I am sitting in a throne of polished mahogany and gold leaf, perched precisely on the edge of the Stevenson County cliffs. The sunset is behind me, because even the sun knows its place as a backup dancer to my brilliance. I am sipping a glass of chilled, vintage grape juice—because alcohol would only dull the sharpness of my magnificent wit.
"Listen up, you uncoordinated biological accidents!" I barked through my gold-plated megaphone. The sound echoed off the jagged rocks, probably causing several minor landslides, but I didn't care. Landslides are just nature's way of applauding me.
"I have decided that your lungs are too comfortable. Your breathing is inefficient. You inhale as if the air belongs to you, when in fact, every molecule of oxygen in this county is a gift from my personal reserve. Therefore, you will complete the 10-kilometer cliffside run in full military-grade gas masks. These masks were designed for nuclear winter, but today, they are your fashion accessories."
I paused to check my reflection in a small hand mirror I kept tucked in my silk robe. I looked exquisite.
"Tom and Cindy, you may have had your little romantic interlude in the theater, but do not think for a second that your 'love' excuses you from the physical perfection I demand. Get your masks on! The rest of you? You are my moving art gallery. You are the brushstrokes on the canvas of my pedagogical genius. If you fall off the cliff, do so gracefully. Now, RUN!"
I watched them go. The sight of twenty teenagers struggling to breathe through thick rubber filters was, quite frankly, the most beautiful thing I had seen all day—second only to my own face in the champagne bucket. I really am the greatest educator to ever exist.
While most of the class scrambled like panicked chickens, tripping over their own feet and the heavy rubber straps of their gear, Mahalik and CJ were operating on a higher intellectual plane. They didn't run; they strategized.
"Yo, Mahalik, you see the angle of this cliff?" CJ whispered through his mask. The sound was distorted, making him sound like a scuba diver with a heavy cold. "The establishment, the man, the whole educational-industrial complex... they want us to run the long way, man. They want us to follow the path because the path leads to compliance."
"Logic, CJ. Pure, unadulterated logic," Mahalik replied, his eyes darting around behind his glass lenses. He was adjusting his filters with the precision of a watchmaker. "The government puts signs there to keep the truth hidden. If we run through the 'Danger: Unstable Ground' area, we're actually on the most stable ground. Why? Because the elite keeps the best ground for themselves and marks it dangerous to keep the sheep away."
They took a sharp left where a sign clearly showed a skull and crossbones and the words 'CERTAIN DEATH'. By using a "shortcut" that involved sliding down a forty-foot slope of toxic sludge, crawling under a radioactive fence, and navigating a field of old landmines that were probably just 'government decoys,' they bypassed the entire mountain.
CJ sprinted across the finish line first, his stride as smooth as a man who knew the secret history of the world. Mahalik arrived a split second later, finishing as a close second. They weren't even sweating; they were just discussing if the gas masks were secretly recording their brainwaves to feed into a central AI located under a Pizza Hut.
Theo Keyoko arrived just moments later, finishing a solid third. She was a natural athlete, her breathing controlled and her form perfect. She pulled her mask up, wiped a single, elegant drop of sweat from her brow, and gave a sharp, appreciative wink to the two guys.
CJ puffed out his chest, feeling the vibe. "Yeah, she wants the logic, Mahalik. She sees the intellect. She knows we've cracked the code."
Mahalik, however, looked away, his heart fluttering under his tactical vest. If only you knew, CJ, Mahalik thought, sighing deeply into his rubber mask. Theo's cute, she's got the moves, but she ain't got that 'conspiracy-theorist-thick' energy you got. You're the only one who truly understands the shape of the shadows. But being a man of peace and secrets, Mahalik said nothing. He just stared at CJ's mask filter and dreamed of a world where they could hide in a bunker together forever, eating canned beans and debunking the moon landing.
Far behind the leaders, the rest of the 20-student disaster was unfolding in slow, painful motion.
Tom Logan and Cindy Campbell actually managed to finish the run together. They held hands even through the thick, industrial rubber gloves, looking like a pair of post-apocalyptic lovers in a low-budget indie film. They weren't fast, but their synchronized breathing was almost poetic.
George Logan, however, was currently proving that human evolution could go in reverse if you tried hard enough. He was trying to be "the ultimate protector" for Holly Hale. Since Holly was blind, George felt he needed to be her eyes, her ears, and her spiritual guide.
The problem was that George, in his frantic hurry to look "cool" and "tactical" for Holly, had put his gas mask on upside down. The intake valve was pointing at his forehead, and the chin-cup was squashing his nose. Every time George inhaled, the rubber seal acted like a vacuum, sucking his own hoodie drawstring and a portion of his rapper-style bandana into his mouth.
