text: [Themes: Slice of life, male protagonist, mild profanity, teenage protagonist, punk, coming of age, sexual content, high school]
  
  You're in a dark, poorly lit and packed club. Everyone's staring at the band as they go about tuning and shifting their instruments. The guy next to you has a mohawk that flops over to the side, as if the heat had wilted it. In contrast, the skinhead in front of you is reacting to the heat like a Mexican jumping bean, the muscles of his back tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing.
  
  [Author's Note: It's the first day of high school and you've decided to give yourself a mohawk. Now you've gotta stand up to teachers, impress peers and make a name for yourself until you've earned enough Punk Points to escape the suburbs.]
  
  > jump
  Before you can do anything, the band explodes into action. The crowd coalesces into a single entity and leans towards them, then falls back, ripples. Being a part of this lurching creature makes your spine tingle.
  
  You're pressed from all sides by people suddenly activated by sound -- but you can't hear anything. You can practically feel the sonic waves, you can see it on the faces of the people around you, and you strain to hear the music...
  
  The guy with the mohawk plants his boot in the skinhead's linked hands. His pierced nostrils flaring, hands gripping the skinhead's shoulders, he launches himself on the crowd. Improbably, they hold him aloft as he rolls over a bed made of their shoulders, heads and outstretched hands. You can't quite believe what you're seeing, and suddenly you hear something:
  
  "Honey?"
  
  You whip around and look to see who spoke, but there's nothing except the unremarkable brick wall of the club lined with people standing on chairs to get a better view. None of them are looking at you.
  
  You look back. The guy with the mohawk is still rolling over the crowd, but for some reason he's got a tie on. And his blue hair is flickering like flames. The skinhead offers his linked hands to boost you up, and you quickly put your foot in. Your foot is bare. He looks at you, his dark eyes questioning.
  
  "Honey!"
  
  You look at your foot. Of course it's bare -- you're in your bed.
  
  Your mother bustles in with your uniform, freshly ironed, and hangs it on your bathroom doorknob. "OK, honey, we're off." She stops at the foot of your bed and puts her hands on her hips. "Better hurry or you'll miss your bus. Don't want to be late the very first day of high school!"
  
  You smile weakly as she kisses you goodbye and leaves, trying to rekindle the feelings in your dream.
  
  Your Room (on the bed)
  Your room is a mess -- posters slowly peel off the walls to join the small heaps of clothes that spot the floor like death mounds. There's a path south through the junk from your bed to your bathroom, one going north to the rest of the house.
  
  You can see a school uniform here.
  
  > About yourself
  As good-looking as ever.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying nothing.
  
  As good-looking as ever.
  
  > go to the north
  You'll have to get off the bed first.
  
  > examine the posters
  Your older sister gave you her Smiths poster when she went to college, and there's a Platinum Blonde one you really meant to take down years ago. But most prominent is the Sid Vicious poster you got at a headshop this summer -- Sid's being rude and ugly in the most appealing way imaginable, giving a middle finger to the world.
  
  > get off
  You get off the bed.
  
  You can see a school uniform here.
  
  > examine uniform
  Your school uniform, worn once in the fitting room of the suit store, radiates a crisp and calm assurance. You hate it already.
  
  > wear the uniform
  (first taking the school uniform)
  Taken.
  
  > wear the uniform
  You just can't bear to. You've got to do something to balance out the primness of it first.
  
  > About yourself
  As good-looking as ever.
  
  > go south
  This grotty little tiled room might not be pretty, but it's got the ultimate luxury for a thirteen-year-old boy: privacy. On the negative side, it's also got a massive mirror that reminds you of your wretched physicality every time you go take a dump.
  
  The mirror-fronted cabinet reflects a medium-sized, pimply faced man-child with a chronic case of bedhead and a face not even Cyndi Lauper could love.
  
  > Tear uniform
  Yeah, that's punk! you think. But after a minute of straining and grunting you give up, amazed at how strong they're making polyester blends these days.
  
