I know people usually put sketches/sitcoms in critique but I was wondering, if anyone had the time, whether they'd like to read one of my short stories? It's from a collection I'm thinking about developing based in a secondary school. It's not explicitly comedy but I'm trying to introduce comic elements to juxtapose the grittyness. I suppose it's a bit like John King or Bukowski - but obviously not as good. Anyway, anyone who's got the time to read it, I'd really appreciate your feedback.....
The Fall of Mr Stevens
Mr Stevens was a real pugnacious bastard. He didn't even deserve the prefix mister. We should have used his first name – C**t Stevens, probably. He was a small weasel of a man. He had long pointy features and tiny jet black eyes which gave no suggestion of life, love or dream. A pathetic beard straddled his chin and wisped off his face like brown smoke. It was hooked on by two small bright red ears which glowed a fiery hew when he got angry. He couldn't have been more than about thirty but we knew he still lived with his parents and had never been f**ked. We'd never been f**ked, but we were only eleven. We could tell Stevens pined over the other lab tech – Miss Moss. F**k it, we all did! She was in her mid-twenties and walked around this all-boys school in the shortest skirt you've ever seen. She may have had a face like a rotten apple for all we knew but all we cared about was her bottom half. There wasn't a soft-cock in the house when she walked past and her tight ass swung like a metronome as she wiggled down the corridor – as if she were counting the cocks she teased. And Stevens worshipped her but got absolutely nowhere. As an eleven year old lad you know when someone's perving on someone because you do it yourself all the time. You've got it refined to a fine art. All you need is a quick glance of fleshy leg and you've got your wanking image for the next three weeks. And we could all see Stevens' gaze following Moss round the room like a f**king stalker. But when it came to talking to her he became a blubbering wreck. If we didn't hate him so much it would have been tragic. F**king loser.
Mr Stevens wasn't a teacher, he was a lowly lab assistant. And not a science lab technician, he was an I.T drone. He couldn't pretend he was more important than he actually was by hiding behind his long white coat stained with iodine solution. No, Mr Stevens had nothing to protect him. He could only dream of setting up experiments and arranging bunsen burners. All that poor little prick did was wipe the school network of all the soft porn which had been downloaded throughout the day – mostly by the teachers. Miss Moss was never going to be impressed by that.
The kids were all too aware of the hierarchy of the playground and the Staff Room. We knew who to mess with and who not to. We knew how far to push people because we'd all had our fingers burned. But that gave us a kind of sixth sense. We could feel when someone was above someone – or at least felt they were above someone. We weren't stupid and we could tell that the teachers looked down on Mr Stevens. We could see it in their eyes – "What's the matter Mr Stevens, couldn't you get a proper teaching job?" Even the other techs looked down on him. And the helpers for the ‘special' kids. He probably had a separate part of the Staff Room where he drank his own ribena which he had brought from home incase it was ‘tampered with' by any of the teachers. As if they cared about tampering with Mr Stevens' f**king drink. They knew they were above Stevens and as a result they didn't have to prove it. The problem comes when people don't know they're above someone. They think they might be but they fear they're not. This spells trouble because then they've got to prove it.
Mr Stevens was in this position with all the kids. We knew the teachers didn't respect him and this gave us plenty of ammunition. I remember one day in I.T Mark Crowther put up his hand trying to get the I.T teacher Mr Culverwell's attention.
"Sir, I can't do my spreadsheet. Excel's not working!" Crowther exclaimed.
Culverwell didn't hear but Mr Stevens did. He strutted over to Crowther and lent over him, enclosing him in his seat with his arms, "What you want, kid?"
"F**k off, Stevens. I want some help from a proper teacher," shouted Crowther as the room erupted in laugher.
Stevens stood up straight and blinked around the room like a scared little faggot caught sucking off a queer in a local park. Thirty little faces staring at him. Sixty little eyes piercing his soul and boring into him. He fidgeted on the spot for a moment before twatting Crowther round the ear and scuttling back into his tech room like a hideous spider. Crowther was left clutching his face, slumped on his keyboard. Stevens peeked out from his room a couple of times during the lesson but he never ventured out again. He wasn't sure whether he had won that battle or had lost horrifically.
You hit a kid and the news gets round the school quicker than Jessie f**king Owens running away from the Nazis. But this was a regular occurrence with Stevens. Had it been Miss Moss we'd have been talking about it for weeks. And it would've mushroomed like an A-Bomb. "You hear Miss Moss clipped Crowther round the ear", "You hear Miss Moss punched Crowther in the face", "You hear Miss Moss shot Crowther in the f**king head and raped his family". You repeat a lie enough in a place like Gee and it soon becomes fact. But we weren't surprised when we heard another story about Stevens hitting a kid. It didn't stop us playing football. And we didn't have to embellish the tales to make them more interesting because Stevens kept writing the material for us – tripping kids up, making kids cry, locking kids in the cupboard – we even heard one story about him breaking the arm of some Year 11.
