everyone around, like it was their fault she'd ticked the guy off. Heck, she couldn't blame them for watching, couldn't blame them for not stepping in. For one, picking a bone with Harris was a great way to get clobbered. Karl knew about getting beaten, had a scar to prove it. There was no reason he should've stuck his neck out for someone else. More than that, it was hypocritical in the extreme for Marilyn to hold inaction against the students. She wasn't some sort of defender of the oppressed. She basically coasted by, laying low, same as they all did. She had a genetic disadvantage, but, well, tough luck. It wasn't anyone else's fault she'd been born Asian.
And yet, somehow, Karl and the other students were to blame because they didn't do something dumb? It was... well, Karl didn't get annoyed all that often,. but this really made him burn. Especially since Marilyn just shouted it out and shot off into the girls' bathroom. Yeah, real brave. Give everyone a metaphorical slap across the face and then run from the consequences. Hide, go to ground somewhere no one can touch you. Small wonder Harris had decided to beat her. And now she was going to just get away with what she'd done, have her part go unacknowledged.
Well, maybe that's how she thought things would go, but it wouldn't be so easy. Oh no, not while Karl was around. She'd sullied the school's dignity, disrupted order, and, beyond that, insulted him. Yeah, and with everything that had happened here, no way she'd be off the hook completely.
It was really fortunate that the office was on the way to math class.
So Karl took off, dodging and weaving his way through the crowds, casting glances backwards. No way she'd be out of that bathroom in time to get to class. No way at all. Karl misstepped, got nudged into a locker, righted himself with a flinch, old reflexes coming into play as he raised an arm to fend off any attack. None came, but the memories, brought up for the second time in the past few minutes, did nothing to brighten his mood. This day just kept getting better.
And then, he was in the office. The principal was out, but Vice Principal Suthers was there, sitting at a desk, flipping through papers. She glanced up, looking annoyed for a moment, but then her expression brightened, if only a bit. Karl got on well with the staff. They appreciated his enthusiasm and love of the rules, and he made their jobs easier by keeping an eye out for trouble.
"What can I do for you, Chalmers?" the woman asked.
"I'm really sorry to have to disturb you, ma'am," Karl said, and he was, but this had to be said, "but there was an incident in the hallway. From what I've gathered (and I wasn't there at the start), Marilyn did something to upset Harris."—it was a safe bet that the vice principal already knew both of those names—"Anyways, they had an altercation, and Marilyn screamed at everyone in the hall, called us names. Now she's in the girls' bathroom. I think she's ditching class.
"Anyways, just thought you should know. I've got to run to make it to math."
"Thank you for your report, Chalmers. I'll make sure someone looks into it."
It was over like that. With a wave, a smile, and a "Have a nice day," Karl was on his way to math, content in the knowledge that order had been preserved and justice served.
((Breaking order here because, well, I'm not really sure there even is one, and Karl only had one more thing to do here.))
Then Marilyn had to go and mess all that up. She yelled t them. Not Harris, but everyone around, like it was their fault she'd ticked the guy off. Heck, she couldn't blame them for watching, couldn't blame them for not stepping in. For one, picking a bone with Harris was a great way to get clobbered. Karl knew about getting beaten, had a scar to prove it. There was no reason he should've stuck his neck out for someone else. More than that, it was hypocritical in the extreme for Marilyn to hold inaction against the students. She wasn't some sort of defender of the oppressed. She basically coasted by, laying low, same as they all did. She had a genetic disadvantage, but, well, tough luck. It wasn't anyone else's fault she'd been born Asian.
And yet, somehow, Karl and the other students were to blame because they didn't do something dumb? It was... well, Karl didn't get annoyed all that often,. but this really made him burn. Especially since Marilyn just shouted it out and shot off into the girls' bathroom. Yeah, real brave. Give everyone a metaphorical slap across the face and then run from the consequences. Hide, go to ground somewhere no one can touch you. Small wonder Harris had decided to beat her. And now she was going to just get away with what she'd done, have her part go unacknowledged.