  > open the cabinet
  You open the mirror cabinet, revealing an electric shaver.
  
  > look in the the mirror
  In the mirror cabinet is an electric shaver.
  
  > take shaver
  You lift the electric shaver and hold it in your grip almost reverently, placing your thumb on the red switch. Its cord uncoils and hangs in the air as you turn it over.
  
  > Shave
  Plugging it in first, you slide the button and the shaver snaps to life. You hold it in your hand tightly, letting the vibration buzz through you. Then, gripped by the vision of another you, you put it to the side of your head and shave your first strip off. And another. And another. The chunks of hair make a small pile at your feet.
  
  You now have a mohawk.
  
  [You get five punk points for that.]
  
  Finished with it, you switch it off and return it to the cabinet. As you shut it, you see a punk in the mirror -- the hair defiantly greasy, the acne now angry scars. Your flaws suddenly make sense. You rub your hand over your shorn scalp and stare at your new self with a mixture of joy and terror.
  
  > look
  This grotty little tiled room might not be pretty, but it's got the ultimate luxury for a thirteen-year-old boy: privacy. On the negative side, it's also got a massive mirror that reminds you of your wretched physicality every time you go take a dump.
  
  From the mirror, a punk gazes back.
  
  You can also see an a sizeable pile of your hair here.
  
  > take the hair
  Ah, you'll clean up after school. You're already late.
  
  > wear the uniform
  You pull on the polyester slacks and button up the starchy shirt. As you knot your tie, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror and note how nicely the preppy uniform is set off by your new hairstyle.
  
  You practice your nastiest sneer and give yourself the finger. Today's your first day at the most authoritarian and repressive school in the city, and these are your only weapons.
  
  You play it right, and they'll be enough.
  
  Giving your Sid poster a knowing wink, you toss your blazer jacket over your shoulder and stalk out of the room.
  
  You're at a school assembly, enduring speech after boring speech about the school's legacy and tradition.
  
  You've got to do something or you'll go crazy.
  
  The gymnasium is packed with boys, all wearing the same uniform and the same glazed expression. The rows and rows of chairs face a stage on which various old codgers parade their inability to say anything interesting. You slump in your chair and entertain yourself by reading the variety of pointless competitions on the pennants around the room, and look longingly at the exit to the east -- even the washroom to the south looks good.
  
  > examine the pennants
  LAWN DART SEMIREGIONALS 1971 -- CITYWIDE VOLLYBALL CHAMPS '81 -- RUGBY NATIONALS 1976 -- BIG WASTE OF TIME 1985.
  "We expect you to act as representatives of the school at all times," a portly old brother is saying, "That means being Christian, courteous, and well groomed." You take in the huge stains on his armpits, clearly visible even with a black shirt, and note that he's somehow smudged his white priest's collar.
  
  You hear something being repeated, chanted. You look over and see that the skinhead's looking straight at you and grinning with all his teeth.
  
  > give the finger to the brother
  You can only do that to something animate.
  
  > examine brother
  He's flying on auto-pilot, this one -- he barely seems to be able to keep his eyes open.
  
  "And disrespect to the uniform will be treated as severely as disrespect to one of your teachers. You are encouraged to wear your blazer to and from the school, but if you choose not to, jean jackets are absolutely forbidden." That strikes you as a weird restriction -- is this 1985 or 1958? A man with a beard leans over and whispers something and he nods. "Cowboy boots are also forbidden."
  
  > examine the skinhead
  There's three of them lined up together against the west wall -- a goth, a mod, and a skinhead with a predatory grin. They're too far away to see much more.
  
  "I'd like to introduce you to your vice principal, Mr. Pannus."
  
  The skinhead fake-coughs into his fist: "Penis." Pannus either doesn't hear or pretends not to.
  