Any other school and there would be f**king uproar. But if you're the worst school in the worst city for education there's no-way they're going to believe a group of marauding kids over a highly respected lab assistant. And, to be fair to Stevens, we didn't exactly give him an easy ride. But he was asking for it after what he did to Crowther. I.T lessons became an absolute farce. Nothing productive got done – at least nothing productive according to the criteria of the National Curriculum. We saw taunting Stevens as productive, might not get us a GCSE but at least it's a f**king laugh. Most of the kids in there wouldn't get GCSEs anyway. So Culverwell would do the register, set some work and then f**k off for a cigarette leaving Stevens alone with the class. And then the insults would start – a massive onslaught more intense than the Allied bombardment of Dresden. "Oi Stevens, why couldn't you get a proper f**king job?" "Stevens, I saw you jerking off over Miss Moss in your cupboard you f**king nonce" "Stevens, you want me to be your bitch so you can cum inside something other than your own f**king fist, you hairy little c**t". And Stevens would get angrier and angrier before lashing out at a couple of kids. And so would end the lesson for another week.
There was no way you could challenge Stevens on his own level. You couldn't turn round and smack him because there's only one person who's going to get in shit for that and it's not Stevens. If you get expelled from Gee there's nowhere else to go. All the degenerates from other schools were sent here so if you f**ked up at Gee you've had your last chance. Twoking, robbing and taking drugs goes from being a part-time hobby to a full-time vocation. And so Stevens always had the upper hand. Sure, everyone thought they were undermining him with their snide gibes but he would always have his fists to resort to. He had the power and he knew it. It was all he had, but it was what separated him from us. But one day that all changed.
It was Thursday morning and, as usual, we were sat in the computer room. I was sat next to the new kid, Adam Colchester. He was a nice enough lad. He'd only been at Gee a couple of weeks. His parents had moved from Manchester or something, I don't remember. He was a quiet lad and pretty clever. But because he was big and could handle himself he didn't get any trouble. As Culverwell left, the room erupted into a cacophony of insults directed at Stevens. I was trying to keep out of it because I didn't feel like any shit that day but Colchester piped up next to me. "Stevens you f**king wet pussy, the only time you've been f**ked is when your dad shoved his f**king cock into your mouth when you were a kid. Don't pretend you didn't want it. Don't tell me you don't want to f**k us all now you sweaty paedo." I couldn't believe it. I'd never heard Colchester swear never mind come out with that shit. The whole room fell silent. Stevens turned round and just looked at Colchester. His black eyes focused into small pin-pricks so you could hardly see them and his ears glowed red like a dying star ready to explode in a supernova.
"What did you say?" said Stevens.
"Oh, I'm sorry Mr Stevens, can't you hear me? I said you're a f**king wet pussy and the only time you've been f**ked is when your dad shoved his cock into your mouth when you were a kid. I then went on to say that you wanted to f**k us all in here because you're a dirty sweaty paedophile," echoed Colchester calmly.
Stevens just stood there stunned. Colchester was new to the class and Stevens would've picked on him anyway at some point to prove his authority – or lack of. He effectively pissed on the class to mark out his territory.
"Did you hear me that time?" inquired Colchester, "I could write it down if you're having problems. I could put it in an email and send it to you if you want?"
Stevens' ears were blood red now and we could see them pulsating with anger. His lips pursed into two parallel thin lines as he marched over to Colchester. We didn't know what the hell was going to happen. No-one had gone this far before but we wouldn't be surprised by anything Stevens did. He positioned himself behind Colchester and placed one hand on his shoulder. Slowly he began to squeeze Colchester's neck. Colchester flinched at first but then just stared into his computer screen. Stevens squeezed harder and harder as the blood drained from his ears into his clenched fingers round Colchester's now shriveled neck. Colchester remained perfectly still, his back completely straight.
"Is this your idea of foreplay Stevens, because it's not really working," he said.
Stevens was getting more and more agitated. The whole room was focused on what was happening – each kid staring on in awe. They all sensed what was happening. They knew this could either make or break Stevens. It was a war of attrition and we were watching the stalemate on the Western front. Stevens squeezed harder and harder, a long vein throbbing along his right arm, as he lifted his left and began squeezing the other side of Colchester's neck. F**k it, Colchester must have been in so much pain, but he was taking one for the team. I was sat right next to him and, even though he was calm on the outside, I knew he was burning up on the inside. I wanted to stand up and smack Stevens in the face to stop him but I knew that'd mess things up. That would undo Colchester's hard work. So I just sat there, in amazement, like the rest of the class. Soon Colchester would begin his creeping barrage.
Stevens continued squeezing and mauling Colchester's neck. His whole body was red. There were veins protruding everywhere. He looked as though he was about to explode or have a heart attack. But Colchester remained calm as he carefully lifted up his right arm and looked at his watch.
"You better hurry up because the lesson's nearly over. I hope you've got a good finish."
As these words left Colchester's lips, Stevens' grip relaxed and his arms slumped to his sides. He was a defeated man and the blood drained from his body. His ears were as white as snow and his eyes were sunken deep into his head. Suddenly he appeared like a fragile old man.
"Cheers for that, I needed a massage," chirped Colchester.
The class stared on wearing blank faces. I could see the red outline of Stevens' fingers on Colchester's neck but he was confident and assured. He had won. We had won.
We never had any trouble from Stevens again. And Colchester never did anything of note again. No-one said anything to him about it but we respected him for what he had done. He had defeated Stevens on the only level he operated. He was a broken man. And because of that Stevens never got any trouble from us again. He wasn't a challenge, he wasn't interesting, he was the lowest of the low. Equilibrium had been restored.