Once at school, though, things started picking up.  Paul grudgingly came to grips with the fact that he was awake and that this wasn’t very likely to change any time soon.  His acceptance of this sad truth was aided by one of his best friends, Mr. Pibb.  Paul liked Mr. Pibb because there was a certain quality about him
that made Paul feel alive and refreshed.  This quality is generally referred to as caffeine.  As he sucked down the carbonated wonder and made his way to his locker, he remembered the test in American History.  A naughty word passed Paul’s lips.  If there was one thing Paul hated more than socks, the morning, and school, it was having to take a test in the morning at school.  Socks really didn’t figure into the picture unless they were to, say, burst spontaneously into flame or come alive and eat his feet.  This would be rather inconvenient, but would have the potential of getting him out of the test.  Paul weighed the two possibilities as he struggled to remember the combination to his locker.  He didn’t have a bad memory, per say, it was more of a jerk than just plain bad.  When he was finally able to wrest the combination from his brain, it would not, of course, work.  It took three tries, seven swift kicks, and a string of vulgarity the length of the Panama Canal to open the locker.

     Lockers were another bane of Paul’s existence.  In fifth grade, he’d thought it would be great to have a personal place to stow his stuff, but he had been young and naive then.  Lockers, no matter how big they looked on the outside, were always the approximate size of Girl Scout cookie boxes on the inside, and managed still to hold less volume than even those.  Lockers defied the laws of physics.  Paul nonetheless managed to cram his stuff into the small opening and close the door again.  He grabbed his notebook and headed downstairs, toting Mr. Pibb along, too.

     He was early today, and took up his usual place at the pole near the 20oz coke machine.  He leaned against the pole and watched people milling about aimlessly and yammering on about how so-and-so’s boyfriend/girlfriend is such a pathetic jerk/bitch and how so-and-so would be better off with someone else, namely the people who were yammering on about it.  Paul could more or less sympathize and showed this by sucking down more of the Pibb.

     Eventually, Craig wandered down the stairs, dropped his books, and leaned against the pole.

     “Hello, Craig,” said Paul.

     “Hola,” replied Craig, and that was the end of the discussion.  It was one of those mornings when no one had anything to say. Craig was, to say the least, weird.  For that matter, so was Paul.  Both had disturbing senses of humor.

      Paul sipped his pop and tried to think of subject matter, and Craig started humming something indistinctly while also trying to find a topic of discussion. Both were interrupted when a large form began wobbling in their direction.  It blocked out a good portion of Craig and Paul’s fields of vision.  It wheezed with the effort of bipedal locomotion.  It appeared as if it was struggling to remain upright at all.  “Ah, crap.  Something obese this way comes,” said Paul.  “Hello, Beef.”

     “Shut up, Serena,” said Danny, “Or should I say ‘person who is about to die slowly and painfully?’”  There was a general lack of laughter at Beef’s feeble attempt at humor.  There was almost always a lack of laughter at his feeble attempts at humor.  Sometimes, by a fluke of nature, a humorous string of grunted words would pass difficultly through his lips.  I use the term ‘lips’ very loosely.  With Danny, the term ‘human’ is used loosely.  It’s really rather sad.

     “That was pretty funny, Wiggly” said Paul.

     Paul winced as angry ripples quaked beneath Danny’s shirt.   “Wrigley,” Danny corrected Paul’s ‘accidental’ mispronunciation of Beef’s surname.

     Paul rolled his eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh. “Wiggly, Wrigley, potato, potahto.  Same smell, different cholesterol level.”  Craig stifled a small chuckle.

     Danny put a chubby fist under Paul’s chin. “Shut up, Serena.”  There was a pause, and then Danny produced a large wad of money from his pocket.  “I want a Coke.”

     “Why is it that, every day, you feel it necessary to wave around big wads of cash?” said Paul, “Does it make you feel important?  Do you think that, if you’ve got money, people won’t be repulsed by you?  Where do you get it, anyway?”

     “He pimps for his mom,” said Craig.

     “Like I said, where do you get all that money?”

     Danny knocked Paul’s books from his hand.  “Ha ha!” he said as Paul mocked crying.  He wandered (wobbled) away to the vending machine.