  > check what you're carrying
  You are carrying:
  your middle finger
  a blazer (being worn)
  a tie (being worn)
  
  "Thank you, Brother Matthews," Mr. Pannus begins, tilting the mike up at his well trimmed beard. "Last year, two boys were expelled for behavioural problems. You are attending an elite academy, and it is a privilege to be doing so -- not a right -- so if you behave like animals, be prepared to be treated as such."
  
  The skinhead's chant starts up again, just below your ability to hear. "or er"? You suddenly dread he's calling you a poser. You glance at the other two, but they're ignoring him, looking supremely bored as they lean against the wall.
  
  > give finger to Pannus
  All right -- look at it like the punk's version of the samurai sword. Unless it's worthy of drawing blood, you don't just whip it out.
  
  Mr. Pannus nods to a boy who brings a flag to the front, and then looks to the band.
  
  You sneak a glance at the skinhead, who's still watching you. In the
  
  > give the finger to Matthews
  silence before the band begins, he does a daring triple-fake-cough: "Hard-Core-Niner!"
  
  You look away, pretending to yawn. Well, it was better than being called poser.
  
  You can only do that to something animate.
  
  > go to the south
  You get out of your seat and squeeze by countless grey knees...
  
  This is the bathroom part of the changeroom, which exits to the north. Your usual assortment of bathroom fixtures: urinals, mirrors, sinks, and a toilet stall. A big white garbage can sits in one corner, full almost to overflowing.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) "music" from the gym.
  
  > look in the mirror
  The stall appears to be smoking. You wonder where it picked up the habit.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) "music" from the gym.
  
  You find nothing of interest.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) "music" from the gym.
  
  > Examine can
  The open can is filled to capacity, almost exclusively with paper towels.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) "music" from the gym.
  
  > get the towels
  (the garbage can)
  Judging by the chip on your shoulder, you like carrying around unwieldy objects. But this is ridiculous.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > Piss
  For the duration of this game, you have an infinitely expanding bladder and intestinal tract.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > Open stall
  It's locked, but your rattling provokes a sudden coughing, a choking, a flushing, and a huge jock stumbles out of the stall wreathed in smoke. When he sees it's only you, his face collapses in relief -- for about a second, until annoyance replaces it.
  
  He washes his hands menacingly. "Better watch your step, niner," he says, his grizzled jaw clamped. He looks terrifyingly like a real man. "Stomp you and your stupid haircut into the ground." He wipes his mammoth hands off on your blazer, and leaves the bathroom.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > examine the blazer
  It's black and has the Pope Innocent III school crest right over your heart. Aw.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > listen
  You hear nothing unexpected.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > examine the stall
  The stall has quit smoking, but there's still a slight haze above it. You can't see inside, since the toilet stall is closed.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > Open stall
  You open the toilet stall, revealing a toilet and some toilet paper.
  
  > look in the stall
  In the toilet stall are a toilet and some toilet paper.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > get lighter
  Taken.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > examine paper
  There's only about two feet left. Enough for two average dumps or one industrial strength.
  
  > take lighter
  Taken.
  
  > examine lighter
  The jock's not going to be pleased when he realizes he's lost his fire. It has the logo of a beer company on it.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > Burn towels
  (the garbage can)
  
  Before you flick the Bic you notice that the smoke detector is a few feet above the can. It'd be going off before you left the room. If this was a Hollywood movie you'd have a fuse handy.
  
  > look at the detector
  It's mounted on the ceiling, well out of your reach.
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > put the paper in can
  You manage to get it tucked into the can, although most of it trails down the side.
  
  > Light paper
  With what? Your burning ambition?
  
  You hear muffled (but still discernibly dull) droning from the gym.
  
  > Light paper with lighter
  You light a corner of the toilet paper and head back to your seat in the auditorium. A few seconds after your bum hits the chair the fire alarm starts ringing. The brother saying prayers looks at the roof, as if betrayed by God.
  
  The crowd of boys goops towards the exit with speed of molasses, and just as you squeeze out the front door someone grabs your collar.
  
  Shit, you think. Caught so soon? The game's barely begun.
  
