B-3 Bombers
the totally unauthorized postmortem autobiography of
Paul Serena
“ghost” (get it?  it’s funny!)  written by Paul Serena (deceased)
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Autobiographer’s Note:  Some of the sharper readers may have noticed the large
smoldering hole in the plot of this autobiography.  It involves the problem of where the
hell my sister came from if mom was institutionalized.  The answer to this is simple, and
I will tell you now, so that we may put some spackle in the plot hole, effectively causing
it to vanish into thin air.  Or perhaps fat air, if you’re so inclined.  The answer is...   ...  ....

 Well, anyway, back to the story.  Anne and I lived with the weasels (Fred,
Marsha, Katie, and little weasel baby Vladimir) for eighteen months (one and a half
years, if you prefer).  Then one day, dear old pops showed up.  Lucky us.  He just
appeared one day, flanked by men in black suits.  We asked dad who the men in suits
were.
 “Why, they’re lawyers, my son.  You can tell by the faintly green tint to their skin,
the distinctive odor, and the prominent triple-six marking on their evil, terrible forheads.”
 “Oh.” said Anne and I.  One of the lawyers poked dad in the back with a big
pointy stick
 “I love you, Paul and Anne, very very much and I am sorry I sent you away to be
taken in by these weasels, Fred, Marsha, Katie, and little weasel baby Vladimir.” Daddy
said, his voice dripping with sappiness, like those characters in Full House. Under his
breath, in a more threatening voice, he said, “rotten little shits.  i’ll teach you to fuck with
me.  just wait’ll i get my hands on another m16.  dirty little bastards.”  One of the lawyers
clubbed dad over the head with his big pointy stick.
PART FIVE:  THE LITTLE RED-HAIRED GIRL
 Later, we were all pretending to live happily in Ft. Lewis, Washington.  It was a
lot nicer there than in the festering hell hole that was Oklahoma, where the wind comes..
oh, goddammit!  At any rate, I started school there.  I remember I had my first girlfriend
there.  A little red haired girl (and no, I’m NOT mixing up my life with that of Charles
Schultz’s popular comic strip).  We were pretty much inseperable, especially after “the
Incident”.
PART SIX:  THE “INCIDENT”
 Boy, that was interesting in itself.  It involved several canisters of various highly
volatile chemicals, a freak bolt of lightening, a Teddy Ruxpin, and Elmer’s School Glue.
The result was the molecular bonding of my right forearm with the top of poor Alissa’a
head.  Many hours of surgery were needed to seperate us.
PART SEVEN:  WHEN IN ULM...
 After second grade, she moved, and then so did we.  This time, it was back to
Germany.  A town called Ulm, to be exact.  We had a duplex.  The people in the other
half of the house might as well never have existed, because we only saw them once in the
year and a half that we lived there.  That one time was quite enough, though.  I remember
it as well as the time dad skinned my ass real good for sending Anne to Hell.
 It was late December, just before Christmas.  The full moon shone on the newly
fallen snow, and the air was still.  Dad, Anne, and I were sitting around the dinner table,
eating our food and pretending we weren’t all thinking about murdering one another,
when there came a rapping, rapping at out chamber door.  Or front door, rather.  Sorry.
Dad went down to answer it, his shotgun firmly clasped in one hand.  We’d been having
problems with a band of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and dad wanted to take care of them once
and for all.  But, as we were about to find out, it wasn’t the Jehovah’s Witnesses. It was
something much, much more sinister.  The Fredriksons.  Two of them, at least.  The
mother and her daughter.   They stood there, torches and Satanic cult paraphenilia
waving.  Their pale hair fell across the white skin stretched gauntly over their bones.
They chanted in a dull monotone:
PART EIGHT:  THE FREDRICKSONS CHANT IN A DULL MONOTONE
 “One of Us, one of Us...”  over and over again.  Well, dad took one look at the
daughter’s green beanie and skirt and screamed, “WE DON’T WANT ANY OF YOUR
FUCKING COOKIES!” And blew the little girl’s head clean away from her body.  The
neighbors threw us a block party in celebration.  Nobody much liked the Fredriksons.
Especially around Girl Scout cookie time.
