The moon was a cold, judgmental eye in the sky, much like my own, but significantly less stylish. I, Dwight Hartman, was currently descending into the bowels of the school, the wheels of my chair humming with the power of a thousand suns. Or at least a very expensive, military-grade lithium battery that cost more than the tuition of this entire pathetic student body combined.
The air in the basement was thick with the scent of damp concrete and ancient, neglected textbooks, but there was something else underneath—a sweet, sickly smell of chemical decay.
"Polly, status report! Give me the tactical layout of this aesthetic nightmare! I want every coordinate of this gelatinous intrusion mapped out before I ruin its day!" I commanded, checking the digital interface of my Chrome-Plated Plasma Rifle. The weapon felt balanced in my hands—perfectly symmetrical, just like my profile in the morning light.
"SQUAWK! THE SLIME IS SPREADING LIKE MOLD ON A CHEAP JAIL-CELL SANDWICH! SQUAWK! IT'S GREEN, IT'S MEAN, AND IT SMELLS LIKE A FOOT CRUSTED IN GORGONZOLA AND DISAPPOINTMENT! SQUAWK! PREPARE FOR DEPLOYMENT, YOU NARCISSISTIC SON OF A BEAUTIFUL MOTHER—SQUAWK!" Polly shrieked, his tiny tuxedo ruffling as he clutched my shoulder with his sharp, polished talons.
"Language, Polly," I whispered with a faint, knowing smile. "Though I admire your passion. I shall purify this basement with the fire of a genius. If this slime thinks it can ooze across my linoleum without an invitation, it is about to learn a very painful lesson in molecular deconstruction. A masterpiece does not allow for smudges."
But while I was preparing for a glorious symphony of destruction, the real tragedy was unfolding outside on the treacherous cliffside. George Logan was currently experiencing a level of physical and emotional trauma that would have turned a professional marathon runner into a sobbing pile of regret.
He was stumbling backwards in the pitch-black darkness, his military-grade gas mask so fogged up from his panicked breathing that he was essentially blind. The rubber straps were digging into his temples, and he had the added, vocal weight of Brenda Meeks strapped to his back like a vengeful, high-maintenance backpack.
"George! You call this a jog?! You call this movement?! I've seen tectonic plates move faster than you! My grandma's cataracts move faster than you! I've seen a snail with a broken leg and a mortgage make better time than this! Move those chicken legs, you C-grade, discount-bin, dollar-store scrub!" Brenda screamed, her voice muffled by her own mask but still managing to vibrate George's very brain cells.
"I'm... trying... Brenda! I can't... breathe... and you're moving... too much!" George wheezed, his thighs screaming in a language only known to the tortured. "You're... you're not exactly... aerodynamic! And you're bouncing!"
"EXCUSE ME?!" Brenda reached around the side of the gas mask and grabbed a massive handful of George's braided hair, yanking it back like she was trying to steer a particularly stubborn mule. "Are you implying that I, Brenda Meeks, am a burden? In the middle of a national security disaster? Oh, you did not just bring my weight into this! My body is a temple, a five-star resort, and you are just the unlucky, underpaid janitor tasked with carrying the mahogany furniture through the mud! You should be honored to have my designer jeans touching your sweaty-ass back!"
"Ow! Ow! My scalp! My brain is shifting!" George cried out, his legs shaking like jelly. He tried to speed up to avoid another tug, but his backwards coordination was non-existent. He hit a jagged rock, performed a clumsy 360-degree spin that sent Brenda's hair flying into her own face, and began sprinting with blind desperation toward what he thought was the finish line.
He was tragically, hilariously wrong. He wasn't running toward safety; he was sprinting directly toward a leaking high-pressure ventilation pipe where the basement slime had started to ooze out onto the forest floor in a thick, neon-green carpet of doom.
"George, watch out for that—" Brenda started, but the warning was lost as she accidentally bit her own tongue inside the mask.
George's sneakers hit the massive puddle of the sentient, neon-green trutymó. It wasn't just slippery; it was the most powerful, molecularly-bonding adhesive ever created by accidental biology and spilled cafeteria chemicals. George's feet flew out from under him, but instead of hitting the dirt, the sheer momentum of his sprint launched him and Brenda through the air like a two-headed projectile.
They flew fifteen feet before slamming directly into the trunk of a massive, ancient oak tree.
THWACK.
George's chest slammed into the bark, and the slime acted like instant industrial superglue. He was fused to the tree from his chest down to his knees. Brenda, who had been clinging to his neck for dear life, found her arms and legs glued to George's back, while her designer jacket was simultaneously bonded to the lower branches of the tree.
