haze of colored dots.
And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his cock ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.
Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.
Clyde dug that.
He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.
Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.
Clyde yowled, dragged Brian around the hall.
The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.
Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go . . . for a moment. He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherfucker!"
Then the principal came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the principal and the principal went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together,
kicking the goddamned shit out of the goddamned principal in the middle of the goddamned hall.
Side by side they stood. Kicking. One. Two. One. Two. Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .
3
They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.
Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.
Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge: "He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . , " and so forth.
If it hadn't been to his advantage, he'd have been disgusted. As it was, he sat in his place with his nice clean suit and tried to look ashamed and a little surprised at what he had done. And in a way he was surprised.
He looked over at Clyde. He hadn't bothered with a suit. He had his jacket and jeans on. He was cleaning his fingernails with a fingernail clipper.
When Mrs. Blackwood finished, Judge Lowry yawned. It was going to be one of those days. He thought: the dockets are full, this Blackwood kid has no priors, looks clean-cut enough, and this other little shit has a bookfull . . . Yet, he is a kid, and I feel big-hearted. Or, to put this into perspective, there's enough of a backlog without adding this silly case to it.
If I let the Blackwood kid go, it'll look like favoritism because he's clean-cut and this is his first timeâand that is good for something. Yet, if I don't let the Edson kid go too, then I'm saying the same crime is not as bad when it's committed by a clean-cut kid with a whining momma.
All right, he thought. We'll keep it simple. Let them both go, but give it all some window dressing.
And it was window dressing, nothing more. Brian was put on light probation, and Clyde, already on probation, was given the order to report to his probation officer more frequently, and that was the end of that.
Piece of cake.
The school expelled them for the rest of the term, but that was no mean thing. They were back on the streets before the day was out.
For the moment, Clyde went his way and Brian went his.
But the bond was formed.
4
A week later, mid-October.
Brian Blackwood sat in his room, his head full of pleasant but overwhelming emotions. He got a pen and loose- leaf notebook out of his desk drawer, began to write savagely.
I've never kept a journal before, and I don't know if I'll continue to keep one after tonight, but the stuff that's going on inside of me is boiling up something awful and I feel if I don't get it out I'm going to explode and there isn't going to be anything left of me but blood and shit stains on the goddamned wall.
In school I read about this writer who said he was like that, and if he could write down what was
And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his cock ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.
Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.
Clyde dug that.
He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.
Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.
Clyde yowled, dragged Brian around the hall.
The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.
Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go . . . for a moment. He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherfucker!"
Then the principal came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the principal and the principal went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together,
kicking the goddamned shit out of the goddamned principal in the middle of the goddamned hall.
Side by side they stood. Kicking. One. Two. One. Two. Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .
3
They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.
Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.
Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge: "He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . , " and so forth.
If it hadn't been to his advantage, he'd have been disgusted. As it was, he sat in his place with his nice clean suit and tried to look ashamed and a little surprised at what he had done. And in a way he was surprised.
He looked over at Clyde. He hadn't bothered with a suit. He had his jacket and jeans on. He was cleaning his fingernails with a fingernail clipper.
When Mrs. Blackwood finished, Judge Lowry yawned. It was going to be one of those days. He thought: the dockets are full, this Blackwood kid has no priors, looks clean-cut enough, and this other little shit has a bookfull . . . Yet, he is a kid, and I feel big-hearted. Or, to put this into perspective, there's enough of a backlog without adding this silly case to it.
If I let the Blackwood kid go, it'll look like favoritism because he's clean-cut and this is his first timeâand that is good for something. Yet, if I don't let the Edson kid go too, then I'm saying the same crime is not as bad when it's committed by a clean-cut kid with a whining momma.
All right, he thought. We'll keep it simple. Let them both go, but give it all some window dressing.
And it was window dressing, nothing more. Brian was put on light probation, and Clyde, already on probation, was given the order to report to his probation officer more frequently, and that was the end of that.
Piece of cake.
The school expelled them for the rest of the term, but that was no mean thing. They were back on the streets before the day was out.
For the moment, Clyde went his way and Brian went his.
But the bond was formed.
4
A week later, mid-October.
Brian Blackwood sat in his room, his head full of pleasant but overwhelming emotions. He got a pen and loose- leaf notebook out of his desk drawer, began to write savagely.
I've never kept a journal before, and I don't know if I'll continue to keep one after tonight, but the stuff that's going on inside of me is boiling up something awful and I feel if I don't get it out I'm going to explode and there isn't going to be anything left of me but blood and shit stains on the goddamned wall.
In school I read about this writer who said he was like that, and if he could write down what was
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