Author's Note: Biff Tannan, no matter how vile he is, belongs to Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. Copyright Universal. Vignette copyright: me.

Vignette Five: Who Knows

Biff Tannan's eyes glared at the huge blue banner strung across the gym entryway. His eyes narrowed further (if possible) at the words: Father-Son Dance, '52 "Quality fun time!" It was the annual beginning of the school's many tortures for freshmen. At least, for the weak ones.

"Quality fun time!"

Biff felt for the flask in his back jeans pocket. He scanned for the nearest chaperone and waited. Even with a bunch of crusty old shits in the vicinity, more adults had been called in. They circled and prowled, waiting for anyone to try anything fun. At least they all had the same prowl. All Biff had to do was wait for one to turn on his or her heels and then, wham! Vodka time. It burned a little as it went down the teen's gullet but was back in his pocket once the chaperone turned on his heels again. Once the water in his eyes cleared, he was back to glaring at everyone and everything.

Stupid school. Stupid dance. Stupid chaperones. He would be raising his complaining if his pals hadn't blown off this stupid, stupid dance to get plastered at the Indian Drive-In. He should be tossing empty beer bottles at the screen now, instead of watching Buck-Toothed Harold and his equally buck-toothed Dad spill punch all over themselves. Or watching Clyde the Four Eyes and his Dad step on each other's feet. Or watching McFly act like he was going to upchuck alongside his Pop. McFly was diving away every time his old man introduced himself to other fathers. His old man looked like a straight-backed normal guy. Jeez, how did a regular Fred like that produce a turd like George? Biff wondered.

It was bull. Fathers and sons, sons and fathers. Just total bull. All of them, Clyde's Pop to McFly's Pop, were here right now, but tomorrow, who knows. Who cares. It was enough to make Biff feel the striking urge to kick someone's butt. He wanted to do it to all of them but his glare remained on McFly. The nerd looked like he was going to keel over as his father tried to lead him onto the dance floor. Biff wanted to smack him, kick him, punch him, right then and there. If there weren't so many adults around, he would pummel George to a pulp. Maybe he could catch him in the Boys room. Biff lifted the flask to his lips but the classic grip of the high school's oldest teacher stopped him.

"I trust this isn't soda pop, Tannan." Mr. Strickland's voice was the same at this event as it was in the classroom. Biff had only been stuck in this school for two months but he knew all there was to know about Strickland. The old man was always an old man. Period. He also always wore that bozo bow tie and, rumor had it, was the reason for the dinosaurs being extinct. Plus, his breath always smelled of mouthwash.

"Nah, sir, it's black tea." Biff joked. A deafening sting to his arm was the only comeback he received. Strickland twisted off the cap of the flask in one quick gesture. Taking a whiff, he immediately smacked the teen again.

"You got some nerve bringing alcohol into my school!" Strickland said, the vein on his forehead becoming increasingly fat. "Where's your father?"

"Who knows," Biff replied.

"Well, wherever he is, if he knew about this and your usual crock of mischief, you can bet your boots he would be ashamed." Stickland said and with that, turned on his heels and left. The flask was still in his hands and he took a swig as he looked for another suspicious student.

Biff stayed where he was, where he had been since this had started. He took yet another look at the banner, the fathers, and the sons. Especially McFly, whom was still looking like he wanted to pull a disappearing act. His Pop was still trying to get him to dance. So far it was becoming the highlight of the night. Biff went to the refreshments table and stuck the ladle into the punch he had spiked. He filled a cup up to the brim.

Stupid dance.