     “Wow!” said Paul sarcastically, “It’s like a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.  A great big, huge, annoying, perverted weight.”

     “No,” said Craig, “the weight’s always there, it’s just distributed different.”
     Another person joined them at the pole. This person was different from the usual group of guys that hung around the pole in the respect that she was not a guy. She leaned against the pole, too, and also against Craig, who wrapped his arm around her.

     “Hi, Lindsey” said Paul.

     “Hel-lo, Paul,” said a voice that was definitely not Lindsay’s.  Paul said a quick prayer, asking for God’s protection as he turned.

     “Oh, hello, Doug.  For the love of God, please don’t hurt me.”

     “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Doug, who, in fact would dream of it (and also plot it, carry it out, write a book about it, and sell the movie rights.)

     “But, Doug,” said Sean, “that’s not what you said on our way down here, you said...”

     “Quiet, Fool!  The Victim mustn’t know of the Evil Plot devised to end his life!”  admonished Doug with his usual flair for drama.  Doug is one of those people that has it good.  He’s immensely creative, more than a little sadistic, and is big enough and smart enough to pull off many of the convoluted visions of sadism that dance within his brain.  He is also a health hazard.  Prolonged exposure to Doug has been known to cause extensive bruising, massive internal bleeding, fractures of major bones, and in some cases, stress-induced cardiac arrest.

     Sean is also quite creative and endowed with a twisted sense of humor, yet isn’t as painful to be around.  He won’t kidney punch you because it’s overcast outside or hang you by your eyelids because you don’t blink often enough.

     “I’m going to stand, uh, over here now.”  said Paul.  He shuffled quickly in a random direction.

     “Ye-es,” Doug said conspiratorially, “You stand right there.”  But Paul wasn’t listening.  He was watching.  He frowned and clenched his jaw.  Craig rolled his eyes as he followed Paul’s gaze.

     “Christ, Paul.  Three words:  GET OVER IT!”

     “If you know how, I’m all ears.”

     “Really?”  piped Sean, “Looks like you’ve got arms and legs and...”

     “It was something called a ‘figure of speech,’ Sean.  Can you say ‘figure of speech?’  C’mon, I know you can...” said Paul in a mock-patronizing tone.

     “’Figure...of... speech.’  Oh, yeah.  Figure of speech.  Right. Got it.  Yaaay!”  Sean bounced up and down happily.  “I’m smart now!”

     “Good.  That’s just terrific.  I’m very proud of you. Now back to my problems.  Why don’t any of the chicks in this school, one in particular, have any taste in men?  Let’s ponder this.”  Paul leaned on the wall and made an exaggerated expression of concentration.  “Hmmm.”

     “Lindsay’s got good taste in men,” said Craig, smiling and patting her on the head.  Lindsey looked smug.

     “No she doesn’t.” said everyone else in unison.

     Looking indignant, Lindsey folded her arms and pouted. Craig pretended to ignore the remark, but wondered if it were true, and said, “What’s your problem?  Whatsizface is gone, there’s no one in the way now.  Just get it over with and ask her out again.”

     “But we’ve already established that no one in this school has any taste in men,” countered Paul.

     “So then she’ll say yes,” said Craig.  This comment invited an insincere “brick wall” from Paul, who had seen the remark coming a mile away anyway.

     “Besides,” added Paul, “if she turned me down again you’d have to put up with my self-pitying griping for months on end.”

     “So what would be any different from the last four months?” said Craig.

     Doug, being the nice guy he is, smiled, patted Paul on the shoulder (much harder than was necessary, to Paul’s dismay), and offered, “We’ll club her and drag her to your house for you.”  He smiled expectantly.  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he would do it if Paul said he should, or even that he’d do it anyway. Such were the workings of Doug’s mind.

     As appreciative of Doug’s generosity as he was, Paul felt he had to decline.  “No, something tells me that wouldn’t work too well.  I’m thinking more along the lines of drugs or brainwashing.”

     “Aw, you’re no fun,” said Doug.  Doug was lying.  Paul was loads of fun for Doug, in the same way a gimpy mouse is fun for a cat.

     “Looking at you, I’m thinking using all three would be necessary,” Craig smiled.