"Don't... worry... Holly..." George wheezed, his voice sounding like a dying tuba being dragged through a swamp. "I got... the path... scoped out. I'm... I'm like a human GPS, baby."
"It feels so breezy, George!" Holly chirped, tapping her cane against the very edge of the abyss with terrifying confidence. "And the ground is so bouncy! It's like walking on a giant marshmallow!"
"That's... that's the premium... volcanic moss..." George gurgled. In reality, George had just walked Holly onto a narrow, rotting wooden plank bridging two cliffs over a five-hundred-foot drop.
George slipped. His foot went through a rotting section of the wood. Within a second, he was dangling over the crashing waves of the Pacific, his legs kicking wildly in the air, while Holly stood perfectly balanced on the plank above him, unaware that her "protector" was seconds away from becoming a pancake.
By the time George managed to crawl back up, losing one shoe and his dignity in the process, and reached the finish line, everyone else was already done. He was officially the last one, covered in mud, syrup from the theater, and the shame of a thousand ancestors.
The rest of the class was a symphony of muffled screams and rubberized panic.
Shorty Meeks had made a grave tactical error. He had tried to smoke a "giant herbal cigarette" through the intake valve of his gas mask. Within seconds, his entire mask was filled with thick, green smoke.
"I'M A DRAGON, BRENDA! I'M THE MIST OF DESTINY!" Shorty yelled, running in circles until he slammed head-first into Bobby Prinze, who was trying to maintain his "movie star" hair despite the sweat.
Ray Wilkins didn't mind the run at all. He spent the entire time running directly behind Greg Phillippe, claiming he was "checking Greg's lumbar support" for safety reasons.
"Your glutes are remarkably tight, Greg! Keep that pace! Safety is a team effort!" Ray shouted, his mask fogging up from his enthusiastic breathing.
"Get away from me, Ray! You're breathing on my neck through a filter!" Greg barked, trying to sprint faster but accidentally tripping over Buffy Gilmore's discarded designer sneakers.
Buffy was currently sitting on a rock, refusing to move. "Dwight! This rubber is making my pores expand! If I get a blackhead because of this exercise, I am suing the school, the state, and the manufacturer of this mask! My face is a national monument!"
Doofy Gilmore trotted past her, saluting with a vacuum cleaner hose he had taped to his mask for "extra suction." "Officer Doofy reporting for duty! I caught a butterfly in my filter and now we're best friends!"
Drew Decker and Alex Monday tried to race each other, but they got their masks' straps tangled in a bush of thorns. Becka Kotler and Katie Embry tried to help them, but they were too busy trying to take a "Gas-Mask-Chic" selfie for their followers. This resulted in all four of them rolling down a muddy hill and landing on top of Megan Voorhees, who was currently having a localized demonic seizure in a puddle.
Buddy Sanderson tried to jump over a small stream to show off, but the weight of the mask pulled him face-first into the water.
He spent the next three minutes trying to drain his filter while CJ and Mahalik watched from the finish line with deep, philosophical disappointment.
"Look at the sheep, CJ," Mahalik sighed, shaking his head. "Running in circles for a grade, while the elite watches from the throne of truth."
I rolled forward in my chair, the tires crushing a stray javelin as if it were a toothpick. I looked at my gold-rimmed clipboard with the air of a king signing death warrants.
"Listen up, you exhausted, rubber-faced peasants! The results are in, and I have judged your performance with the cold, hard scales of my perfection!" I announced through the megaphone.
"First place: CJ. Second place: Mahalik. Third place: Theo. You three performed with a glimmer of the brilliance I possess. You didn't whine, you used your brains—even if your brains are filled with nonsense about secret bunkers—and you kept your heart rates within an aesthetically pleasing range. You get an A (Excellent)! Congratulations on not being completely useless."
Theo winked at the boys again, making CJ beam with pride and Mahalik nervously adjust his tactical vest, his heart doing a secret tap-dance.
"The rest of you... Brenda, Shorty, Ray, Bobby, Buffy, Greg, Doofy, Drew, Buddy, Alex, Becka, Katie, Megan, Tom, and Cindy... you all get a B (Good). You survived, which is the bare minimum I expect from my subjects. You managed to move your bodies from point A to point B without dying, which I suppose is a victory for the public school system."
I then turned my gaze toward Holly Hale. I actually felt a rare spark of something—not pity, because I am too perfect for pity—but respect. Pure, unadulterated respect for a fellow master of the environment.