Well, maybe that's how she thought things would go, but it wouldn't be so easy. Oh no, not while Karl was around. She'd sullied the school's dignity, disrupted order, and, beyond that, insulted him. Yeah, and with everything that had happened here, no way she'd be off the hook completely.
It was really fortunate that the office was on the way to math class.
So Karl took off, dodging and weaving his way through the crowds, casting glances backwards. No way she'd be out of that bathroom in time to get to class. No way at all. Karl misstepped, got nudged into a locker, righted himself with a flinch, old reflexes coming into play as he raised an arm to fend off any attack. None came, but the memories, brought up for the second time in the past few minutes, did nothing to brighten his mood. This day just kept getting better.
And then, he was in the office. The principal was out, but Vice Principal Suthers was there, sitting at a desk, flipping through papers. She glanced up, looking annoyed for a moment, but then her expression brightened, if only a bit. Karl got on well with the staff. They appreciated his enthusiasm and love of the rules, and he made their jobs easier by keeping an eye out for trouble.
"What can I do for you, Chalmers?" the woman asked.
"I'm really sorry to have to disturb you, ma'am," Karl said, and he was, but this had to be said, "but there was an incident in the hallway. From what I've gathered (and I wasn't there at the start), Marilyn did something to upset Harris."—it was a safe bet that the vice principal already knew both of those names—"Anyways, they had an altercation, and Marilyn screamed at everyone in the hall, called us names. Now she's in the girls' bathroom. I think she's ditching class.
"Anyways, just thought you should know. I've got to run to make it to math."
"Thank you for your report, Chalmers. I'll make sure someone looks into it."
It was over like that. With a wave, a smile, and a "Have a nice day," Karl was on his way to math, content in the knowledge that order had been preserved and justice served.
((Breaking order here because, well, I'm not really sure there even is one, and Karl only had one more thing to do here.))
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storyspoiler*
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- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
Juliet was pissed she hadn't made it to the lockers until now.
“I-I huh-huh-h-HATE yuh-yuh-you! –uh-uh-All of y-y-yuh-you!”
Marilyn. Marilyn. Marilyn, running, crying, to the girl's bathroom, and Harris, that fuckface, holding a wad of her hair. Being a racist bitch, as usual. Juliet's first instinct was to haymaker him.
But she couldn't do that.
The ache in her leg still reminded her. No violence. Not from you.
More violence would be the end of her. And she didn't want to be ended right yet.
But Marilyn.
And now Karl Chalmers was slipping off, like a slimeball, probably going to report Marilyn for crying in the girl's bathroom. Juliet was briefly tempted to report both him and Harris for being dickwads, not that that bitch Suthers would believe her, ever. She'd end up taking the blame, and if she was taking the blame, she was taking the blame in some way that got Marilyn off the hook. Not being a putz.
Well. There was Harris. And by reaching up, she could put her hand on his shoulder, and lean down with perhaps a little more weight than was comfortable.
He snapped around, almost hitting her in the face. She stepped back. Graceful, good. Her mother's voice.
"You really think the best way to stand up for America is to pick on kids like Marilyn?"
Harris seemed about to reply in the affirmative, so Juliet continued.
"She keeps her head low. She acts like she's worse than the rest of you. Isn't that what you people want--for them who look the weensiest bit foreign to act lower'n dirt? So why are you hurting her so? It's negative reinforcement. You keep picking on her like that, maybe she'll strike back one day. Who knows? Maybe she'll just try to hurt you. Or maybe she'll decide that your whole precious America that you try to protect--'all men are created equal'--is just as bullshit as you make it sound, patriot."
The last comment was a little strong, perhaps. But she could take some trouble.
“I-I huh-huh-h-HATE yuh-yuh-you! –uh-uh-All of y-y-yuh-you!”
Marilyn. Marilyn. Marilyn, running, crying, to the girl's bathroom, and Harris, that fuckface, holding a wad of her hair. Being a racist bitch, as usual. Juliet's first instinct was to haymaker him.
But she couldn't do that.
The ache in her leg still reminded her. No violence. Not from you.
More violence would be the end of her. And she didn't want to be ended right yet.
But Marilyn.