PART NINE: DAS BOOS
 Our school in Ulm was quite a ways away, so we had to ride the bus.  The busses
we rode on weren’t the ordinary yellow ones we are all too familiar with.  Instead, tour
busses and other regular ones were used.  Logically, the bus drivers didn’t speak a word
of english other than “SEET DAHWN, HEY!”  or “SHAHT YOU MOUTHZ!  SHAHT
AHP!” and “JUDEN GO BYE-BYE!” and were all great big assholes, just like most of
the Germans I encountered.  They would frequently race the other school busses down
the autobahn at speeds that no bus should be able to travel.  I don’t remember school
there. Third grade was spent in a perpetual state of mortal terror.
PART TEN:  WHAT EVIL LURKS...
 This was also largely due to the Shadow.  In Ulm, my room was positioned in the
front of the house.  There was a large window in the anterior wall in front of which I had
hung two wooden airplane models.  One of the models was a red biplane, and during the
night it cast a shadow upon the sloping ceiling across from the foot of my bed.  The
shadow, at least to my overactive imagination looked like a face.  It scared the shit out of
me, and to my knowledge I did not sleep for the entire year and a half we lived in Ulm.
My nights were spent largely staring at the Shadow, not moving a muscle, even to blink,
for ten hours.  I was convinced that the Shadow was going to “get me.”
PART ELEVEN:  THE SCREAM
 One night, I remember, I was laying awake in my water bed (it wasn’t a water bed
in the traditional sense of the word, rather, it was simply perpetually drenched in sweat to
the point of taking on fluidic properties itself). It was around midnight, I believe, and I
was especially paranoid for some reason.  Then, beyond all reason, I heard a scream.
Imagine a scream out of some slasher flick, and you’ve got the sound.  Of course, this
was infinitely more terrifying, seeing as how it was in MY house in the dead of night.
When I was finally able to articulate words myself, several minutes later, I summoned my
father.  Or at least I attempted to do so.  Instead the Shadow came.
PART TWELVE:  PAUL GETS GOT
 If I had been capable of rational thought at that point, I would have realized that I
was about to be gotten.  However, my mind left for a while and left Terror to keep an eye
on things.  Terror’s first order of business, as I remember, was to empty my bladder, and
then cause me to lapse into unconsciousnsess.
PART THIRTEEN:  PAUL IN HELL
 When I came to, I was in hell, and the shadow was standing over me.  Or would
have been, if it had legs.  Behind the shadow was Satan, with whom I was well
acquainted.  The shadow was grinning proudly and Satan was patting it on what would
have been its shoulder if it had posssessed one.  The next several hours are a blur, as you
can well imagine.  However, it all wound up okay, and I was sent home minus my soul.  I
had traded it to Satan in return for a spiffy new radio controlled car, which was crushed
under the wheels of a semi a month later.
PART FOURTEEN:  BETCHA DARWIN DIDN’T SEE THIS ONE COMIN’!
 Shortly before we were transferred from Ulm to Heidelburg (another town in
Germany), we accumulated another family member, which was given the name Rachel
by a team of evolutionary biologist, exobiologists, Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI,
and a drunken crackpot Vietnam veteran (we think his name was Erwin), who had
escaped a local psychiatric ward and stumbled into the clean room where Rachel was
being kept.  Contrary to popular belief, “Rachel” is not her Christian name, rather it is
derived from the specific epithet that makes up her species name, Homo rachelus, which
is an evolutionary fluke, an aberration, if you will.  She (we call her female because,
quite frankly, we don’t want her included in the male sex) is characterized by excessive
vocal output (in both quantity, volume, and irrelevancy), intense hyperactivity, and
stupidity on a level that is almost obscene.  Father, of course, immediately began playing
favorites with the new addition to what I loosely refer to as the “family.”
PART FIFTEEN:  THE LAST TRULY HAPPY YEAR OF PAUL’S EXISTANCE
 When the Rachel was still quite small and not operating at her maximum
annoyance quotient, we moved to another town, called Heidelburg.  We lived in an
itty-bitty apartment, just like every other family on the base.  As is typical of anthing
related to the military, they (the apartment, and to a lesser degree, the families
themselves) were totally and completely homogenized.  Everything might as well have
been pressed out with one very drab cookie-cutter.