"HEEEELP! THE TREE IS EATING ME! SQUAWK! NO, I'M NOT A BIRD! HELP!" George muffled, his face pressed so hard against a squirrel's nest that he was accidentally sharing a very awkward moment with a terrified rodent.
"GEORGE! You got me stuck to a damn tree! Look at my nails! One just chipped!" Brenda yelled, kicking her legs uselessly in the air, her six-inch stiletto heels whistling past George's ears like lethal darts. "My outfit is ruined! This slime is touchin' my Gucci! Do you know how much it costs to get mutant takony out of silk?! I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna kill you, then I'm gonna sue your ghost, then I'm gonna find your ancestors in the afterlife and sue them too for the crime of making you!"
"I can't... move... my arms! It's pulling my skin!" George whimpered. Every time he tried to wiggle, the slime bonded tighter. A nearby owl landed on a branch six inches from Brenda's face and blinked slowly, clearly judging her life choices.
"What you lookin' at, you feathered rat?!" Brenda snapped at the bird. "George, do something! Use your rapper strength! Use that big-ass head for something other than a hat-rack! Lean back or something!"
While Brenda was verbally dismantling George's soul on the cliffside, I had reached the heart of the darkness. In the center of the boiler room, a giant, pulsing mass of green sludge—the 'Alpha Slime'—was vibrating against the hot water pipes. It looked like a giant, angry, neon-green lung that had been coughed up by a cosmic god with a cold.
"Disgusting," I sneered, checking my reflection in the chrome barrel of my rifle. "It has no structure. No grace. It is the biological equivalent of wearing socks with sandals. It must be erased."
I raised my Plasma Rifle and pulled the gold-plated trigger. But instead of the silent, surgical beam I expected, the rifle emitted a high-pitched electronic trill, followed by a heavy, rib-shattering bass-boosted beat that shook the very foundations of the school.
UNCE-UNCE-UNCE-UNCE!
"SQUAWK! IT'S A RAVE! SQUAWK! SHAKE YOUR TAIL FEATHERS, DWIGHT! DROP THE BASS ON THIS BOOGER! SQUAWK!" Polly started bobbing his head in perfect rhythm, his tiny wings flapping to the tempo of a Berlin underground club.
It turns out, in my pursuit of the ultimate weapon, I had accidentally used the sound-chip from a 50,000-euro German synthesizer when building the power core. The rifle wasn't just shooting concentrated plasma; it was firing beams of pure, rhythmic energy that pulsed in perfect sync to 140 BPM European techno.
"Acceptable," I said, swaying my shoulders with a rhythmic elegance. "If I must purge the world of this filth, I shall do it with a soundtrack that matches my greatness. Music and destruction—the two pillars of high society."
I began to drift my motorized wheelchair in perfect, sweeping circles across the basement floor, the plasma beams carving through the slime like a disco ball of ultimate destruction. Every time the bass dropped, a huge chunk of the slime evaporated into a cloud of neon sparks and glitter.
The sludge tried to lash out with a sticky tentacle, but I dodged it with a graceful spin of my wheels, firing a blast of pure energy that vaporized the limb in mid-air.
"DIE, YOU UNAESTHETIC BLOB!" I shouted over the pounding kick-drum. "YOU ARE NOT ON THE GUEST LIST FOR MY REALITY! YOU ARE DENIED!"
Polly was doing a backflip on my shoulder, screaming curses in three different languages.
"SQUAWK! EAT THE BEAT, SLIME-BALL! SQUAWK! YOU'RE NOT FABULOUS ENOUGH TO EXIST! SQUAWK!"
The slime tried to roar, but because of the sonic frequency of the rifle, its scream was auto-tuned into a catchy melodic hook that actually sounded quite pleasant. Within fifteen minutes, the boiler room was spotless, smelling faintly of ozone, expensive cologne, and total victory. I adjusted my sunglasses as the blue light of the rifle faded into a soft, post-rave glow.
I am the only person who can turn a biohazard cleanup into a legendary performance.
While I was saving the world and George was being humiliated by nature, a very different kind of heat was rising in the school kitchen.
Shorty Meeks had snuck into the cafeteria, navigating by the scent of frying oil and institutional-grade mystery meat. Standing by the giant industrial soup vat was Mistress Kane, the lunch lady. She was a woman of substantial presence, wearing a hairnet like a crown and wielding a heavy metal ladle like a scepter of judgment. She usually looked like she wanted to boil the students for lunch, but when she saw Shorty, her cold, culinary heart melted like a stick of butter in a microwave.