  It's the skinhead. "Well, Hardcore Niner," he says, slapping down your blazer and straightening your tie, "Let's get a look at you!"
  
  The mod and the goth join him, and the three of them scrutinize you in the bright sun of the basketball court. It's beginning to fill up with increasingly rambunctious boys.
  
  "Hey," one coifed gino says to someone who's just emerged. "What the fuck did I tell you to do? Huh?"
  
  The mod pokes his head towards the east, "Let's go to the Path before Penis comes out." He includes you in this, and the four of you walk away together, the skinhead and the goth in front.
  
  "I'm Jackson," says the mod, "They're Stuart and Dave. That was you, back there, wasn't it?"
  
  You shrug non-commitally.
  
  He smiles and hands you a small photocopied magazine. "You might like this zine. It's full of shit-disturbing stuff. A friend of a friend of mine made it."
  
  "Thanks," you say.
  
  The Path, the thin sidewalk that links the school grounds to the real world, is neither on or off school property. It's no-man's-land, and all suspect activity takes place here. Like most legendary spots, it's rather unimpressive in actuality -- it's a butt-littered sidewalk that heads west to the school and east to freedom.
  
  You can see Stuart, Dave and Jackson here.
  
  > read Zine
  It's a small photocopied and stapled booklet called "Virus: A Zine Dedicated to Spreading Truth". A picture of Christ that's been coloured in brown is on the cover: "NEWSFLASH: Jesus wasn't a cracker!". Inside are articles on punk rock iconography, censorship in science class, and the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church -- you can READ ABOUT ____ IN ZINE, if you were so inclined.
  
  There are already a few boys smoking on the Path when you get there. They're older, and your little group has stopped a few steps away from them.
  
  Jackson tells them that they have you to thank for the sudden closing of ceremonies.
  
  The skinhead chuckles. "Nice going H.C., I thought I was going to exPLODE in there. Dying for a smoke." He pulls out a pack and taps out a cigarette. The goth removes a silver case and puts a cigarillo between his thin lips.
  
  > ask the skinhead for the cigarette
  He winces, but hands one over.
  
  You flick your lighter and manage your first puff without choking. But your second and third leave you watery eyed and hacked out. Stuart enthusiastically pounds on your back through it all, guffawing, "Hey there H.C., take it slow."
  
  "Hey!" yells one of the bigger boys on the Path. "That's my fucking lighter." He stomps up to you and yanks it out of your hand, almost taking a finger with it. He looks like he's going to kick your ass, but then notices Stuart standing behind you.
  
  "Fucking freaks," he says after a second, and goes back to his friends.
  
  [You get 5 punk points for that.]
  
  Two weeks later, it's the day of the fall dance. You've decided that, lame or not, you want to go -- and your last chance to get your ticket is right after this class. There's ten minutes left, and you're a coiled spring waiting for the bell. But there's nothing you can do but wait.
  
  This is a room full of massive black worktables, each of them with their own sinks. An even larger demonstration table squats in front of a chart of the table of elements. You're seated two to a table on stools, and it feels like you should be doing something cool like dissecting rats or building robots -- but so far, you've been sitting there learning about non-reactive molecules. No wonder you've been staring out the window. There's an exit to the south.
  
  > examine the chart
  The building blocks of the universe are depicted in a neat series of boxes, with no memory of their legacy of poisonous mushroom clouds. You hope they're not on the exam.
  
  You sit at the back of the class, your lab mate a sleeping rocker. Stuart, placed up at the very front, is engaged in a marker war with the mopheaded guy next to him. Every time the teacher turns around, they attempt to marker-slash the other guy's grey slacks.
  
  "Sir, I've got a question," a kid with a hearing aid says.
  
  "Yes, Jaimie, what is it?" the teacher says, turning around to add another element to the list he has there.
  
  Stuart grabs the opportunity to put a red line down the side of Mophead's pants. "Yesssss!" he hisses.
  
