A/N: Why hello there. Okay, that's enough being creepy for one day. Now, to the point. This is essentially a McCracken origin story, in which I made up a first name that I thought would be suitable for our infinitely hatable antagonist. This is simply my take on how he might have been raised, so please, refrain from telling me I'm 'wrong'. Because, my friend, I am simply 'left'. If you wish to correct me, please do it politely. And I apologize if it may seem ramble-y. Thanks!


The boy was troubled. At least, that was what every child psychologist and elementary school teacher in the Upper East portion of Stonetown believed. It wasn't a matter of sanity, or intelligence. No, the boy had both. It was rather a question of whether he could keep them contained.

It all started at PS Twenty-Three, Room One to be specific. Here, we see a large and diverse class, typical of the mid-Western urban sprawl, crowded into a dilapidated room, along with rickety chairs and desk, and one rather weary school teacher. At a first glance, Troy McCracken looks just like any five-foot-six foot fifth grader should. Big, and rather frightening. But his manner was quietly menacing, a sly look forever frozen on his shadowed face. The other children in Ms. Grace's class kept their distance, and many had a sneaking suspicion that the boy could in fact be an alien, plotting to steal their minds.

But no, he was simply an abnormally large ten year old with a knack for making others uncomfortable.

It was November fifth that proved this point rather abruptly to thirty people. It had begun like any day had—each child sat in his or her creaky desk, and took out a pencil. Then, they would listen to Ms. Grace explain the day's writing warm-up, and they would dutifully begin scratching out how many pets they had, what their favorite ice cream flavor was, or which baseball player they liked the most. And this Wednesday was no different. Ms. Grace stood up, balancing her coffee in one hand, and aspirin in the other, as she addressed the class.

"Children," she warbled, eyeing the drowsy group of adolescents. "Today, you shall be writing about your parent's occupations. Then, I shall choose someone to read their piece to the class. Ready, begin."

She dropped back into her chair, eyeing a spot of goo on the ceiling, as the class set to work, focusing on penmanship, and the possibility of another student being mortified for their entertainment. The clock slowly ticked past the five minute mark, and she sighed, rising once more to address the class.

"Alright, pencils down. Let's see," she eyed the children like a hawk surveying a field for mice. Her keen eyes landed on a dark-haired boy that barely fit into his desk.

"Ah, Troy. Please come to the front, and read your essay, please."

No one snickered, as they usually did every morning. No one dared make a sound. It was best not to upset Troy McCracken. Those who did were never the same.

He ambled to the front of the room, and turned to face his classmates. Looking down at his flimsy composition notebook, he cleared his throat, and began to read the spidery words in a low, clear voice.

"My dad picks up garbage for a living."

He paused, daring anyone to chuckle, or even cough. Seeing no such thing, he returned to his reading.

"Every morning he leaves with three big black trash bags, sees his clients, and returns with the bags full. I don't know what's inside em', but I know he does his job well." He puffed out his chest as he read the sentence, and raised his voice for emphasis.

"He helps the world become a better place by removing the bad stuff. At least that's what he says."

Ms. Grace smiled, and put a hand on Troy's shoulder.

"Thank you, Troy. You can return to your desk."

The day resumed as it usually did, and the school was soon vacant, as the children returned to their homes, Troy among them.

He fixed himself a snack, and settled down to do his homework, alone in the apartment for a few precious moments before his father would return. And return he did, at 4:30, just like every day that Troy could remember, hauling the three bags, bulging and straining with weight. After setting them down in the living room, he disappeared into his bedroom. Troy stared at the hallway, waiting for his father's inevitable return to the bounty. Sure enough, a few moments later, his father came striding down the hall once more, this time with a box. Troy rushed to his side, peering at the new object. Much to his dismay, however, his father picked up the bags, and opened the door. Before exiting, however, he turned to Troy.

"Open the box, boy. Hand me what's inside."

He obliged, fumbling with the lock, finally lifting a slim black object out of the wooden container. With horror, he realized it was a gun, and he felt the weight of ammunition deep in its chambers. But he handed to his father nonetheless, and voiced the question that danced on his lips.

"Where are you going, Dad?"

His father heaved the bags higher onto his shoulder, and held the gun aloft.

"Takin' out the trash."

He slammed the door shut with a bang, leaving Troy alone in the apartment, with the strange stench of blood hanging in the stale air.

Another bang broke into the silence, and the senior McCracken retreated back into the entry way, now devoid of the trash bags.

"The world's a better place now, Troy," he said. "Always remember that."