 My fourth grade year started there, and was for the most part wholly
unremarkable.  The only thing I remember from that era was the horrible chronic
headaches  Everything else is a blur or not there at all.  Sometimes I wonder if these two
points aren’t related.  My fifth grade year, however, was somewhat better.
 My teacher was an energetic young woman named Mrs. Wiggins.  Her first name
was actually Mrs.  I shit you not.  She is the person to blame if ever you wonder how I got
the way I am.  She encouraged the budding threads of creativity which were eventually
tainted and convoluted into what they are today.  I had several good friends, the closest
being a guy named Jim.  We shared similar interests, though he was quite a bit less
sheltered, and thus less naive than I was.  My mother, who I am bringing back into the
story for convenience’s sake, had from the beginning attempted to keep me in the dark as
far as reality went.  It was kind of a Ward and June Cleaver universe, only with some
marital problems.  We’ll talk about Jim later, though.
 As you may have guessed from the title of this section, fifth grade was the last
year of my life that I can call “good.”   I had cool friends, no pressure, a fun class, a great
teacher, and one kick-ass playground.  Hell, the only element of my fifth grade year
which I can really call bad involved (yeah, you guessed it), a chick.  Doesn’t it always
work out like that?  The only good point about that was the fact that she wasn’t named
Sarah.  Her name was Lynn, and I was pretty much head over heels in love with her.  I
harbored this crush throughout the entire first semester without saying a word.  Then,
around Christmas time, I unburdened my heart to her.  Of course, she turned me down
flat.  Pretty much the story of my life.  I remedied the situation, though.
PART SIXTEEN:  PAUL REMEDIES THE SITUATION
 I set her apartment complex on fire and made her family go.  She ran away, but I
think we’d still be friends if she hadn’t joined the Communist Party and gotten herself
arrested for terrorist-bombing miscelaneous American buildings.
PART SEVENTEEN:  THE EXPLOITS OF PAUL AND JIM
 Jim was a good influence on me, though my parents would argue otherwise.  We
did all sorts of cool stuff together.  I’d always go over to his house to watch movies my
mother had forbidden, and play violent video games.  Once, while we were tromping out
around the woods (a strictly forbidden practice), we found a packet of what we knew to
be either cocaine or heroin.  We could identify it fairly well, thanks to DARE class, and
had a pretty good idea what would happen if we took it.  We didn’t, though, because we
couldn’t positively identify it, and thus weren’t sure of the proper ingestion method.
Briefly, we pondered dumping it out, but we both knew how much money it was
probably worth.  It would’ve been a tragic waste.  Jim and I, being the greedy little
bastards we still are today, decided to sell it.  In the backs of our minds, the word
“deportation” flashed repeatedly, but we ignored it, and pawned the stuff for a sizeable
fee which we blew on expensive Game Boy cartridges and expensive German candy and
expensive Asian prostitutes.  Unfortunately, we never found any more illicit substances
in the woods, and were forced to make our own till we made contact with a classy
Colombian drug cartel.
 Occasionally, we would sneak our bikes out an unsupervised back entrance to the
base and take rides to quaint, tiny little German towns where we would get pussy, even
though we were only fifth graders, and not very attractive ones at that.  Truly, those were
the good old days.  But look at me... I’m getting all nostalgic about something that
happened only eight years ago.  I’m only nineteen, man!  I’m too young to be doing this.
I think it’s time to move on.
PART EIGHTEEN:  TOTO, I HAVE A FELING KANSAS IS GONNA SUCK ASS
 Immediately after fifth grade, the family was packed up and transfered to Kansas.
Dad was to work at Ft. Leavenworth, but the ‘rents decided to shack up in the
neighboring town of Lansing.  Their excuse was the quality of the school district, which
just makes me wanna laugh my ass off when I think about it and look at the “quality” of
the district now.  Ha ha!  Hehheheheheheheh.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!
BWAAAAAAHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  HAHAHA!!!!!!!! he he he he he.
ahem... Hmm, hmhmhmhmheh heh heh HAAAAAAAAA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
whoops, there goes my ass.  Laughed it right off, I did.  Heh heh.
