0016: Red Ink
"Foolish. Foolish!" Arnold Bent roared as he slashed his red pen across
the students' paper. It ripped. Others flew in the air. Wobbled their
way to the ground. Settled with the other odd papers.
Bent looked at the math problem on the next page. One point. One damn point!
All his hopes were shattered. If his grade A student could make a mistake after having a perfect unsullied record, then everyone could! He'd start with himself: For failing to foster the genius of the century, one cross on his palm! Bent scratched an X with a flourish on the top of his left arm. It stung. Good.
He looked at his office. It was clean, but the lighting was terrible. No wonder he wore glasses! X! He jumped on his table, jumped over to one wall - smashed it, barely saved his spectacles by stopping his momentum with his left forearm - wrote an X on it.
Opened the door, ran through the hallway past his secretary.
"Foolish!" He screamed.
The graffitti on his students' locker was lazy. X! No creativity! No originality!
The Janitor missed a spot. X on his shirt! The janitor screamed, Bent didn't care, he went running.
The school trophy set hadn't been updated all season. X for the teams! His ballpoint pen broke. He needed better materials. Sharpies would work.
---
Hours later. Felt like days now, walking the street.
"Foolish!" A man hadn't helped his date across the street. X on his forehead.
"Foolish!" A kid with a skateboard wasn't punk enough. Didn't swagger enough. What was the point of being a rebellious youth when you were still scared? X on his skateboard!
X for the dirty walls!
X for the expensive parking meters! Thieves!
X for that terrible sense of fashion! Who wears socks with sandals?!
The police caught up to him. He drew his sharpie like a sword - like a wand- and got tazed in his gut.
"F-fffff" He couldn't speak. The convulsions rocked his body.
Foolish they all were.
They should've gone for the balls.
Bent looked at the math problem on the next page. One point. One damn point!
All his hopes were shattered. If his grade A student could make a mistake after having a perfect unsullied record, then everyone could! He'd start with himself: For failing to foster the genius of the century, one cross on his palm! Bent scratched an X with a flourish on the top of his left arm. It stung. Good.
He looked at his office. It was clean, but the lighting was terrible. No wonder he wore glasses! X! He jumped on his table, jumped over to one wall - smashed it, barely saved his spectacles by stopping his momentum with his left forearm - wrote an X on it.
Opened the door, ran through the hallway past his secretary.
"Foolish!" He screamed.
The graffitti on his students' locker was lazy. X! No creativity! No originality!
The Janitor missed a spot. X on his shirt! The janitor screamed, Bent didn't care, he went running.
The school trophy set hadn't been updated all season. X for the teams! His ballpoint pen broke. He needed better materials. Sharpies would work.
---
Hours later. Felt like days now, walking the street.
"Foolish!" A man hadn't helped his date across the street. X on his forehead.
"Foolish!" A kid with a skateboard wasn't punk enough. Didn't swagger enough. What was the point of being a rebellious youth when you were still scared? X on his skateboard!
X for the dirty walls!
X for the expensive parking meters! Thieves!
X for that terrible sense of fashion! Who wears socks with sandals?!
The police caught up to him. He drew his sharpie like a sword - like a wand- and got tazed in his gut.
"F-fffff" He couldn't speak. The convulsions rocked his body.
Foolish they all were.
They should've gone for the balls.
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