And now Karl Chalmers was slipping off, like a slimeball, probably going to report Marilyn for crying in the girl's bathroom. Juliet was briefly tempted to report both him and Harris for being dickwads, not that that bitch Suthers would believe her, ever. She'd end up taking the blame, and if she was taking the blame, she was taking the blame in some way that got Marilyn off the hook. Not being a putz.
Well. There was Harris. And by reaching up, she could put her hand on his shoulder, and lean down with perhaps a little more weight than was comfortable.
He snapped around, almost hitting her in the face. She stepped back. Graceful, good. Her mother's voice.
"You really think the best way to stand up for America is to pick on kids like Marilyn?"
Harris seemed about to reply in the affirmative, so Juliet continued.
"She keeps her head low. She acts like she's worse than the rest of you. Isn't that what you people want--for them who look the weensiest bit foreign to act lower'n dirt? So why are you hurting her so? It's negative reinforcement. You keep picking on her like that, maybe she'll strike back one day. Who knows? Maybe she'll just try to hurt you. Or maybe she'll decide that your whole precious America that you try to protect--'all men are created equal'--is just as bullshit as you make it sound, patriot."
The last comment was a little strong, perhaps. But she could take some trouble.
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Harris rubbed his hands on his jeans, quickly dispelling the mental connotations of 'contamination' from holding that wad of Marilyn's hair before rubbing some of the blood from his nose. With the crowd starting to disperse from having sent Marilyn crying, he found the space to kneel down and pick up the books he dropped before putting them into his locker. Of course, he'd barely put the first book back in before someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned around and that instant, lo and behold, it was if one of the pretty Aryan cheerleaders suddenly walked past him with a gigantic "Round 2" sign over her head before leaving him face-to-face with none other than Juliet Watanabe. His eyes winced as if he were staring down General Hideki Fucking Tojo from the bow of the exploding USS Goddamn Arizona. Of course, he hadn't even known of a time when people would actually flee those shitty hellhole countries TO America instead of FROM it. For all he knew, they could go right back where they came from and then maybe they'd finally be able to find the money to fix up the Veterans Hospitals for once instead of paying for these foreigners' goddamn welfare and the dumping (he refused to dignify the so-called contamination of American soil with the word 'burial') of their gang members.
"You really think the best way to stand up for America is to pick on kids like Marilyn?" she began.
'And who the fuck do you think you are?' Harris thought, opening his mouth to speak those words. Unfortunately, she decided to continue before the first syllable rose from his lungs.
"She keeps her head low. She acts like she's worse than the rest of you. Isn't that what you people want--for them who look the weensiest bit foreign to act lower'n dirt? So why are you hurting her so? It's negative reinforcement. You keep picking on her like that, maybe she'll strike back one day. Who knows? Maybe she'll just try to hurt you. Or maybe she'll decide that your whole precious America that you try to protect--'all men are created equal'--is just as bullshit as you make it sound, patriot."
Harris let Juliet preach. It let him gather his thoughts and besides which, free speech had to be tolerated to a point repeatedly made with her famously-disappeared siblings. Once she finished, however, he didn't even give her a chance to catch her breath before he retorted. He didn't need another fight right now lest he end up serving the 105th Airborne Crusaders for first-degree murder (even for killing a foreigner it wasn't nearly the best of patriotic reasons even he'd admit), but the way things were going, needs were quickly becoming separate from wants. And he found himself really, really needing to lay down the law.
"I don't know who the fuck you think you are," Harris muttered, particularly emphasizing his profanity while pointing a very accusing finger at her, "But all Americans are created equal. Marilyn isn't American and the fuck if you are either. Now get the FUCK out of my face before I personally teach you the same lesson your niploving family learned. Fuck, maybe I'll join the goddamn Air Force and nuke the fuck out of your country again." At that point, he was already shouting.
He made a mental note about this being the only warning he'd give her, before turning his back to her to finish arranging his books in his locker wishing she somehow disappeared before he turned back. As much as his grades were falling, there was even less patriotism in academic failure than there was in actually taking someone's life for a purpose other than defending this New Columbia from the horde.
