“I don’t like it,” says Sweetie. “I had to kill a bunch of my colleagues in that stadium.”
“I don’t like it, either,” I say, following Sweetie’s lead. “I paid a lot of money for those crappy ninjas. They just got massacred. Anybody can get massacred. I wanted ninjas! Awesome ninjas! Is that where I went wrong? I didn’t specify I wanted ninjas of a certain calibre?”
Everything goes quiet. I don’t think anything happens, but this could be a bustling ninja hub and I’d never know it, because they’re so quiet and it’s damn dark in here.
“Those were good people,” says the unidentified male voice. (I’m sure it’s been identified previously by someone other than myself, although maybe it hasn’t been, so never mind.)
“I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘good people,’ ” I say.
Sweetie says, “I need to know who put me on Guy Boy Man’s case.”
“I can’t tell you that. Our records are confidential.”
“Please?”
“Okay. Let me just check his file.”
A few seconds pass during which I assume the unidentified male voice uses his hitherto unseen corporeal form to obtain, peruse, and absorb the necessary information.
“Here it is,” says the male voice. “Guy Boy Man was targeted by someone known as ‘The Principal.’ ”
“I knew it!” I clench my fist.
“I made air quotation marks when I said ‘The Principal,’ but you didn’t see. I assume you want his whereabouts too? Checking, checking. Here we go. The Principal can be found in The Principal’s Office.”
“Seems kind of obvious in retrospect,” I admit.
“Anything else?” asks the male voice. “No? We’re good? Okay. You’ll see yourselves out? Great. Thanks. Oh, wait a minute. Do you mind telling me why I shouldn’t just kill Guy Boy Man since you failed to derail his plans to end human suffering?”
“Flee, Sweetie, flee!” I yell, bravely. I run straight into a wall. I roll around on the floor for a while, holding my nose and cursing. Then, realizing the danger in which I still find myself, I feel around on the floor until I find my hat; clutching it in one hand, I start crawling. Unfortunately, I have no idea in which direction I should crawl. I get the distinct impression Sweetie and the person to whom the male voice belongs are watching me as plainly as if I was doing all this under bright lights. I crawl, bump into a wall, change direction, crawl some more.
“We can’t kill him,” says Sweetie.
“I’m pretty sure we can,” says the male voice in the dark. “You hold him.”
“No,” says Sweetie. “We can’t kill him because I love him.”
I almost stop crawling when Sweetie says that. Out of respect. But I keep crawling. Out of courage.
“What about The Principal?” asks the male voice. “He hasn’t got his money’s worth. I’ve got to think about TNA, Sweetie.”
“Let me worry about The Principal,” I say, crawling in heroic circles.
After a slight hesitation, the male voice says, “Make sure he does, Sweetie. Make sure he worries a lot.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
i Don’t Need an appointment Because i’m a Ninja
We have to wait for the school to open, so we go back to my castle and play videogames for a while. Then we get in my bulldozer and go out for a nice breakfast. Finally, we head to the school. That’s when I see a bunch of zombies ambling out of the gymnasium.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “The Zombie Acceptance Test was today,” says Sweetie
Honey, lifting his chin at them. “I totally forgot,” I say. “Look at all these new zombies.”