 So, anyway, we got a house here and and settled in.  Too soon, school started.  It
was my first year of middle school, and my first encounter with such things as lockers
and changing classrooms.  It started off okay, and I got settled in.  Then the people
happened.  This was also my first experience in a non-DODDS school, meaning it wasn’t
on a military base.  Usually everybody has the common tie of moving every three years or
less, so there isn’t a lot of time to build biases or form concrete cliques.  This, however,
was totally different.  Basicaly, people were tools.  A rough estimate of the number of
friends I had would be zero.  Everyday at lunch I would find the most non-threatening
group of people I could to eat with.
 My science class (with Mr. Rawlings, who’s breath smelled odd) was the first
place I made a friend.  Even that started out on a bad note.  Craig Orkwis and I hated
each other, and spent much time hitting one another.  I would always harass him and this
redhead he sat with on the bus.  I was an asshole, but it was fun.  It got to the point where
we were about to kill each other. Shortly befoer we wound up killing one another, at
some undefined, fuzzy point, we became friends.  I dunno how it happened, but it did.
Then we killed each other.  Soon we were at the point Jim and I had been at before I had
moved.  Selling illegal substances and fucking Asian prostitutes.  By the middle of
seventh grade, we owned the Lansing police and controlled most of the local government.
It was loads of fun.
 Sometime during seventh grade, I became better acquainted with Nick Spacek.
Nick was then and still is totally neurotic.  I remember playing god with him, deciding
the fates of countless Lego citizens in the Lego towns he, Craig, and I built.  The three of
us hung out a lot.  Especially during the paper route era.

PART NINETEEN:  THE ROUTE
 Craig, sometime during eighth grade, got himself hired by the Leavenworth Times
as a paperboy.  We laughed because he was a small-town stereotype, and then wept
because the rotten little S.O.B. was getting a steady income.  At every given opportunity,
Nick and I would go with him on his route and help deliver the papers.  During this time,
we would speak endlessly about nothing.  We soon became the authority on nothing.
However, it was not time wholly wasted.  We did do the world of organized crime a great
service by locating and identifying not less than five “FBI” houses.  These were the
houses where we never saw any signs of life.  obviously, this meant that the corrupt
government was leasing them, and that the contemptible Fibbies were in there spying on
the innocent tax paying citizens of Lansing Kansas.

PART TWENTY:  WHY THERE’S SOMRTHING NOT QUITE RIGHT ABOUT PAUL
 One day, I was over at Craig’s house.  Craig is the type of person who likes to
play board games because he alsways wins.  Nick and I are the type of people who hate
playing board games with Craig, because he always wins, and you just know he gets
some sort of ego thing out of it.  Fucker.  Well, one day Craig suggested we play
Monopoly, and like a fool, I agreed.   To this day I do not know why, yet I seriously
regret the decision.  As usual, I pulled ahead in the early part of the game, and Craig lost
nearly all of his money.  Truly, I felt really big about myself.  Then, to my horror, Craig
slaughtered me.  It happenend rather quickly.  Of course, he didn’t actuall slaughter me
in the literal sense of the word.  He just began whooping my ass in the game.  Sorry if
you had your hopes up in anticipation of some real action.  If you know me, you know
better to actually anticipate any real action in my life.  Shame on you, you lousy sons of
bitches!!!
 Well, anywhoo, I soon had to mortgage all my property, then sell it to him, and
then i thought I was finished.  However, we agreed that I could begin trading things to
him.  I lost my firstborn male and female children, miscellaneous internal organs, and
gave to Craig sexual rights to my wife, and the right to borrow money anytime after I am
forty.  Also, I sold him my soul.  He keeps it in his wallet in the form of a small piece of
paper with “Paul’s soul” written on it (or words to that effect), and bearing my signature.
It’s technically a legal document.  I am no longer in possession of my own soul.  That’s
why automatic doors don’t open for me, and why animals and young children don’t like
me.  Either that, or it’s because I smell bad.  Whatever.  But, not only did I lose my soul
immediately to Craig, but I invoked the wrath of Satan. Read on.