He turned around and that instant, lo and behold, it was if one of the pretty Aryan cheerleaders suddenly walked past him with a gigantic "Round 2" sign over her head before leaving him face-to-face with none other than Juliet Watanabe. His eyes winced as if he were staring down General Hideki Fucking Tojo from the bow of the exploding USS Goddamn Arizona. Of course, he hadn't even known of a time when people would actually flee those shitty hellhole countries TO America instead of FROM it. For all he knew, they could go right back where they came from and then maybe they'd finally be able to find the money to fix up the Veterans Hospitals for once instead of paying for these foreigners' goddamn welfare and the dumping (he refused to dignify the so-called contamination of American soil with the word 'burial') of their gang members.
"You really think the best way to stand up for America is to pick on kids like Marilyn?" she began.
'And who the fuck do you think you are?' Harris thought, opening his mouth to speak those words. Unfortunately, she decided to continue before the first syllable rose from his lungs.
"She keeps her head low. She acts like she's worse than the rest of you. Isn't that what you people want--for them who look the weensiest bit foreign to act lower'n dirt? So why are you hurting her so? It's negative reinforcement. You keep picking on her like that, maybe she'll strike back one day. Who knows? Maybe she'll just try to hurt you. Or maybe she'll decide that your whole precious America that you try to protect--'all men are created equal'--is just as bullshit as you make it sound, patriot."
Harris let Juliet preach. It let him gather his thoughts and besides which, free speech had to be tolerated to a point repeatedly made with her famously-disappeared siblings. Once she finished, however, he didn't even give her a chance to catch her breath before he retorted. He didn't need another fight right now lest he end up serving the 105th Airborne Crusaders for first-degree murder (even for killing a foreigner it wasn't nearly the best of patriotic reasons even he'd admit), but the way things were going, needs were quickly becoming separate from wants. And he found himself really, really needing to lay down the law.
"I don't know who the fuck you think you are," Harris muttered, particularly emphasizing his profanity while pointing a very accusing finger at her, "But all Americans are created equal. Marilyn isn't American and the fuck if you are either. Now get the FUCK out of my face before I personally teach you the same lesson your niploving family learned. Fuck, maybe I'll join the goddamn Air Force and nuke the fuck out of your country again." At that point, he was already shouting.
He made a mental note about this being the only warning he'd give her, before turning his back to her to finish arranging his books in his locker wishing she somehow disappeared before he turned back. As much as his grades were falling, there was even less patriotism in academic failure than there was in actually taking someone's life for a purpose other than defending this New Columbia from the horde.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler laZardo. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
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storyspoiler*
- Posts: 49
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 3:09 am
"I don't know who the fuck you think you are," Harris jabbed a finger at her chest, "But all Americans are created equal. Marilyn isn't American and the fuck if you are either. Now get the FUCK out of my face before I personally teach you the same lesson your niploving family learned. Fuck, maybe I'll join the goddamn Air Force and nuke the fuck out of your country again." And he was shouting.
Juliet stepped back, her eyes hitting the ground. Before I personally teach you the same lesson your niploving family learned. She had already balled her fists, curse her instincts. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. My family could eat you for breakfast, they were so much more than you'll ever be, you stupid piece of shit. You are an excrement who does posing as a human being. I hate you so much…
Her fists were balled, but she couldn't hit him. Not unless he hit her back. Not even if he hit her back. It would be her fault, it would be her fault, it was always her fault--
Hell with it. She was going to start a fight. Take punches. Defend. Drive Harris up the wall. Or at least freak him out to fuck. Turn this into a bad day for Harris Van Allen.
Oh Juliet, you are a bitch.
She stepped up to him.
"She's American enough for the government to take her. Do you think you're better than the government, Harris?" And with a smooth motion, she took his shoulders, looped a leg around his, pressing her crotch against his. Freak him out. "I hope you don't think you're better than the government. That might be traitorous." Her voice lowered to a whisper, and she pressed her lips put to his ear. God, I hate you. "And by the way, my family was a pack of saints, and this country didn't deserve them. I'd appreciate it much if you didn't talk about them so wildly."
