Breakfast Serial .01: First Is the Worst

And away we go…

Five and a half feet of pudgy pubescence approached a gaggle of girls like a worker ant approached a picnic. Marching, he inhaled sharply to steel his resolve, held his breath for a full five seconds, and released it with an “hola.”

“Emphasis on ‘ho’.” The canyon-deep voice belonged to the giant beanstalk — a lanky seven-foot-seven (including the afro) — that towered behind the heavyset teen.

“Oh, real mature,” the curvy Asian girl in the center of the throng admonished.

“‘Mature’? So, that’s why you used to call me your ‘big man’.” The tall teen pressed a firm hand on the chubby kid’s shoulder and guided him out of the way.

“Uh, dude…?” The short man wanted to point out the obvious before he got shuffled out of the conversation.

“Stay out of it, new kid.” The girl with the hourglass figure glared at her chunky classmate, then stepped up to her enormous ex. “No, LiveFeed, I called you that because I thought you could alter your size — you know, like one of those guys who grow when properly stimulated. Imagine my disappointment.”

“Ooof.” The new kid winced. “Low blow.”

“Yeah.” LiveFeed looked down and straight into his former girlfriend’s glowering eyes. “The last time I caught a blow that low, you were on your knees, Spatter.”

A whistle blew. The class instinctively turned its attention to the muscular woman, in a wife-beater and track pants, standing on the half-court line of the gym. “Save some of that aggression for the game, you two,” she advised the bickering couple before turning her attention to the the others in attendance. “All right, folks, you know how this works: ladies to my left; gentlemen to my right.”

The two dozen students abided, splitting along gender lines. Satisfied with their compliance, the instructor swiped her keycard, held by the lanyard around her neck, across a digital lock on the nearest wall and typed in her access code. A second later, the half-court line split to reveal a row of black spheres, equally spaced.

With game faces on, the students lurched toward the balls. All except one student, that is, a dark haired male in a black hoodie. A goggled teen stepped in front of him. “Got you covered, Mr. Popular.”

The guy in the black hoodie shrugged. “Whatever, Wavelength.”

“On my whistle, it’s time for…Battle Ball!” the gym teacher announced, a little too excited. As the whistle squealed, the students scurried in all directions. As the first barrage of balls flew, Wavelength and the rest of the boys instinctively rushed to surround Mr. Popular, tripping over themselves in the process. The hoodied teen took the opportunity to stick a Coverse slip-on past the pile-up. A sphere slapped his shoe with mild concussive force.

A whistle blew, and Mr. Popular headed toward the highest bleacher. “Better luck next time, guys.”

An artificial jaw worked chunk of extra smokey beef jerky and the nerves of the two men in the back of the van. “Shit, when did ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’ become ‘dollar, dollar bill, y’all’? And, how do I turn that into ‘money for nothing and chicks for free’? ‘Cause, seriously, pretty soon, I’m not gonna be able to pay my chicks their hourly fees, and I don’t want to get my shit kicked in by some ‘roided-out recent parolee called ‘Molly the Murder Merchant’, who’s fresh from the pokey and angling to put his okey in my doke–”

The passenger side door swung open, and a hulking man with a buzzcut and an artificial leg took shotgun. “Can the Dennis Miller-lite histrionics, Claptrap.” He shuffled a duffle bag onto his lap and slammed the door shut. “And drive.”

“So, I’m gonna finally do it.” The short blonde with the fake tan bobbed, ducking a sphere.

“Use protection.” The taller, naturally tan, raven-haired girl weaved, sidestepping a throw.

“Ew.” The blonde leapt. “No, I got the paperwork today to get my moniker changed.”

“You’re still hung-up on that?” The raven-haired girl lunged.

“‘DoubleVision’ doesn’t fit my powers.”

“We graduate in five months, Vee. Change it then.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“You’ve gotta wait ninety days for the name change to get approved anyway.”

“And, that’s not soon enough!”

“Fine. Nuts but fine. What are you changing it to?”

“I…dunno yet.”

“Kinda important for the application, no?”

“I was thinking maybe ‘Scope’.”

“Sounds like mouthwash.”

“Or ‘Sniper’.”

“Because you’re all about shooting stuff. You’ve never even held a water-gun.”

“‘Spy Glass’ is cool.”

“If you use one, yeah. Which you don’t.”

“‘Dual Action Lens’?”

“You’re fishing.”

“Well, ‘Rack Focus’ is film term that’s kinda close, but…”

“It makes you sound like you love staring at boobs.”

“Yeah. That.” DoubleVision sighed. “I wish I had a cool name like yours, DeathGrip.”

“It’s not worth it.” The naturally tan girl clenched her gloved hands. “Trust me.”

“LOOK OUT!” Spatter shouted.

“I like it!” DoubleVision cheered.

Then, a ball smashed into her forehead.

The van pulled in line at the security checkpoint of an unremarkable industrial complex — a string of pale-brick buildings, all three stories or taller.

Claptrap affixed a false beard over his man-made mandible. “You sure this is safe, Kickstand?”

The man in the passenger seat pulled a baseball cap out of his duffle and over his buzzcut. “Pretty positive it isn’t, in fact.”

“That’s reassurin’, boss.” The thinner of the two men in the back of the van zipped up his jumpsuit.

“I ain’t sweatin’ it.” The other man in the back flipped a hood over the curved horns that curved back from his forehead and over his ears.

Claptrap pulled the van up to booth and rolled down his window.

“ID?” The security officer didn’t even bother glancing inside the vehicle.

The driver handed over his fake license, along with a fake business card. “We’re with the Brush Up Painting Company, here to put the faux finishes on the renovated offices.”

The officer typed in the company name into the schedule database and, satisfied, handed the driver back his cards. “Third building from the left. Parking in the rear.”

Claptrap rolled up the window and breathed a sigh of relief.

“And, that’s why we call ahead.” Kickstand grinned, as he pulled a stainless steel thermos from his bag and loosened the lid.

Category: Breakfast Serial