The playground can be tough for some kids. Not you, though. You're the son of a wealthy landowner, never
wanting for anything not a care in the world to beseige your good tidings. Of course, as is often the way of such things,
this has left you a bitter, introverted young man with only one friend to your
name, a shy, nervy young man named Carl.
Carl has long been your ally, but of late, your dynamic has
changed. You and Carl, inseperable in
days of old, have both been courting a young woman named Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina has been childishly courting both
of you, as is the way of youth, but this has driven a spike between you and
Carl. Well, sort of. Carl still likes you quite a bit, but you've
grown bitter and spiteful towards Carl, picking fights with him over
insignificant matters, pushing him over minute slights and simple
misunderstandings.
Today it will culminate in a fierce gym-class dodgeball duel
between you and Carl. Carl, foolish Carl
young and in love, will pick Willy before you and, as such, will force you to
refuse his attempt to pick you for his team.
This will, in turn, result in a brutal dogeball duel, after both of your
dodgeball teams have been atrophied until you and Carl stand across from one
another in the gymnasium, you, staring Carl down, Carl, joyfully skipping back
and forth. You'll defeat Carl will a
heavy throw to the legs, which will knock him down and break his nose, sending
blood gushing out from it, driving him to tears. Willy will, of course, rush to his side to
hold him and comfort him and your gym teacher, terrified by the blood, will
send you to the principal's office.
The principal, horrified by your bizairre coldness, abhorrent
in a third grader, will demand an immediate parent-teacher conference. Once your father arrives, he'll realize that
you've been raised by an insane sociopath and, fearful of future reprisals from
your mentally disturbed father, will insist that you compose a written apology
to Carl. You'll consider it, but as you
sit in silence your father will fix you with a long, cold stare, the pressure
of which will force you into shaking your head: no. No, you will not apologize. No, you will not attend this school any
longer. No, you, proud son of a Russian
landowner, will not tolerate such indignities as have been visited on you by the
principal and your so-called friend and paramour.
Your father will drag you out of that school and enroll you
in another school near another one of his many houses, where you will, advanced
young man you are, commence dying of ennui post-haste. You'll probably see Willy again before you
die, but it won't end well. We can tell
you that right now.
Congratulations Lil' Pushkin!
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