Harris was recoiling and simultaneously hardening. Juliet smiled.
Traitor. Troublemaker. Deviant. Freak.
Close to Harris's face, she could hear her classmates snicker.
Good.
Juliet stepped back, her eyes hitting the ground. Before I personally teach you the same lesson your niploving family learned. She had already balled her fists, curse her instincts. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. My family could eat you for breakfast, they were so much more than you'll ever be, you stupid piece of shit. You are an excrement who does posing as a human being. I hate you so much…
Her fists were balled, but she couldn't hit him. Not unless he hit her back. Not even if he hit her back. It would be her fault, it would be her fault, it was always her fault--
Hell with it. She was going to start a fight. Take punches. Defend. Drive Harris up the wall. Or at least freak him out to fuck. Turn this into a bad day for Harris Van Allen.
Oh Juliet, you are a bitch.
She stepped up to him.
"She's American enough for the government to take her. Do you think you're better than the government, Harris?" And with a smooth motion, she took his shoulders, looped a leg around his, pressing her crotch against his. Freak him out. "I hope you don't think you're better than the government. That might be traitorous." Her voice lowered to a whisper, and she pressed her lips put to his ear. God, I hate you. "And by the way, my family was a pack of saints, and this country didn't deserve them. I'd appreciate it much if you didn't talk about them so wildly."
Harris was recoiling and simultaneously hardening. Juliet smiled.
Traitor. Troublemaker. Deviant. Freak.
Close to Harris's face, she could hear her classmates snicker.
Good.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler storyspoiler. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
"She's American enough for the government to take her. Do you think you're better than the government, Harris?" Juliet asked, suddenly stepping dangerously close to him. She did this quite deliberately, almost as if to try to trip him.
"I hope you don't think you're better than the government. That might be traitorous."
Harris' eyes winced into a razor-like glare. This day was going to turn out either really badly, or really great. He was already unsettled enough as it is, with Juliet already very much pressed against him to the point where the feeling was becoming mutual. He started to think of all the things he could do to her right then and there, and all the ways he could do her right then and there. She was practically seducing him, and suddenly it seemed that the others couldn't tell if he was sweating from being pushed into a corner, or sweating because his body had started 'pushing back'.
If only he didn't also have the irrational fear of further 'mongrel-izing' the Race. Then he could be okay with getting conscripted for a public display of affection.
"Bitch, I wish I could be better than the government," he sputtered, not having to shout to make her hear him at such close range, "Then they wouldn't slack off so much about stacking you with your gook traitor parents five foot high for sandbags." Saliva was already coming out of his mouth with every 's' and 'f' sound.
His classmates were snickering, most likely at her but probably at him too, for being so tensed up like this. It was then that he noticed his back was against his locker and, as he then noticed, she hadn't restrained his arms. Out of some disgust-inspired reflex, Harris moved to push her away with all his strength, pushing his arms out against her sides for maximum contact area.
"I hope you don't think you're better than the government. That might be traitorous."
Harris' eyes winced into a razor-like glare. This day was going to turn out either really badly, or really great. He was already unsettled enough as it is, with Juliet already very much pressed against him to the point where the feeling was becoming mutual. He started to think of all the things he could do to her right then and there, and all the ways he could do her right then and there. She was practically seducing him, and suddenly it seemed that the others couldn't tell if he was sweating from being pushed into a corner, or sweating because his body had started 'pushing back'.
If only he didn't also have the irrational fear of further 'mongrel-izing' the Race. Then he could be okay with getting conscripted for a public display of affection.
"Bitch, I wish I could be better than the government," he sputtered, not having to shout to make her hear him at such close range, "Then they wouldn't slack off so much about stacking you with your gook traitor parents five foot high for sandbags." Saliva was already coming out of his mouth with every 's' and 'f' sound.
His classmates were snickering, most likely at her but probably at him too, for being so tensed up like this. It was then that he noticed his back was against his locker and, as he then noticed, she hadn't restrained his arms. Out of some disgust-inspired reflex, Harris moved to push her away with all his strength, pushing his arms out against her sides for maximum contact area.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler laZardo. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.