"Yo, Mistress Kane," Shorty leaned against the stainless steel prep table, his eyes at half-mast and a goofy, charming grin on his face. "Is it hot in here, or is that just the steam from your soulful, deep-fried eyes?"
Mistress Kane stopped stirring a pot of what appeared to be grey gravel in gravy. She looked at Shorty, her face turning a shade of pink that matched the industrial ham she served on Tuesdays. "Now, Shorty... you know you aren't supposed to be in here after hours. I should ladle your head off and serve it with a side of peas."
"Girl, rules are just like the crust on a sandwich—I cut 'em off so I can get to the soft, sweet center," Shorty said, pulling a slightly wilted, possibly illegal-looking dandelion from behind his ear. "You servin' up mashed potatoes, but all I see is a whole lot of 'Mashed-Hot-tatoes'. You feel me? You lookin' like a snack that don't need no seasoning, baby. You the main course, and I'm just a hungry man lookin' for a home-cooked heart."
Mistress Kane let out a shy, booming giggle that caused the metal trays on the racks to vibrate. She twirled her massive ladle nervously. "Oh, you hush now, Shorty Meeks! You're just talkin' that smooth, sugary talk to get an extra scoop of chocolate pudding and avoid my 'Mystery Meat Monday'!"
"Nah, baby," Shorty whispered, stepping closer, smelling like a mix of cheap strawberry blunt wraps and desperation. "I don't need no pudding when I got a five-star dessert like you right in front of me. You the secret ingredient in the recipe of my life, you know what I'm sayin'? You make my heart boil like a pot of un-salted pasta, and I just wanna be the butter on your roll. Let me be your garnish, girl. Let me taste that soul."
Mistress Kane blushed so hard her hairnet almost snapped off. She leaned over the counter, the smell of industrial-strength gravy surrounding them like a romantic fog. "Oh, Shorty... you're a bad boy. A real bad boy. I might just have to give you a double portion... of everything. And maybe some extra tater tots from my private stash."
"I'm the worst," Shorty winked, his grin widening. "But I taste the best."
As they stared into each other's eyes over a tray of lukewarm nuggets, the romantic tension was thicker than the cornstarch in her mystery sauce. Shorty reached out and gently patted her oven-mitted hand, and Mistress Kane's heart melted faster than cheap margarine under a heat lamp.
Outside, the moon began to set, giving way to the first grey light of dawn. George gave one final, desperate, lung-bursting heave against the oak tree. The slime groaned, the wood creaked, and suddenly, a large piece of the bark snapped off.
George slid down the trunk, but because Brenda's jacket was still caught on a higher branch, she stayed suspended in the air for a terrifying moment like a dangling, angry Christmas ornament.
"GEORGE, DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME UP HERE! I'LL FIND YOU! I'LL FIND YOUR MOTHER!"
George hit the ground, but he didn't stop. He rolled into the bushes, dragging a trail of slime and bark behind him.
Brenda finally ripped free from the branch, falling three feet and landing squarely on George's legs with a heavy thud. She stood up, shaking with a rage that could power a small city. Her hair was a mess, her jacket was shredded, and she was covered in green goop. She looked down at George, who was lying there panting, looking up at her with big, stupid, hopeful eyes.
"Is... is it over, Brenda?" George asked weakly, a string of slime hanging from his ear. "Did we... did we finish the lap? Do I get my 'B' now?"
Brenda didn't answer with words. The sheer disrespect of his question was too much. She reached down, pulled off one of her heavy, pointed-toe high heels—the one with the reinforced steel stiletto—and looked at it like a medieval mace.
"Oh, it's over, alright. It's over for your whole bloodline," she hissed.
CLONK.
She swung the heel with the precision of a professional golfer, hitting George square in the center of his forehead. George's eyes rolled back in his head, he let out a soft, high-pitched "boop" sound, and he fell into a state of total, blissful unconsciousness.
"That's for the Gucci, you C-grade bastard," Brenda muttered, putting her shoe back on and limping toward the school.
I sat in the middle of the clean basement, the techno music finally fading into a peaceful hum. I checked my reflection. Still perfect.
"Polly," I said. "Did we miss anything?"
"SQUAWK! JUST GEORGE'S DIGNITY! IT'S GONE, DWIGHT! GONE FOREVER! SQUAWK!"
"As expected," I smiled. "I really am the only person in this school who knows how to multitask."