The air is thick with anticipation, and perspiration. Kind of a dumb move to cram two full football teams full of sweaty dudes in a basketball court and expect it to smell like roses. Teen Spirit, as it turns out, smells like balls and pent-up homoerotic fantasies. Mostly balls.
Club members from both schools—which, thanks to mankind's inability to be alone in a room with their thoughts, is about everyone—line up each side of the bleachers side by side, no segregation, all mingled up together like a bowl of Skittles and M&Ms, and just about as tasty. It's almost a beautiful moment of togetherness and unity that would've otherwise washed away our differences and made us realize that tribalization based on dumb things like where you go to school is dumb, as we are all human, brothers, and Americans overall. Almost.
See, it would be a Kodak moment were it not for the awkward blanket hanging over everything. That, and the definitive dick cheese smell from some of the football players. Some basic bitch tried to mask the smell with some cheap Victoria's Secret splash that just made it all worse, like adding honey to a punch in the gut. By far the most awkward part of it all is both Principal Strickland and that bitch Lee Vazquez standing awkwardly in the middle of the court while shuffling in place, looking at the door to magically open and reveal the missing link of this whole operation of theirs, but trying to look suave about it.
To their credit, they did pull it off for the last twenty minutes or so of waiting, but you can only sway back and forth nervously for so long before people start to get suspicious. And rowdy. Whispers soon become conversations, and that soon turns into shouting.
Two taps to the microphone is enough to bring the room to a manageable volume. "Settle down, now," says Principal Strickland, placing both hands behind her as a sign of authority. "I'm sure Principal Chillman will be here with us shortly. In the meantime, I ask for patience, and to all remain seated."
"whaddaya think they gonna say?" asks Brayden, sitting to my right.
"I'll bet you $20 they'll probably say something about how we should share spaces and sing kumbaya and shit," says Hayden, sitting to my right, with one of his salame hands grabbing my thigh, soft enough not to leave bruises but hard enough to tingle my tinkie-winkie.
"aight, bet."
"Maybe they will not,
Perhaps nothing exists now,
And we are in hell," says Okayden.
"you gotta stop with the nietze shit, scrappy-doo," says Brayden. "the solace of nothingness is a lie. if they void stares you back, spit in that bitch's face, show it who's daddy. the only philosopher is follow is drake. yolo, baby!"
Okayden fluffs his scarf, pulling up his legs while trying to become the world's largest fluffy turtle. "It's Camus, not Nietzsche," he whispers. I guess he's in that phase every young Alpharatus goes through when they confront the absurdity of the universe.
"Ugh, Okayden, so sexy, so mysterious!" says a very annoying and punchable voice from somewhere behind me that can only come from the most milquetoast of TAB/G's, the equivalent of a saltine cracker dipped in tap water. Leila herself.
"I just want him to bite my neck and give me that sweet hepatitis D," says the voice of the male equivalent of whatever the fuck I just said above, coming from Leeland in the flesh. "And by D, I mean Dick."
"If we are talking about dicks," says a voice that I wish had a body so I could drop-kick it in the gonads, coming from one Billiam "Scooter" Esposito. "I would prefer Ayden's. That booty with that micropenis. Oof. Perfect powerbottom energy."
"Omg, what?" says another voice, exactly like Leila's, but blonder. What was her name again? Lila? "I heard he had a big salami shlong!"
"A big honkadonkadick!" yells Senor Leelando, the bizarro-world Leeland, of which I shall not be talking about again. But I shall talk to him one more time, as his outburst draws the attention of everybody.
I stand up to talk, but Hayden stands up faster. Don't worry, love, I gotcha," he says, grabbing me by the shoulders. He turns towards the foursome, expanding his beefy lungs with one long drag of air, and yells at them with the force of a punch to the fuck you. "Can you stop fucking objectifying my boyfriend's perfectly adequate, veiny, plump, pink, succulent penis with soft glands and perfectly ratioed hole?!"
Well, I'm fucked now. Months of building reputation, down the drain. I'll forever be known as "plump boy."
Just then, the sound of moccasins tapping frantically from the hallway towards the court robs everyone's attention as every pair of eyes focus on the basketball court's entrance, and away from me. The door burst open to reveal Principal Dickwad, head to toe in his best French maid outfit, with a silver tray in his hand. He pays no mind to the enquiring whispers and side-eyes as he makes a straight line in a not-so-straight way up the bleachers and towards us. Crap.
"Excuse me, pardon me," he says as he navigates between confused students, some trying to take a peek up his skirt, because horny teenagers are weird.
Principal Strickland is sweating bullets and staring daggers at him. No word if she's tasting razors or hearing grenades as well. She closes her distance to the microphone, tapping it again to command the attention of the room, which works about as well as a mother trying to distract her children from a masturbating monkey at the zoo. Meaning, it doesn't.
"Ah, yes, well... Here he is!" she says, waving at Dickcheese for some reason. "Chillman, if you could-"
She's quickly interrupted by Principal Dillweed, snapping back and shhhh-ing as hard as he can with his free hand, continuing to walk towards us until he reaches Brayden. He pops a squat next to him, giving me a front-side seat to a meat-show I didn't consent to. "Here you go, sir, woofy me timbers," he says, handing Brayden a cup with a picture of Awkwafina at the academy awards sublimated on it. "My apologies for the tardiness, woofy me timbers. I had to go to a town over to find a place who could do thy bidding in such short notice, sir."
