Prologue: If Today Were a Fish, I'd Throw it Back In
In which we meet a disgruntled narrator, learn the utterly pointless history of a high school, and blow something up.
TEASER: "And so, after a few visits from the friendly neighborhood hypnotist, some electro-convulsive shock therapy, a little bit of Pavolvian behavioral conditioning and a whole lot of brainwashing, the student mentality at Halls had…changed."
DISCLAIMER: This novel is a work of fiction with humorous intent. Any relation to actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental. The author is a pacifist and does not wish any form of harm on any individual whatsoever, nor does she condone the actions of those who do. The events contained and views expressed in this novel herein are not the actual views or life experiences of the author.
On a bright, balmy afternoon towards the middle of May, birds chirped cheerfully in the dogwood trees, flowers bloomed in the glory of the spring sunlight, and the sun shone brightly over Halls High School, warming its exterior and gazing fondly at the laughing, studious children within.
This was, of course, all well and good, until Halls High School exploded.
Halls High School was an institution of academic achievement, the like of which Randomville, Surburbia, had never seen. It was founded in the year 1982, on a Tuesday. And what a Tuesday it was, for Halls High School subsequently changed the lives of the inhabitants of the modest town of Randomville. Randomville had a problem, a problem which dated back many generations of citizens: a beautiful, vibrant town it was, but no one in Randomville cultivated a love of learning. Children grew up valuing the crass ideals of becoming sports icons, owning the most fashionable attire, and laughing at those who could not become sports icons or own fashionable attire. As a result, Randomville produced several generations of very stupid children, until the great day where Principal John Malady commissioned the building of Halls High School. Well, actually, he was not a principal yet, as he had nothing to be the principal of, but for clarity’s sake we will call him Principal Malady. Surely you’ll understand.
Halls was built on a verdant, lush plot of land that was home to fuzzy bunnies, wide-eyed chipmunks, twittering little birdies and various other innocent woodland creatures. So naturally, the first step in building it was to take a chainsaw to the trees, run over all the aforementioned innocent woodland creatures, and dump a big heap of cement over the whole thing. Everybody rejoiced in the Halls Project, except the hippie, tree-hugging liberals, but nobody cared about them so all was right and good in Suburbia on that crisp spring day, 1982.
Then, it was time to build. Halls was constructed on this large plot of cement, spanning roughly ten acres of pure learning. It boasted a large student parking lot off to the left, future home to many a pleasant car accident on a busy Friday afternoon, and, like all schools with any academic merit, contained a large football field behind the parking lot. The football field was glorious indeed, with stadium seating to accommodate every one of Halls’ future three thousand students (and a few small, uncomfortable, sodden wood benches on the other side of the field for that other team that nobody cared about). It was decorated with the school colors, carnation pink and neon green, and the finest grass seeds were planted on the field. They could, of course, have left the original grass where it was when building the football field, but where’s the fun in that?
After the football field was constructed, the rest of the school was an easy matter; some classrooms and restrooms and maybe a cafeteria or six were built, but nobody really cared about those after seeing the football field, so they didn’t get much publicity. After everything was finished, Principal Malady knew that it was time to hire some teachers. Why? Because Principal Malady had found that all schools of reputable intent typically contained at least a few dozen teachers. He selected great, intelligent individuals who were truly outstanding in their fields of knowledge. They are an interesting, eccentric bunch, but they all become main characters a few pages down the road so it’s really unnecessary to tell you about them.
So then, on that late summer Tuesday in 1982, Principal Malady opened Halls High School to the inquiring minds of Randomville’s youth. Halls High consisted of three thousand students between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, per usual of a Suburbian high school. The students liked the school (well, mainly, they liked the football field, but the feeling is generally the same) and life at Halls was heavenly. All the students loved each other very, very much. Well, sure, they had an occasional tiff with one another. Okay, and there was that fight in the hallway outside of English class. And so a few of the smaller students were found hanging upside down in a bowl of banana cream pudding one day…but that was only once, I promise! The point is that the students all liked each other, and got along. Most of the time.