"Holly," I said, my voice slightly less booming, almost... human. "You are blind. You cannot see the rocks, the cliffs, or the terrifyingly bad fashion choices of your peers. Yet, you completed this treacherous run without a single scratch. You didn't fall, you didn't whine, and you showed more fortitude than most of these 'sighted' idiots who have the vision of an eagle but the coordination of a drunk giraffe. For that, you also receive a B (Good). You have earned my respect, which is worth more than any grade in this book."
Then, I looked at the heap of mud, syrup, and eagle feathers known as George Logan. I felt a wave of aesthetic disgust wash over me, so strong it almost ruined my appetite for my grape juice.
"And then... there is George," I sneered, the megaphone screeching. "Last place. You dangled off a cliff like a Christmas ornament. You choked on your own hoodie. You managed to fail at the simple act of breathing. George, you get a C (Average). I despise giving out 'C's. It is a mediocre letter for a mediocre man. I prefer an average of excellence, and you are dragging down the curve of my class! A 'C' on my grade sheet is like a smudge on a masterpiece!"
I slammed my megaphone down on the arm of my chair. "George! Because you forced me to write a 'C' on my pristine, gold-edged grade sheet, you will be punished! You will repeat the entire 10-kilometer run. Backwards. In the dark. While carrying Brenda on your back! And if you drop her, you start over!"
"WHAAAT?!" Brenda screamed, her voice sounding like a distorted monster through her mask. "I ain't being carried by no 'C-grade' Logan! He's gonna drop me into the ocean! I got hair appointments tomorrow!"
"DO IT!" I roared. "Because I am the teacher, and I am the only one who decides who suffers and who shines!"
As the moon rose over Stevenson County, Tom and Cindy walked home hand-in-hand, happy and safe with their 'B' grades, while George prepared for his second nightmare of the night, trying to lift Brenda while his gas mask still smelled like old syrup.
I am truly a saint.
As the last rays of sunlight vanished beneath the horizon, a dark silhouette appeared in the sky. It wasn't a drone, and it wasn't a secret government surveillance unit—though Mahalik and CJ had already started whispering about "Project Bird-Eye" conspiracies. It was an elegant figure dressed in a miniature, custom-tailored tuxedo: Polly.
The parrot performed a perfect barrel roll and landed sharply on my shoulder, just as George was struggling to hoist a furious Brenda onto his back.
"SQUAWK! I'M BACK, YOU NARCISSISTIC BEAUTY QUEEN! SQUAWK!" Polly shrieked, adjusting his tiny bowtie with his beak. "Dwight, I flew a perimeter check around the school just like you asked! I've got intel that'll make your hair stand on end, and you've already spent three hours styling it! SQUAWK!"
"Report, Polly," I said, using a pair of gold-plated tweezers to flick a speck of dust off my silk robe.
"Don't spare any details. Do you see this pathetic excuse for a human below me?" I gestured toward George, who was currently kneeling in the mud, gasping through his mask.
Polly looked down at George and let out a string of profanities so creative and foul that even Shorty blushed behind his gas mask. "SQUAWK! THIS LOGAN KID IS SUCH A LOSER! SQUAWK! George, you're such a failure that if you stood alone in an empty room, you'd still find a way to trip over your own shadow! SQUAWK! GET MOVING, YOU C-GRADE PIECE OF GARBAGE! SQUAWK!"
George could only respond with a faint, pathetic moan as Brenda kicked him in the ribs with her heels.
"But listen, Dwight!" Polly's voice turned uncharacteristically serious. "Something messed up is happening in the school basement. That weird, greenish-black slime from the biology lab? It's alive! SQUAWK! It's growing, it's pulsing, and it already tried to eat a janitor! It smells worse than George's armpits after a marathon! SQUAWK!"
I nodded. I wasn't surprised. In this school, even the mold spores would probably have higher SAT scores than half the student body. But this is my school, and no one—not even a mutant slime—is going to ruin the aesthetic balance of my kingdom.
"Duty calls, Polly," I announced in a deep, heroic baritone. "If a monster wants to occupy these hallowed halls, it will have to face perfection itself."
I reached into the side compartment of my wheelchair and pulled out my custom-designed, chrome-plated Plasma Rifle. The barrel vibrated with a neon-blue hum, reflecting off the lenses of my designer sunglasses.
"The rest of you!" I roared through the megaphone at the 20 students. "George is on Brenda's back, start running! Everyone else, get back to the dorms and pray I don't decide to test this beauty on you next! I am going to handle this slime. Polly, hang on! It's time for some aggressive cleaning!"
The engine of my wheelchair roared to life, kicking up blue sparks on the cliffside, as I sped toward the school like a modern, high-tech Messiah, with a cursing parrot on my shoulder.
I am truly a warrior.