PART TWENTY-ONE:  UH-OH
 You may well remember that I had previously lost my soul.  Satan took it in
return for a short-lived radio controlled car.  The way Satan works is that he takes your
soul after death.  It’s in a contract somewhere.  Needless to say, he was very miffed that
Craig possessed my soul eternally.  Satan feels he is above written contracts, so one was
not signed with him.
 When Satan heard about my little Monopoly fiasco, he got really peeved.  He
came out of Hell and got all in our faces.  He was really full of hot air (har har), and
yelled and bellowed and threw fire around and killed Craig’s dad.  Satan’s such a little
bitch.
 If you know Craig, then you know he is probably more stubborn than it is possible
for any human being to be.  His obstinacy violates fundamental universal standards.  He
got all hot and bothered with Satan, and they started bickering.  Soon it got physical.
Then it got downright nightmarish...

PART TWENTY-TWO:  SATAN STOLE THE SOUL THAT IS LEGALLY MINE
THAT I WON IN A GAME OF MONOPOLY WITH MY BEST FRIEND WHO
HAD PREVIOUSLY TRADED SAID SOUL TO THE DARK LORD OF LIES FOR
A RADIO CONTROLLED CAR THAT WAS SUBSEQUENTLY CRUSHED BY A
SEMI!!!! NEXT ON “SPRINGER”
 Somehow, after a week or two of frequent Satanic showdowns, Craig, Satan, and
I wound up going on “The Jerry Springer Show;”
 JERRY:  Our next guest, one Craig Orkwis, claims that Satan is challenging his
possession of Paul Serena’s immortal soul”
 CRAIG:  That’s right, Jerry!!!  The *BEEP BEEP* killed my dad, too, and says
that paul’s *BEEP*ing soul belongs to him!!!  Man, I’m gonna kick his *BEEP*ing ass!
 PAUL:  I can’t believe this is happening to me.
 JERRY:   Well, Craig, do you have any idea who our mystery guest backstage is?
 CRAIG:  No, Jerry, I don’t know.  Who is it?  I can’t think who it might be.
 PAUL:  Oh, God.
 JERRY:  Close, but no.  Mystery backstage guest, you wanna come out now?
 SATAN:  BEHOLD THE BLACK GLORY OF SATAN:  ETERNAL
RULER OF HELL, DARK LORD OF LIES AND PESTULENCE!!!!  BOW DOWN
BEFORE ME!!!!
 CRAIG:  Satan!  You bastard!!!
 PAUL:  Oh, God.
 JERRY:  Craig, I believe you and Satan have something to talk about.
 SATAN:  THAT’S RIGHT, JERRY.  THIS INSOLENT LITTLE PUKE
CLAIMS THE RIGHTS TO A SOUL THAT IS LEGALLY MINE!!!
 JERRY:  Think you could cool it with the capital letters?  Some of those in our
live studio auduence are complaining of hearing damage.
 SATAN:  *BLEEP* YOU, JERRY.
 (CRAIG runs toward SATAN, swinging a chair over his head as he vaults toward
the towering, twelve-foot tall master of sin
At this point, the show was, er, interrupted.  Bad things started happening, and the network censors nixed it.  It’s probably for the best that you not read that anyway.  Your mind is much too sensitive to deal with that.  Also, I just plain tired of the story line.

 It all turned out alright, though.  Craig wound up, somehow, defeating Satan, and winning eternal possession of my soul, which he is quite happy about.  It’s this big ego thing for the gangly buttplug (in the nicest, most friendly meaning of the word.)  I remain- sadly- soulless, but still DAMN SEXXY!  HEAR THAT, LADIES???

PART TWENTY-THREE:  HIGH SCHOOL, or:  WHY I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE
Sub-part One:  Stacy the Bitch
 Middle school passed by, and I managed, somehow, to make it through that whole ordeal without any trench-coat related incidents.  I think everyone breathed a phat ol’ sigh of relief at that.  They hadn’t seen nothin’ yet.