I watch them stagger away from the school in a group. Their tests have already been graded. They’ve passed, and they’ve already been infected with “the Strain.” Now they’re undead. Their eyes are glazed over: white. Their skin is cold-looking and grey. They don’t have any wounds yet from fighting with people who escaped the test and their children, but they will soon enough. Their clothes are stained blood-red from the students who didn’t pass the ZAT. You can almost still hear the screams in the air. Then I really do hear screams. They’re my own. It takes me a while to figure out why I’m screaming but then I do. I see Baby Doll15 in the crowd of zombies. She’s become one of them. She took the ZAT. She’s staggering forward, mindlessly. Sweetie Honey is holding me back. I’m trying to get out of the bulldozer. I’m trying to get to her. Where is her unicorn? Why didn’t it protect her from this? Baby Doll15 is a beautiful zombie. Her arms are stretched out in front of her, reaching for something she’ll never find. Her pale skin is even paler than usual. Her lightcoloured eyes are now completely white. Her pink hair is brighter than ever. It’s as vivid as the blood smeared over her face and down the front of her white shirt. I slump back in my seat, devastated. My mission isn’t so straightforward anymore. Now I have to find a way to turn zombies back into living people. Then I’m going to tell Baby Doll15 I love her. No matter what it costs me. Sweetie Honey and I sit in my bulldozer and watch the zombies and Baby Doll15 stumble away from Scare City High. They get the rest of the day off after taking the ZAT. Sweetie and I watch them amble away, moaning, with their arms outstretched, until we can’t see them anymore. Then we get out and go looking for The Principal. We find his office at the end of a long hall in Scare City High. It’s a hitherto undiscovered administrative area of the school. The hall gets less and less ruinous and more and more pristine the closer we get to The Office. It’s obvious this is where the money is. It’s blatant where control lies. The handrail in the hall changes from rotten wood to burnished gold. The floor switches from broken glass and fallen ceiling tiles to impeccably clean highly polished dark hardwood. The walls turn from obscenity covered and blood splattered to sparkling jewel-encrusted. That really gets me upset. I could live with the burnished gold handrails. I could tolerate the highly polished dark hardwood floors. But sparkling jewel-encrusted walls? It’s too much! I’d already vowed to put an end to this waste, but now I renew my vows! Next to me sidesteps my sidekick, Sweetie Honey, dressed as the ninja he is. I’ve washed my face since I ran into a wall. There was a bit of dried blood in my nose. I’m okay now. I appreciate your concern. I’m wearing the Pope’s hat and my ceremonial robe. As we traverse the length of the hallway leading to The Principal’s Office, I carry one of my handguns at the ready. Soon I will be face to face with Him. And, God willing, I’ll end his reign of terror. (The Principal’s reign of terror, not God’s.) I will change his regime. (The Principal’s regime; forget I mentioned God.) I will take his throne. (I won’t occupy it; I’ll destroy it, unless it turns out this school is at a certain stage of its development that requires an iron fist, then I’ll get someone else to occupy the throne and I’ll tell him or her what to do and say.) This is America. We don’t have royalty like they do in France and San Francisco. We don’t value people on the merits of their birth. Unless they were born to rich people. Or they were born with natural gifts. At the end of the hallway, before we cross the threshold, Sweetie and I exchange a look. Sweetie gives me a slightly different look than I give him. Then I try to kick down the doors! It doesn’t work! So I pull open the magnificent engraved wood double doors and leave them open! It’d be polite to close them but I don’t because I’m pretty bad-ass! Sweetie walks up to a plump woman working behind a desk in the outer office. (She’s probably plump living off monies that were supposed to be geared toward our education, which is okay with me, really, because I disapprove of that education, even if it were to be delivered in the kind of environment better funding could provide.)
“Can I help you?” asks the plump woman, politely, looking up at us.
I point my handgun at her. “We’re here to see The Principal.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so,” she says, making an apologetic face.
“Damn,” I say, still pointing my handgun at her. “When i
s he free?”
She leafs through an appointment book. “I can get you in late next week. Is that okay?”
“Morning or afternoon?” I ask.
“I don’t need an appointment because I’m a ninja,” interrupts Sweetie.
“Oh,” says the secretary. “I’m sorry. Go right in.” Sweetie and I burst into The Principal’s Office, after knocking politely! Now I can see him for what he is! A short, slender man! I thought he’d be overweight! And taller! I also thought he’d be a zombie! It seems the zombies are using this small man with thinning hair and delicate-looking round glasses! Still, he’s a formidable foe! Not in a traditional sense, obviously!
“Guy Boy Man,” he says, cheerfully, hurrying from behind his desk to usher us inside.
“Come in, my dear boy. You brought Sweetie Honey? Wonderful!”
“I’m here to stop you!” I declare, pointing my handgun at him, but still taking the seat he kindly offers me. “No longer will you be able to turn me and my fellow students into zombies or zombie food! No longer will we have to listen to your announcements! Your pronouncements! No longer will we have to endure your reminders about sporting events and academic competitions! Maybe we don’t want to register, sign up, or try out! Did you ever think of that?”
