A Demonata Parody
So it begins with a roast duck
That moves on to chicken
Involves a talking nunchuck
And runs like the dickens
Foolish Lord Whatsisname sits in his web
Open and close your eyes really fast
But don't look like a retard like that
Turn in a circle while waving your arms
Make sure that your punk uncle comes to grave harm
Bullied Lord Stupidface preens his legs
When the clock strikes twenty-five
Remember how to count
It's gonna save your useless life
And help your semi-friends out
Unlucky Lord Dumbandgay is all that's left
"Grady," says the principal curtly. It's my eighth visit to his office this week, and it's only Tuesday. I have a seat just for me now, courtesy of the hot secretary- I'm just that good with the ladies.
"What's up now?" I ask, exuding a calm air of nonchalance. It was obviously because of the time I was caught smoking behind the bike shed. Or I was snitched on when stealing booze from the local 7-11. Or maybe when I burgled the police station. In retrospect, that last one wasn't a clever move.
"I've received a report on your schoolwork recently," he says. I roll my eyes- of all the crimes I've committed in the last week, why the inconsequential one that isn't even a real crime? "And I must say, it's quite exemplary!"
"Wait. What?" I sputter aloud, confused.
"You have somehow managed to acquire three Q minuses in your electronic report, despite such a grade not existing on the online system, and every single teacher you have has agreed that you are a horrible influence on the other kids in class," amends the principal, leaning in closer. I relax, back in my element.
"I want to know," says the principal, eyes lit with a strange glow. He's smiling eerily now. "How do you do it? How do you make all of the teachers hate you? Tell me now."
"Uh," is my eloquent reply. "I don't do my work?"
"Yes, yes," he says impatiently, "but one of your teachers specifically called you a-" he rifles through his file on me, which I notice is massive and filled with red sticky notes- "'underhanded bastardising moron with no semblance of intelligence in his cholesterol-filled cranium and who plays the guitar like a two-year-old doing crystal meth'."
"Oh yeah," I smile, remembering the day. "That was because I put a bucket of high-fat margarine on top of the door so that when she came in, it fell on her head. It was the only day that I came on time to a class."
He scrawls a note inside his notebook and nods, satisfied. "Excellent. So what else do you do, besides pulling these insidious pranks?"
Getting into the swing of it, I say, "Well, once I accidentally broke the table in Design Tech with the jackhammer that I was building. The teacher's table, with all of the dangerous stuff that students can't touch inside it. He was in hospital for a couple of days, I think."
"Ooh, very nice. Anything else?"
"I think one time I sneaked into your house and glued everything that wasn't too heavy to the inside of your garage," I reminisce before I can stop myself. "Wait."
The principal suddenly goes silent, and his face turns purple. Uh-oh. He starts shaking uncontrollably, and I hear a brief whisper that rhymes with 'duck chew'. I excuse myself and run the hell away.
The phone rings as I enter home, but it's safe. I make it a habit to keep every phone in the house glued facedown to a metal surface, and when I have the time I like running electrical 'experiments' through them with the mains supply.
"Grubbs, get the phone," demands my father, who's sitting in the living room couch with a newspaper blocking his face and torso from view. I grunt in reply as I shrug off my schoolbag- a light camo backpack with nothing but a stolen butane torch and some pieces of flypaper inside- and pretend to answer the phone.
"Hello, Grady household. Yes, this is Grubbs. What? I've been chosen to go to the National Math Tournament? I have to leave right now?" This is all a pack of lies, of course, but Mom and Dad don't need to know that. I put the phone down and call into the living room, "Hey, I've been selected for this Math tournament in L.A.!"
"Really?" sneers Gret, walking down the stairs with a stained towel wrapped around her head- no doubt dying her hair again. She alone in my family knows of my affiliations with the criminal underworld of Happy Pig Town (this is actually the name of my city- no joke), and I buy her silence with regular access to cans of vodka. She doesn't seem to notice that it's actually lemon tea, poured into a glass bottle. "I guess that means that the house'll be empty for the next week, huh?"
"Whaddya mean?" I snap, confused.
"Oh, Mom and Dad and me are going to Bangkok for a business trip," she says, smirking. "Are you going to be at home, though?" she adds in a whisper.
Unsure of how to react, I reply, "Hell's yeah, dumbass."
"Don't," she says vehemently, shaking her head. "Just go rent a motel for the next couple of days- look, I'll give you the money." True to her word, she takes Dad's wallet from the kitchen counter and hands me five twenties.
"Thanks!" I grin, intent on squandering the greenbacks on some ridiculous crime that would surely end in failure rather than using it to rent a room. She didn't need to know that, of course. "I get to keep the change, right?" Best to make sure that she never finds out.
"Dude, it's Dad's money. Why would I care?"
"Good point," I grin as I pocket the dollar bills.
Our secretive transaction is interrupted by Mom bustling into the house and yelling something about the neighbour's stupid cat jumping onto her windshield. I snatch a look outside and note the blood spattering half the garage door and the silver Volvo- not a car that I've ever seen before- rammed halfway through the fence separating our lawn from the neighbours'. Whoops. As I watch, a red truck pulls up and a girl jumps out to investigate the smoking wreck.
"Edward!" she cries.
I tear myself from the blooming romance outside to listen in on the blazing row in our living room- Mom and Gret are screaming at each other about something that had happened at her school. Sniggering to myself, I amble up to my room for a couple of hours of Modern Warfare 3- one thing I'll never understand is how our parents can afford all this stuff even with Gret and I stealing from their purses and wallets from the ripe young age of five. I'm pretty sure that they bought that game for me, at least- maybe I pirated online, I forget.
At my computer, however, instead of opening the game, I find myself bringing up Chrome to check out the latest police orders- a hacker friend of mine jacked me into the network a couple of weeks ago, and I've been having fun sending sergeants up to Canada for alleged 'garding' against 'trrorsts'. God those police idiots are morons for not even noticing the spelling errors.
It's nothing special- a couple of squad cars have been sent to a warehouse to crack down on some drug dealers, but that's all. As I wonder how far away this warehouse is from my nearest stash of illegal contraband, a chat window pops up on the screen, accompanied by a 'ding' sound.
LL: hey grubitsch
LL: wanna play a GAME?
I frown at it for a couple of seconds, and then type my own intelligent reply.
IR: your probably a goddam sex offender or whatev
By the way, IR stands for Insane Rappah. Just so you know. Another 'ding' makes me look back at the screen- LL seems to have replied again.
LL: fair enough
LL: but, grubitsch, i must warn you...
LL: listen to your sister, and don't stay at home tonight
LL is now offline
Well, that sure is helpful. Note the heavy, heavy sarcasm there. I decide to ignore this, and instead bring up Borderlands for an afternoon of killing Skags and those stupid flying things. I hate those stupid flying things.
"Grubbs!" shouts my Mom's voice from beneath my feet. "It's dinner!"
I groan, and prepare myself for the horrors of dinnertime. You may think that I'm being overly dramatic- but trust me, you haven't had dinner with my family.
Yes, I am starting a new fic. No, I cannot guarantee that I will finish it, and if I do, I might not write the appropriate sequel. But, hey, it's not impossible!