 High school started out at rock bottom, and went downhill from there.  If anything, people were bigger assholes than in middle school.  Literally.  Everyone was still larger than I was.  It would prove to be a huge disadvantage, especially during the “over the balcony” incidents, and any time when Doug was around.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  My first major catastrophe in those majorly catastrophic times involved some dumbcunt ho named Stacy.
 If ever there was a bad group of people, it was Mrs. Turner’s Social Studies class.  Every degenerate son of a bitch fuckhole white trash jerkoff on the planet had that class in that hour.  They all hated me because I was smart and witty, and small. I was a dangerously easy target.
 Matters were made worse by the fact that Mrs. Turner had no idea how to run a class.  She was one of those substitute-gone-full time teachers, and she was on Pluto.  She reminded me of Mr. Rogers meets Sesame Street.  Totally naive.
 Once, I was actually in the process of being crucified on the blackboard, and was saved only when the assistant principal came in.  He didn’t save me as such, but just served as a distraction.  An unwilling martyr.  He gave his life, albeit inadvertently, to save mine.  The class quickly forgot about me and did such unspeakable horrors to that man that I cannot even speak them.  While they were doing that, I managed to gnaw through a rope and free myself.  Mrs. Turner spent the whole ordeal going, “Now is that a very nice thing to be doing?  I’m sure this man doesn’t want that eraser there.  Oh, now look; his gastrointestinal juices are chewing the carpet away.  Tsk tsk tsk.”
 It was like that every day.  Crucifixions, disembowelments, we came up with the whole end sequence to Braveheart before the movie even began shooting.  It was not  a fun time for Paulo, no siree.
 Once, I was late getting to class from lunch.  I was always late, because the passing period was decidedly truncated for some reason after lunch.   So I walk in late.  This one bitch named Stacy Ward, who was a bitch ( I may not’ve mentioned that, the stupid bitch…)  laughs and points and goes, “You’re laaaaate,” which is, like, so third grade.  I mean, totally immature, like, y’know?  Anyway, I unthinkingly mocked her taunt under my breath.  A couple threats were exchanged, she threatened to bitch slap me, and I said she certainly had the bitch part down pat, and she lunged over her desk and wrapped her hands around my throat, a position I found somewhat uncomfortable, yet phenomenally humorous as well.  I sat there, turning red from lack of oxygen,  a couple tears running down my cheek in response to being strangled, laughing my ass off, which only served to cause my throat to be squeezed tighter.  Well, I am exaggerating a bit. I didn’t laugh my ass off, but I would have if I was physically capable of doing so.  Mrs. Turner stood behind her making helpless little gestures as one of her students went about attempting murder.  Eventually, I don’t remember how, Stacy (bitch) was removed from my throat, and sent to the principal’s inner sanctum.
 When she was released, having received her Punishment, I was waiting in the hallway with Craig’s baseball bat.  I fucked that cuntrag up pretty good, I guess.  I turned her head into mush, red and pulpy.  It was a slow punishment; I took out her limbs first, and then bruised her really well all over before decimating her bitchass ugly face.  I spat on her remains, and returned to class, pushing through the crowd that her screams of agony (and the abrupt gurgling end of those screams) had attracted.  Upon my return to the classroom, I was hailed as a god, and the students surrounded me, and fought for the privilege to touch my bloodied shirt.  They created for me an altar of purest gold and diamond, and offered gifts and burnt sacrifices.
 Okay.  I lie.  I didn’t kill the bitch, but I really wanted to.  And I wasn’t deified, either. One guy did steal my lunch money, though.
Sub-part Two:  Bankey.
 This is how this particular asshole is known.  Just Bankey.  It’s one of those one-name things, as far as I’m concerned.  Such is my hate for this guy that only one name is required, just like Madonna is so famous and such a slut that only one name is needed to identify her.
 Bankey played soccer, which should automatically tell you he was most likely a dickwad.   Most soccer players are.  He also participated in debate.  Ordinarily, this might pin him as intelligent, but this was not the case.  He stored up a lot of useless information, I’m sure, but couldn’t think his way out a door if he was standing with it brushing against his nose and instructions piped directly into his Cro-Magnon brain.  Fucking prick.