“You make some salient points, my dear boy!” croons The Principal, hurrying back behind his desk and taking a seat. “Is there any way I can convince you to turn your charismatic leadership toward student politics? I think you’d make a wonderful Class President!”
“You think I’d be good? Really? That’s nice of you to say. I appreciate your kind words, specifically about my grace under pressure, and my rhetorical skill. However, I’m afraid I have to spoil your party, Principal!” I point the gun at him in a slightly more menacing way. The Principal doesn’t say anything. Smiling, interested, he just looks at me and the handgun. Then he looks at Sweetie Honey who’s sitting next to me on the arm of my chair. (I don’t know why he’s sitting on the arm of my chair. Why isn’t he sitting in the empty chair next to mine? We’re going to have to talk about that later.)
Still smiling, The Principal looks back at me and the handgun I’m pointing at him.
“This is a lot less dramatic than I thought it would be!” I announce.
“How so?” asks The Principal, genuinely interested.
“Well, you know, I thought there’d be a big fight.”
“Between the two of us?” laughs The Principal. “Oh, my dear boy.” He leans back in his oversized genuine leather chair and touches the fingertips of both hands together. “I’m not the fighting kind. Besides, your quarrel isn’t with me, it’s with the school board.”
“Why don’t you just kill him and get it over with?” sighs Sweetie Honey. “I can’t just shoot him, can I?” I whine. “I mean, he has to put up a fight or something, doesn’t he? We’re arch enemies. I’m holding up my end of the arch or whatever you do with arches. He’s totally failing on his side of the arch. It’s, like, half an arch. What do you have when you halve an arch?”
“You could give him a head start,” suggests Sweetie. “And then hunt him down and kill him?”
I frown. “How is that more humane?”
“It gives him a chance,” says Sweetie, and shrugs.
“Yeah,” I say. “A chance to escape. Thanks for your help, Sweetie. Jeez. I finally find the despicable tyrant responsible for all our suffering and you want me to let him go?”
“As I was trying to say,” interrupts The Principal, looking at us over the rims of his small circular glasses, “your quarrel isn’t with me; it’s with the school board.
“All right.” I point my gun at The Principal again. “Where is this school board?”
“I’ll happily give you the home addresses of the school board members, my dear boy,” says The Principal, opening a drawer in his desk. “But you should know before you go, the school board is answerable to higher-ups, and they have higher-ups, who, in turn, have higher-ups.”
“Wait a minute,” says Sweetie, narrowing his eyes at The Principal, suspiciously. “What are you saying?”
In an astonished hush, I whisper to Sweetie, “This could go all the way to the mayor!” Instead of a list of names and addresses, suddenly The Principal pulls a missile launcher from the desk drawer! I say “suddenly” but it’s actually taking quite a while because it’s big and heavy. It’s a pretty tight fit in the desk drawer. The Principal has to try angling it out in a couple of different directions before he gets it free. There’s a lot of banging around while he’s doing that. I should’ve mentioned earlier that this particular desk drawer is a lot bigger than a normal-sized desk drawer.
“We confiscated this from a student last week,” says The Principal. Instead of shooting The Principal while he’s wrestling with a cumbersome piece of military hardware and a strangely shaped piece of furniture, I just stare at Sweetie Honey, still astonished—less astonished that this could go all the way to the mayor, although that’s pretty astonishing, and more astonished that
1) The Principal has a missile launcher;
2) he’s getting it;
3) it seems to have a missile in it;
4) he’s levelling the loaded missile launcher at Sweetie Honey and, more importantly—no offense, Sweetie—me;
5) The Principal is just as bad-ass as I thought he was going to be;
6) The Principal somehow tricked me into thinking he isn’t that bad-ass;
7) I’m an idiot;
8) I think I should probably shoot The Principal before he pulls the trigger or whatever you do to launch a missile from a missile launcher;
9) why doesn’t Sweetie kill The Principal?;
10) why do I always have to do everything?;
11) if Sweetie isn’t going to kill The Principal, shouldn’t he find a place to hide?;
12) shouldn’t I find a place to hide?;
13) that’s an awesome missile launcher;
14) I can’t believe The Principal has an awesome loaded missile launcher and he’s pointing it at me and I’m just standing here like an idiot next to a handsome homosexual African-American ninja detective named Sweetie Honey who loves me and who’s just standing there like an idiot even though The Principal is pointing an awesome loaded missile launcher at him too: he’s actually kind of pointing it in between Sweetie and me but that’s probably because you don’t need to be that specific with a missile launcher; you just point it in the general direction of everything you want to blow up and it looks after that for you.