Okay, so they hated each others’ guts and Halls was plagued with student rivalry, the like of which Suburbia had never seen. It took less than a week for a bitter caste system to be employed, one that discouraged academic success and built up the cardinal virtues of becoming a sports icon, acquiring the latest fashions, and laughing at those who could not become a sports icon or acquire the latest fashions. Now it didn’t take Principal Malady very long to realize that these were the very things he was trying to change by building Halls. No question about it, something had to be done. But what?
First, Principal Malady tried eliminating the self-imposed caste system of the students. He gave long speeches in the auditorium about loving your neighbor and the golden rule and a lot of other biblical crap, but this only caused the students to fall asleep in the plush carnation pink and neon green auditorium seats. Then, he tried expelling the highest tier of the caste system on the grounds of being in the highest tier of the student-imposed caste system; however, this came back to bite him in the arse in classic Orwellian style. Before the pigs were able to morph into anything against the laws of evolution, however, Principal Malady had a brilliant, wonderful idea.
He would not try to fight the caste system; he would use it, invert it, and groom it to the high academic standards that Principal Malady had come to expect in his life of being the principal of things. Instead of valuing the prized virtues of sports iconship and expensive brand name clothing owning, students at Halls would value the virtues of good grade getting, and band instrument playing, and pocket protector wearing. The students on the lowest tier of the caste system would still probably get mocked, of course…and beaten up, and be pelted with raw eggs, and be hung upside down in many a vat of banana cream pudding. However, the beauty of Principal Malady’s plan was that he didn’t really care anymore. Principal Malady found that it was much easier to sleep at night knowing that his students were being emotionally abused by their peers if he didn’t give a flying buttress about the students who were being emotionally abused.
And then, Principal Malady set his epic plan into action. Sure, it was a difficult battle, one that was protested vehemently among the student body. They held riots and waved banners and picketed the school and quite a few of them went on hunger strikes, but they soon realized that they valued macaroni and cheese far more than their social freedoms and gave up the matter. And so, after a few visits from the friendly neighborhood hypnotist, some electro-convulsive shock therapy, a little bit of Pavolvian behavioral conditioning and a whole lot of brainwashing, the student mentality at Halls had…changed.
It was peculiar at first, especially for the staff who was used to the usual caste system of high schools. Seeing busty, blonde, voluptuous young girls crying their eyes out because they didn’t make callbacks for band tryouts was rather disturbing to some. Seeing other busty, blond, voluptuous young girls hiding in their lockers so they would not suffer unspeakable evils dealt out by braces-wearing, calculus book carrying, allergy suffering members of the math appreciation club certainly took some getting used to. Transfer students were quite alarmed as well, but a few shock therapy sessions later and they were just as happy as their contemporaries. Slowly, Randomville began to adjust to the odd ways of their favorite new high school. And, with that adjustment, came a reverence so powerful that even the mighty governor of California would shudder in its wake.
For the parents of Randomville loved Halls High School (except, of course, the parents of those at the bottom of the caste system, but nobody cared about them because they all worked at grocery stores and fast food restaurants, asking intellectual questions such as “Paper or plastic?” and “Do you want fries with that?”). For the first time, their intelligent, academically inclined, if slightly socially inept teenagers did not have to wait till they were middle aged and overweight to gloat about their successes and the merits of their self-discipline; they could do it right now, right in the faces of those who would have hung them upside down in a bowl of banana cream pudding. The parents of Halls new that the new caste system was a great improvement and they all vowed never to tell their children about the obscene ways of school years gone by. Eventually, of course, said parents forgot all about the aforementioned school years gone by, so they couldn’t have told their children even if they had wanted to.
All these radical developments took effect in the school year 1986 and would permeate Halls High School until the last day of its existence.