 To protect the innocent and avoid any undue embarrassment, I won’t go into exactly how he destroyed me during my Junior year, but he did.  It wasn’t provoked, or necessary, or deserved in any way, but he did it nonetheless.  Prick.
 He sat at my lunch table that year.  It was the one drawback to sitting there; everyone else was pretty cool.  There was a whole big catalyst thing, and he made a snide comment that really chapped my ass.  It was a pretty personal attack, and completely out of the blue, so I lunged across the table, cafeteria fork in hand, ready to stab him through his rotten little heart.  I stopped only because I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to kill him then and there, and more importantly because I didn’t want a certain other somebody (who was intimately entwined in the whole matter) to lose respect for me.
 It went on like that for weeks until I finally Dealt With It in the only way I knew how: Bad Poetry.  I really wish I had it still, but I think all copies were torched by the God-fearing community.  It was called I Hate You With Every Cell of My Being, and went downhill from there.  Despite the fact that I knew it was shit, the piece became a huge hit, just like most other stuff (TUMAH) I’d written.  A friend of mine offered to type it up and run off copies for a few people who’d asked.  The plan was slightly altered in the following manner:  EVERYONE got copies, including two people who really shouldn’t have.  Bankey, and the other party intimately entwined in the whole matter.
 This resulted in an interruption of my third-period art class to see a counsellor, calls to several sets of parents, and the prohibition of me ever owning or being in the same room as a pen and a sheet of college-ruled notebook paper.
 Well, Bankey was shipped off to Japan, thank god.  I am disappointed to report, however, that the wings didn’t fall off his plane.  Dammit.  Last time I ever trust Arabian terrorists again. Stupid inept sand-niggers.  I think he’s back in the states now, and it’s only a metter of time before I bump into him.  Repeatedly.  With a cement truck.  Prick.
Sub-Part Three:  COSGROVE.
 Another one-namer.  Dude was a total prick, so I killed him.  Fucking psychopath.  He got locked out of the art room once, so he smashed a window with his head.  A day didn’t pass when he didn’t destroy something, which otherwise would have been admirable, but in this case was just annoying because he was such a cock.
 It was a bleak December morn, and Robb (who we’ve yet to meet, but stay tuned; he’ll be officially introduced later), and I were standing around near the balcony on the second floor of the high school, along with his girlfriend Katherine, and Craig & his (now-ex) girlfriend Lindsey The Frigid.  Cos approached us, and began being crude.  With but a glance, Craig, Robb, and I leapt into fluid and perfectly synchronized motion, and tossed his ass over the edge.  He landed on a table, which broke and frightened the freshmen sitting at it, and lay bleeding all over the place from the wounds in his chest.  Ever seen ribs protruding from human flesh?  It’s nifty.  I dunno how such a short fall did so much damage, but this is purely fantasy at this point, so deal with it. I pulled out my nine and busted a cap neatly through his forehead, and went back to my Mr. Pibb without a second thought.  Nobody seemed to care much.  No one really like Cosgrove.

PART TWENTY-FOUR:  ON CRAIG’S EX-HO
 Although it was someone else’s life, I think it prudent to mention Lindsey.  This bitch was my best pal’s woman for a nice period of time.  She was dumb as dirt, and Craig now realizes this.  He was blind to it at the time, though, so we all just let it slide, because Craig was happy.
 Then she crushed him to go out with some jock dumbass named Gates.  What kinda stupid fucking name is that?
 I think Craig dated her because he used to live in Alaska, and was acclimated for really cold things like ice, snow, Eskimos, and Lindsey.
 Did I mention how fucking stupid she was?  I mean, Christ…

PART TWENTY-FIVE:  MR. CAMP STAFF GUY
Y’all might know that all my life I’ve been  in the Scouting program.  One year, I had the privilege to serve on staff at the H. Roe Bartle Scout Reservation.  I worked in the Office/Trading Post staff.