“Class dismissed,” says The Principal. Then he launches the missile. The following happens rather quickly and in a space which, although it contains a number of violent actions, seems strangely still. The missile shoots from the tube. It’s accompanied by a whoosh too loud to be considered a whoosh. The projectile seems to have been spit like a student letting loose a wad of chewed-up paper. Mercifully, the missile passes between Sweetie and me. Indifferent, the rocket glares red and traces white out through the door I left open in a bad-ass way. Conveniently, the missile does a ninety-degree turn. It shoots through the other set of doors I refused to close because I’m so rebellious. I don’t think I mentioned this earlier but there are windows in one of the jewel-encrusted walls leading to The Principal’s Office, and through the corner of my eye, I see the missile streaking down the hall, heading for the school proper, beyond the administrative area where we are now. Right when it reaches the broken heart of Scare City High School, the missile explodes! It explodes into all the classrooms! It explodes into all the desks and chairs and problems that were never solved at them, on them, and there! It explodes into the clocks and doors! It explodes into the ceilings that held us down and the floors that held us up! It explodes into everything that keeps us repeating the mistakes our parents made! It explodes into the past they left us and called the future! The Principal is worming around, pinned beneath the missile launcher. Sweetie and I regain our feet, and I find my gun in the disturbed
mess of the office.
“That was an inappropriately large explosion,” says Sweetie, dusting himself off. “It’s like someone was using the classrooms to store fireworks and barrels of gasoline.”
“Obviously, we’re going to have to do a lot of research to be certain,” I say, “but I think we can safely designate today the most awesome day ever, including all the days involving Jesus.” I hold up my hand for a high five.
“No,” says Sweetie, rejecting my proffered high five. I look at him, hurt. “The most awesome day so far,” he clarifies, “because we’re about to embark on a series of adventures to get to the bottom of all this, and I suspect we have even more awesome days ahead.”
Then, illustrating the day’s glory, as Scare City High burns, Sweetie high fives me more highly than a high five has ever before been given. Then I walk through the ruins of the office to The Principal. Beneath the missile launcher, he lies squirming. His little round glasses are broken and askew on his little face. I stand over him, in judgement really, because I’m judging him, and I’m standing in a way which, if I considered it from his perspective—which I never would, because it’d be beneath me—would be beneath me. I point the gun at him again and say, in a really bad-ass way, “I’m shooting you out of principle.” I squeeze the trigger. Nothing happens.
“Oh, come on,” I say. I forgot to chamber a round, so I chamber a round, and I point the gun at The Principal again. He’s still worming around; he’s doing so in a very lowly way. (I’m trying to bring back any sense of supremacy I may have had and lost when we had the gun issue there a second ago.) So, yeah. I’m lording over him and everything—not that I think I’m God or anything. More a demigod, really. I’m probably a lot closer to God, level-wise, than I am to regular mortals. Anyway, from my position, physically and mentally, far, far above The Principal, I gaze down upon him, coolly, while pointing the gun at him, also coolly, but I’m thinking of a different kind of cool right here. “I’m shooting you out of principle,” I say again. I go to squeeze the trigger, but then I realize there might be some confusion. “When I say I’m shooting ‘you’ out of principle, I’m not referring to some sort of spirit or soul I believe inhabits The Principal and that, when I shoot The Principal, will somehow be freed, perhaps to, happily, journey Heavenward, or get dragged, if a soul or spirit can be dragged, to Hell, although I believe all that crap. No. When I say I’m shooting you out of principle, I mean I’m shooting you because I really disagree with . . .”
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