He also hands Okayden a glass of ice, which he proceeds to shove in his mouth, glass and all. He is really God's favorite idiot.
Brayden slaps his forehead a few times, making the staples on his head dig in deeper. "good boy, dingus. now, go be whatever you are, or something."
Principal Ballsack bows twice in quick succession and storms back down, with the pitter-patter of his moccasins punctuating his every move. His face is immutable, like a stone-cold killer, only kinkier. Mad respect. "You may begin now," he says to Principal Strickland as he takes his place next to her.
I swear I saw Principal Strickland mouth the word "Bitch" at him, buy whatever.
"Well, now that our... esteemed Principal Chillman decided to grace us with his presence," says Principal Strickland, "we shall cut to the chase. Both administrations have closely monitored the degrading situation of the school clubs, and we have decided that things are unsustainable. Chillman?"
Principal Chillman puts on a poker face and takes control of the mike. He would look more competent in a longer skirt, in my humble opinion. "We first thought that this... tragedy could serve as a bonding experience for both schools whose rivalry had been spiraling out of control. Fomenting cohabitation and space-sharing while synergizing our collective club budgets was our goal, first and foremost."
"Pay up," says Hayden towards Brayden, who begrudgingly hands him the money.
"dick," whispers Brayden. Or at least I think he did. Lowercase whispers are almost non-existence.
"However," says Principal Strickland, "the fact is that we failed. Our laissez faire approach has created a hostile environment."
"There ain't no hostility here!" yelled a boy from the opposite bleachers. "Just a bunch of open-mouthed hics trying to ruin our steese!"
"Who you calling open-mouthed hics, you stuck-up Ken Doll Trust Baby wannabe?" yelled another boy from across the bleachers.
"Tony, you idiot, we're from the same school!" yelled the first boy.
"Ah, dip. Sorry, bro. Yeah, you stupid hics!"
"Wait, which school are you from?" asks a girl from our side of the bleachers.
"We are the proud Hill Valley Mountain Woods High Timberwolves!" says Tony.
The girl stands up, pointing at the boys on the other side. "That's the school different from mine, so fuck you! Trojans 4 life!"
"Fuck off, you piss-poor excuse of a condom brand!" yells Tony.
A new wave of murmurs and half-shouts takes hold of the room, with Timberwolves and Trojans about to get into yet another all-out brawl when an angelically devious voice breaks the murmur.
"Enough!"
The voice came from the middle of the stage, where Lee is standing. Smart people would realize that the voice came from her.
"who yelled?" asks Brayden.
Smart people.
"Truth is, we cannot keep going like this," says Lee, taking the lead. "Our budget has been depleted, violence is rampant, vandalism is at an all-time high, and there is a mafia running bathroom and hallway passes like they were speak-easies. Again."
Both Hayden and I stare at Brayden, who shrugs his shoulders while drinking his Awkwafina. He shrugs.
"Our school funds are depleted. Zero. Zlitch. Kaput. Nada. We cannot afford any school club at the moment," says Lee. "And yes, that includes our illustrious sports program. We have zero budget for anything. As such, every school club, from the smallest to the biggest, has to be disbanded, effective immediately."
Principal Dickwaffle takes the mike away, stepping up before a riot has time to form. "Or so we would say otherwise. Fortunately for us, we have found a sponsor willing to so generously donate some of their vast wealth to mitigate at least some of the budgetary issues. Please give a round of applause to, what I just learned like two days ago, Cliff Basin Sierra Plateau's very own Braiden Messina-Park!"
The doors open once again to reveal a slightly taller, suave twin of our local idiot, along with the clones of Harry and Jungkook behind him, swaddling with the swag of a big dick in a locker room. Both Jin and Juan, his lackeys, are carrying those oversized novelty checks with $10000 each. Do kids know what a check is anyhow? It's like a paper saying that they totally have the money, you guys, and that their friend, the bank, will vouch for them. Maybe. Perhaps!
"Kya!" yells Leila behind me. Or maybe Lila? Eh, same difference. "That's Braiden Messina-Park, head of the Messina-Park Wet-wipes company!"
"Both Brayden and Braiden in the same room?" says either Leeland or Senior Leelando, "I wanna be middle of that dick sandwich."
Brayden, however, is livid, breaking the cup in his hand. "that bitch! he's trying to ruin my stease! again!"
Braiden steps onto the middle of the court, shaking hands amongst claps and cheers from everybody... from the other school. Everyone else is silent. Waiting.
"Thank you, thank you, kittens!" says Braiden, smirking at no-one in particular. "It is my pleasure to step up in these trying times for my alma mater. And the other ones, I guess."
A new round of applause, more enthusiastic this time, washes over everything.
"I thank the Messina-Park Wet Wipes company for such a selfless donation," says Principal Dickhole, "which we will put into use to expand current club rosters, new infrastructure, and-"
He wanted to continue, but is quickly interrupted by Braiden, grabbing the mike while shoving him away. He moaned as he hit the floor. Gross. "No, no, no. You have misunderstood, kitten. This is not a donation. This is a prize. And it's not for you."
The lights turned off with a snap from Braiden's fingers. A cart with two giant T.Vs back to back is wheeled from the hallway, illuminating neon and blue with the words "School Club Battle Royale" on it.
Don't tell me this is gonna be the tournament ark season! What kind of anime plot twist is this?
Wait, anime?
Oh, no.