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The Creature Cram School
Bite marks on fresh human skin often come from overaggressive dogs, zombie flicks, unsportsmanlike athletes or even criminals—those with nothing to lose, but due to tight restraints lack the use of their arms or legs. However, given his current line of work, Patrick frequently had to explain why his arms and legs were torn up, scratched, maimed and otherwise bruised because of children. Yes. The many dogs and cats in the neighborhood had a solid alibi for these many blemishes—though Patrick would blame them to halt inquisitive conversationalists at each bar or restaurant he frequented. While his occupation was undoubtably unusual, the pay was highly beneficial and with his nearly infinite capacity for patience and acceptance—he was the perfect fit. Patrick worked full-time, five days a week (sometimes on Saturdays) at a cram school for students looking to get ahead of their fellow classmates. The most spectacular reason why this school did so well and why so many young rascals attended was because it was the only school of its kind: a school for privileged demons and creatures from Hell.
On Monday morning the fall semester was back in full swing. Hungover, groggy and paler than a New England ghost, Patrick roused himself from his bed and began his morning maintenance: the washing of body parts, the brushing of teeth, the shaving of facial hair and the conservative splashing of cologne. After dressing quickly and causally, he examined the numerous tiny holes in his shirt. His boring, everyday article of clothing looked like a group of lit, skinny cigarettes had mistaken it for a trampoline; bouncing on the front, the back and even the sides to leave tunnels that, when looked through, one might actually see the paleness of light at the end. Unaffected and unsurprised, Patrick refused to change the rag of a shirt and rushed out the door; climbing into his Toyota Camry and driving off to work.
Upon arriving and pulling into the faculty parking lot, Patrick noticed that one of the plaques placed upon the wall in front of all the parking spaces was missing. He could only assume that yet another colleague had quit under the immense pressure, or had succumbed to any number of unmentionable workplace related injuries that insurance of the highest degree might never cover. Abandoning the thought, Patrick hopped out of his car and headed for the main gated entrance to the school. The gate was a massive black structure with pointed tips every foot or two lining the top. Those slim pitchforks, those menacing arrows, could keep even the best climbers at bay. It spanned the entire perimeter of the single story school, and although it looked somewhat cartoonish, it certainly did its job with more fervor than Patrick planned to muster that day.
Without being touched or prompted, the gate creaked open and scrapped the surface of the concrete walkway as he approached, with a sound as pleasant as middle school children teaching themselves to play the recorder for the first time. Patrick noticed that the grass was a horrid brownish-tan and it was covered with discarded cups and wrappers from nearby fast food joints. “Lovely,” Patrick thought. “All this talk of preserving the world and saving the children and we can’t even find a goddamn trashcan.”
He made an unenthusiastic strut up the steps and entered the building. The interior of the school was a mix between an unfurnished crackhouse...
On Monday morning the fall semester was back in full swing. Hungover, groggy and paler than a New England ghost, Patrick roused himself from his bed and began his morning maintenance: the washing of body parts, the brushing of teeth, the shaving of facial hair and the conservative splashing of cologne. After dressing quickly and causally, he examined the numerous tiny holes in his shirt. His boring, everyday article of clothing looked like a group of lit, skinny cigarettes had mistaken it for a trampoline; bouncing on the front, the back and even the sides to leave tunnels that, when looked through, one might actually see the paleness of light at the end. Unaffected and unsurprised, Patrick refused to change the rag of a shirt and rushed out the door; climbing into his Toyota Camry and driving off to work.
Upon arriving and pulling into the faculty parking lot, Patrick noticed that one of the plaques placed upon the wall in front of all the parking spaces was missing. He could only assume that yet another colleague had quit under the immense pressure, or had succumbed to any number of unmentionable workplace related injuries that insurance of the highest degree might never cover. Abandoning the thought, Patrick hopped out of his car and headed for the main gated entrance to the school. The gate was a massive black structure with pointed tips every foot or two lining the top. Those slim pitchforks, those menacing arrows, could keep even the best climbers at bay. It spanned the entire perimeter of the single story school, and although it looked somewhat cartoonish, it certainly did its job with more fervor than Patrick planned to muster that day.
Without being touched or prompted, the gate creaked open and scrapped the surface of the concrete walkway as he approached, with a sound as pleasant as middle school children teaching themselves to play the recorder for the first time. Patrick noticed that the grass was a horrid brownish-tan and it was covered with discarded cups and wrappers from nearby fast food joints. “Lovely,” Patrick thought. “All this talk of preserving the world and saving the children and we can’t even find a goddamn trashcan.”
He made an unenthusiastic strut up the steps and entered the building. The interior of the school was a mix between an unfurnished crackhouse...