     Paul flipped him the bird.  “No,” he said, “I’m not any fun.  That’s probably why I’m still alive.”

     Just then, Danny came back.  He was gripping a Cherry Coke in his fat hand.  It is a well known fact that one Danny Wrigley has more mass than most average small stars.  This being the case, he would naturally have an immensely stronger gravitational field and would essentially be a living black hole.  As Danny walks down the street people, small animals, cars, and miscellaneous other objects should be sucked into Danny, which is a fate I would wish upon no one.  Thankfully, Mother Nature has somehow compensated.  Against all reason things are not sucked toward Danny and squashed into oblivion at his Event Horizon, instead we must merely tolerate his existence.  I’m not sure which is a more disturbing prospect.

    “Tell me,” Paul addressed everyone, “How is it that you...humans deal with these, uh... these, er, short word for random electrical and chemical reactions and stimuli in the brain... starts with ‘E’...”

    “Eggs?” asked Craig.

     “Eggplants?” said Sean.

     “Edward?” said Lindsey.

     “Who’s Edward?” Craig asked suspiciously.

     “You people are all idiots.  Obviously he’s talking about ergonomically designed mattresses,” Doug said.  “Fools.”

     “Oh, I know...ego!”

     “Eggo waffles.”

     Paul grew tired of the light mocking of his problems, rolled his eyes, and said, “Pathetic humans. The word I’m looking for is emotions.  None of you are worthy of salvation.  When my people invade, none of you shall be saved.  Except maybe you,” he pointed at Lindsey, waggling his eyebrows.

     “Hey, back off, pal,” Craig said protectively.

     “Okay, she’ll die with the rest of you.  Well, anyway, I can’t believe I’m letting it get to me like this.  It’s remarkably inconvenient.  I should be able to exercise better control over myself.”

    “Paul, you can’t even keep regular control over your bladder,” said Danny.

 “I think I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, for your own well being.  I think the universe exists solely to irritate me.  Some higher power thinks it’s funny to pester me with...Sweet Jesus!  Did you feel that?”  Paul looked around in confusion as he regained his balance.  Everyone wore similar expressions of genuine confusion.

     “Huh?” they chorused.

     “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that...It was like a huge shockwave slammed into me.  I’m amazed that I wasn’t reduced to an organic sludge on the opposite wall!”

     “The universe is mad at you for figuring out its plans,” said Sean.

     “Must be.  It ain’t wise to go thwarting the universe.  Bad things happen when you try to thwart the universe,” Craig said matter-of-factly.  There were general nods and murmurs of agreement.  They all also took a small shuffling step away from Paul.

     “I’m not insane.  Something happened.”

     “Well, of course something happened, Paul,” Doug said sympathetically, “We all felt it, too.  Huh, guys?”  Everyone nodded vigorously.

     “Be serious.  I wasn’t imagining it.  And I’m not insane.”

     “No, of course not, Paul.  Everyone else is insane,”  assured Doug.

     “Stop mocking me.”  It was then that the final bell rang.  The small crowd dispersed to the different corners of the school except for Paul, Craig, and Lindsey.

     “It’s Tuesday?” asked Lindsey, who never knew the day of the week.

     “Monday,” Craig said.

     “Bummer,” she said.  “Well, I’ll see you at lunch.”

     “Bye,” Craig told her.

     “Bye,” Paul said to her.  She waved as she turned to walk away.  Craig and Paul went in the opposite direction, headed for the stairs.  “I really did feel something.  I’m being serious.” 

    “Sure.”

     “Maybe I’m just tired.”

     Craig shrugged.  “Maybe.”  They walked in silence till they were at the stairs, then Paul said, “I really hate Mondays.  Nothing could make them worse.”

     “Oh, I’m sure the universe will find a way to make it worse, just because you said that.”

     “You’re probably right.  Well, bye.  And, Craig?”

     “What?”

     “I am not insane.”

     “Of course not.  Just be nice to the men in the white coats when they come for you.”

     “Hmmph.”

     Craig veered into the hallway and Paul took off to the left, heading for his locker.  He managed to open it in two tries and tossed the half-full bottle of Mr. Pibb in.  It was time to go take a test, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

part 3