text: “REMEMBAH KIDDIES! YOU WON’T GET YO PUDDIN’ IF YOU DON’T EAT YO MEAT!” she blared once again through that pie-hole that she called a mouth. Mrs Wizzlemuck, or as the children knew her (the kids were not very creative): Fucking Idiot. Fucking Idiot walked through the benches, lightly tapping the shoulders of all the children as she went by. Little Monty too was among the newest batch of burnt out children that were now to be crushed with overwhelming unnecessary pressures and shat down the poophole that is known as Education. He chowed down his disgusting food like a glutton with an appetite for the fattest horse in a rundown race track. His partner ate and continued to tell Monty about his older classes in a better school, with a proud, shit-eating grin. Monty remembered all the times that he had spent in his earlier classes. Fifth grade! Wow! That’s real big, lil’ dude! They had said to him two years before. This year too, his parents had told him Sixth grade! That’s real big, lil’ dude! Frankly, little Monty found this annoying. He was told every year would be more important, and yet he felt the same. When will it really happen? When will I feel more important? Or even better, when will I ever feel as important as they tell me I am? Little did Monty know that that would happen sixty years later when he would die from a stroke, choking on his own vomit and slowly setting his ass onto the nearest commode, defecating violently, and he wouldn’t even have the time to realise that it had happened. Moving on, as Monty shifted in his bench, moving his tiffin-box aside and looking towards his partner, he set his books in front of him. He took out the first textbook. ABSOLUTE SHIT THAT YOU WILL NEVER USE the title read, he looked a little lower on the front page: BY - SOME TIT WITH TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS. He smirked. He thought it was a math textbook. Apparently it wasn’t. He brought out the rest of the wonderful books he would be staring blankly at for the next year. BULLSHIT FACTS THAT DON’T HOLD TRUE ANYMORE and TEACHING KIDS SEX IS BAD SINCE 1978 were among them. Average, school-ey stuff. “WHY DIDN’T YOU EAT YER DAM MEAT YOU GOOD FER NOTHIN LIL’ BRAT”, a certain Fucking Idiot said, peering close into Monty’s little face. Her pimples, wrinkles and ugliness converged into the hideousness that is her face, which angrily looked at him. “AREN’T YOU SCARED OF ME KID? WHY WON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME YA?” “WON’T YOU LISTEN TO YER TEACHERS? YOU WANT A LIL’ SMACK ON YOUR NOGGIN DO YA?” And then, it hit him. Something happened to Monty. Whether it was a ray of light that fucked with his head or a sudden epiphany that would lead to a change in society forever, something hit him. But he thought of something. Little Monty thought: Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What AM I afraid of? What the FUCK am I afraid of? And then, it happened. Little Monty looked his teacher straight in the eye, got up, off his desk, and uttered words that were never uttered before in any school: “You fucking tit. Yes. YOU, you fucking tit. YES! I want a smack on my noggin. Come on. Smack my noggin. You BITCH.” Obviously, the very bounds of space-time stopped expanding. Every moment in time looked at Little Monty and thought, that’s a fuckin’ spectacle, that is. Time stopped, students stared, and the child next to Tommy very, very slowly moved to the nearest empty bench. Fucking Idiot stood there. She couldn’t have reacted. The very laws of physics would not allow it. She stood there, her pie-hole gaping, her eyes ripping out of their ugly, dark sockets, and her anger slowly pulsating into fear. “Come here, you Fucking Idiot.” Monty said, as he started to take his blazer off. He didn’t blink, nor did his gaze move an inch from Idiot’s crusty, shallow eyes. “HEY! Uhh, you’re uhh, kiddies go call the principal. Quick...please...” “WHY?” Monty spoke, really loudly. Every syllable echoed through the class. It might as well have been just him, and that Fucking Idiot. He began to unzip his pants. The teacher watched in horror, and reminisced the time she was abused as a child. Maybe that’s why she was a tit now. He unzipped his pants, and his face inched forward. Monty decided to use the only weapons he had. He lowered them, and they dropped to his knees. For that one split second, Fucking Idiot looked down at his naked knees, and then quickly back at him, with a horror that she didn’t know she could experience. Monty stood up, onto the desk. He dropped his underwear too. He then began to piss all over the desk. Everyone in the class could not control it anymore. They looked at him, his wiener, and the piss it produced. They looked back at Idiot, staring at the whole thing, as though it was an exhibit at a Piss Museum in Langley Lane. “WHAT! CAN’T A BOY HAVE A PISS IN PEACE!?” he said, as he strafed left and right on his spot, sprinkling a fine amount of his fluids over all the other benches, as the other students turned away in fear and awe. Fucking Idiot seemed almost philosophically struck. It looked as though Little Monty had touched some buttons, for she stood more in awe than anything else. She looked at him with wide, but pondering eyes, seemingly wondering something. She barely seemed angry anymore. “Oye, woman. Lookit here. Look. I’m pissing on the bench. I AM PISSING ON THE FUCKING BENCH.” Monty whispered in a frequency akin to most serial killers, as his now flashing red eyes looked at Idiot. Fucking Idiot didn’t make a sound. Neither did she make a face. “You look at me woman. Look here” Monty stopped pissing. Maybe he was done, maybe he was saving for later. He looked at her, and grabbed her hair with his left hand, and looked her in the eye. “Look. I have a lot of fucking stress in my life, okay? I don’t want to fucking EAT my MEAT.” “I don’t want it. I don’t want my meat. I don’t want the pudding. You can keep it, that’s fucking FINE.” The anger now started to quell up his throat. You could hear a very childish sort of, angry frustration in him. Monty got down from his desk, let go of Mrs Wizzlemuck’s hair, and sat down again. He looked at everyone, looking at him. He let out a loud scream, and started to cry. He looked at his nemesis once again, tears now streaming as fast as his piss did moments ago. He put his head down on his desk, forgetting about the puddle he had left there just a minute ago, and remained silent for three full minutes. “Leave him alone, kiddies.” Mrs Wizzlemuck said. “The kid's just tired.