We lived in four-person cabins with actual electricity, which led to all-night “Micro Machines Racing” tournaments on Sega.  I lived with school pal Loren Elkins, and two other guys, one of with had to be hospitalized when he had an unfortunate encounter with the guy we affectionately called Lenny “SKULLCRUSHER” McCoy.  At a meal, poor Phillip ate the brownie SKULLCRUSHER had reserved, and that was pretty much the end of Phillip’s non-machine-assisted breathing days.  Another guy came to live with us in his place.  He talked in his sleep.  It was creepy as shit, man… Once, in the blackness of night in the woods, he sat up and said, “Hey guys?  I’m going to go  “HA HA HA” now.”  He sat in silence for about thirty seconds before standing up, calmly walking over to Loren’s bunk, and stabbing him a hundred and seventeen times with a pocket knife.  He got written up for unsafe knife practices, and was forced to perform the CHUBBY BUNNY torture at the next meal.  Loren lost a lot of blood but pulled through just fine.  He managed to claw his way across the cabin and give himself a blood transfusion from sleeping Little Jeff, our height-challenged cabin mate.
Jeff was a funny guy, or, more accurately, what we did to Jeff was funny.  He had to leave for ten days for a canoe trip in Canada with his Troop, and didn’t pack all his stuff out with him, which was just plain stupid.  When he came back, all of his possessions were tightly and intricately lashed to the ceiling rafters, up to and including his foot locker, which was no small feat.  We also took out the plank of wood that held his mattress up, so when he sat down on it, he kept going till he hit the floor.  Maybe you had to be there, but it was funny.  We duct taped him to phone poles a lot, and spent oodles of time futzing with his stuff.  It was no surprise he ran away two weeks before the end of the summer and killed six guys with a small turtle he stole from the nature lodge.  Don’t ask how.  It’s best for you not to know.
I will only hint at the wedgie epidemic, saying only that my head brushed many a ceiling, and I am to this day picking the occasional fleck of cotton out of my nose.
Jesus Christ, Bankey was a prick.
Sorry, it had to be said.  Again.
Another interesting camp tale took place two years later, at Bartle.  I was there as a camper this time, and so was this rotten little puke kid from another troop.  He was staying with our troop due to some scheduling problem or something.  The full story, being in the works as a work of short fiction, should be available soon on the Nuthouse Productions website for your enjoyment.  It’ll be slightly fictionalized, but only for entertainment purposes.

PART TWENTY-SIX:  BRIMER AND McKINNEY:  ONE PERSON, TWO BODIES
 I met both of these guys at pretty much the same time, in my Junior year in high school.  They meshed perfectly with the Trio (Me, Craig, and Nicko), and we eventually wound up melding into One Mind disseminated across five bodies.  It’s really kind of creepy, and I don’t want to talk about it.  Suffice it to say, they are pretty much pivotal in the Life of the Group, and will be sorely missed when their beds burst into flame on March 6th, 2002.  I can say no more about that until after the trial.  I may already have said too much, so just kinda ignore this section.

PART TWENTY-SEVEN:  TRUE LOVE?
I met Amanda at the end of my senior year, and we were going out in a matter of months.  I was really, really happy.  I really liked her.

PART TWENTY-EIGHT:  NOT BY A LONG SHOT
 She broke up with me on our six-month anniversary.  I was devastated, but we got back together later.  While she was away at boot camp part two, I found out she had cheated on me.  I realized that she’d never treated me very well anyway, so I broke up with her, and feel a lot better now, thank you.  I could write a lot about my relationship with her, but it'’ one of those things I prefer not to think about.  Not because it makes me sad or causes pain (it doesn’t, I really could not care any less about the whole thing), but because it’s tedious to write it all, and really not very interesting anyway, much like our relationship itself.

PART TWENTY-NINE:  SO, GIRLS, I’M LIKE, SINGLE AND AVAILABLE AND SEXXY…
 If you’re cute and funny and open-minded, I would really like to sleep with you.  And have a meaningful realtionship with sharing and love and understanding and mutual respect.  Yes.  That.  May I touch your boobies?

PART THIRTY:  WELL, FOLKS, I’M SICK OF WRITING THIS GODDAMN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, SO I’M GOING TO END IT RIGHT HERE, AND CALL IT A WRAP.  I MAY WRITE MORE LATER, AND REVISE, AND ALL SORTSA STUFF, BUT THEN AGAIN MAYBE I WON’T.  GO DO SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE.
 Bankey was a real prick.