  "Is it possible to make LSD with the chemicals we have in this lab?"
  
  The class erupts in laughter.
  
  > read about science class in Zine
  "We discovered that several schools have removed this lesson from the curriculum. Since we at Virus have found it useful, we've decided to return it." Beneath it reads...
  
  "EXPERIMENT 4
  Synthesis of an Explosive: N13*NH3
  
  Many explosive molecules have nitrogen as one of the elemental components. Nitrogen single bonds to most atoms are quite weak, while the nitrogen - nitrogen triple bond is exceptionally stable (NH3 is an exception, in that its N-H single bonds are fairly stable). Energy liberated by the breaking of single nitrogen bonds can be substantial.
  
  Nitrogen - halogen single bonds are particularly reactive due to repulsion between the nitrogen and halide lone pairs. In this experiment you will make ammonium triiodide NI3, isolated as an ammoniate coordination complex. This compound, when dry, is a detonating explosive that is shock-sensitive. It can be handled when wet, but will explode unpredictably when dry.
  
  Basic glassware including 10-mL beaker, 2-mL pipette, glass rod are required for this experiment.
  
  The product of this experiment is a shock-sensitive explosive when dry. The small amount prepared according to the procedure below is not dangerous, but larger amounts are serious explosion risks. Never scale up this procedure!"
  
  (At this point, the editors of Virus have handwritten: HA HA!)
  
  Weigh 100mg (0.100 g) of iodine into a 10-mL beaker. Slowly add 2.0 mL of concentrated ammonium hydroxide solution. Stir the mixture for 5 minutes -- a red precipitate should form. Transfer the moist precipitate onto several layers of filter paper placed on the floor of the fumehood, away from any breakable objects. Spread out the solid and permit it to dry for one hour.
  
  While you are waiting, answer the questions provided in the laboratory. These are to be handed in before you leave the laboratory."
  
  (At this point, the editors have handwritten: SURE TEACH, RIGHT AFTER I FINISH BLOWING UP THE SCHOOL!)
  
  "When the sample has dried, carefully tap it with the end of a yardstick, keeping as far away as possible. No other characterization is required, or advisable."
  
  The teacher quiets the class down, smirking slightly but with a nervous eye on the door. Not turning around, he says, "Even if we did, we wouldn't have the equipment to distil it. You getting this down, Jaimie?"
  
  "Yes sir. You seem to know an awful lot about making drugs, sir."
  
  Another laugh spreads through the class.
  
  Mophead is out of Stuart's range, talking to the boy behind him urgently. From the angle you're at, you can see the boy pass him two markers. Mophead grins at Stuart.
  
  > look at the worktables
  Sturdy and soaked with chemicals.
  
  "Does anyone have any intelligent questions about the test on Monday?" the teacher says, turning around to see Stuart mid-lunge. He ignores it.
  
  "Is exercise four on it, sir?" one chubby boy asks.
  
  He looks blank for a second, grabs the exercise book off Stuart's desk and flips through it. "No," he says, "One through six, not including four. We didn't do exercise four."
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  a zine
  some cash
  your middle finger
  a blazer (being worn)
  a tie (being worn)
  
  "What was exercise four?" pipes up Jaimie. "Sir?"
  
  "It was the formula for LSD, Jaimie, what else," says the teacher dryly.
  
  > look at the teacher
  He's an alright guy, with only the occasional freakout.
  
  By this point Mophead has amassed a thick handful of markers and has put an elastic band around them. He shows it to Stuart under the desk, the uncapped tips glinting wet. Stuart is frantically rifling through the pencil case of the boy behind him for reinforcements, when the teacher turns his back.
  
  Stu feels, rather than sees, the rainbow wound on his leg from knee to ankle. You see his eyes close and his teeth clench. Mophead raises his clenched fists to the sky in slow motion, silent victory. "You're so dead!" Stuart hiss-shouts.
  
  "What's that, Stuart?" says the teacher without turning around.
  
  "Nothing sir."