Which, incidentally, is what this novel is concerned with.
Because, if the reader will so kindly recall, on a bright, balmy afternoon towards the middle of May, a lot of stuff happened that isn’t important, and then Halls High School exploded. Why did it explode? How did it explode? Who is responsible? What is philosophically wrong with the Pythagorean Theorem? These and other questions of various importance will be answered in this novel’s pages.
The story of Halls is a complicated one, and, though I’m sure the reader would like to know who blew it up right off the bat, and thus be saved from reading this boring novel to find out, I cannot do this. I don’t even know who blew it up!
Okay, actually, I lied. I do know who blew up Halls. I’m the narrator, you silly sprocket. They told me these things when I applied for the job. But I’m still not going to tell you, because the author would really, really like you to read her whole novel, all the way through. I’m a little afraid of her, if she gets her kicks like that, so I figure that I’d better humor her for now. Maybe you’ll be able to persuade me to give it away later one; depends on how much money you offer me. Now don’t give me that look, I’m not happy about this, either! Do you think I like being the narrator of a novel? I’ll let you in on a little secret: authors keep their narrators in little boxes without any food or water or even livejournals to keep them occupied, and they have to stay there until they finish the story. My life sucks. You should feel sorry for me. If today were a fish, I’d throw it back in.
You might think that our story would begin on the day Halls exploded. Or, that it would begin with a bomb. Or, that it would begin with an angsty, psychologically challenged teenager who thinks that violence is a pretty neat idea.
But, in fact, our story begins with none of these things.
The events of this tale are many and varied, but the first of which takes place on a sleepy, innocuous Monday, and it begins with Bonnie Outlook.
TEASER: "And so, after a few visits from the friendly neighborhood hypnotist, some electro-convulsive shock therapy, a little bit of Pavolvian behavioral conditioning and a whole lot of brainwashing, the student mentality at Halls had…changed."
DISCLAIMER: This novel is a work of fiction with humorous intent. Any relation to actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental. The author is a pacifist and does not wish any form of harm on any individual whatsoever, nor does she condone the actions of those who do. The events contained and views expressed in this novel herein are not the actual views or life experiences of the author.
On a bright, balmy afternoon towards the middle of May, birds chirped cheerfully in the dogwood trees, flowers bloomed in the glory of the spring sunlight, and the sun shone brightly over Halls High School, warming its exterior and gazing fondly at the laughing, studious children within.
This was, of course, all well and good, until Halls High School exploded.
Halls High School was an institution of academic achievement, the like of which Randomville, Surburbia, had never seen. It was founded in the year 1982, on a Tuesday. And what a Tuesday it was, for Halls High School subsequently changed the lives of the inhabitants of the modest town of Randomville. Randomville had a problem, a problem which dated back many generations of citizens: a beautiful, vibrant town it was, but no one in Randomville cultivated a love of learning. Children grew up valuing the crass ideals of becoming sports icons, owning the most fashionable attire, and laughing at those who could not become sports icons or own fashionable attire. As a result, Randomville produced several generations of very stupid children, until the great day where Principal John Malady commissioned the building of Halls High School. Well, actually, he was not a principal yet, as he had nothing to be the principal of, but for clarity’s sake we will call him Principal Malady. Surely you’ll understand.
Halls was built on a verdant, lush plot of land that was home to fuzzy bunnies, wide-eyed chipmunks, twittering little birdies and various other innocent woodland creatures. So naturally, the first step in building it was to take a chainsaw to the trees, run over all the aforementioned innocent woodland creatures, and dump a big heap of cement over the whole thing. Everybody rejoiced in the Halls Project, except the hippie, tree-hugging liberals, but nobody cared about them so all was right and good in Suburbia on that crisp spring day, 1982.
Then, it was time to build. Halls was constructed on this large plot of cement, spanning roughly ten acres of pure learning. It boasted a large student parking lot off to the left, future home to many a pleasant car accident on a busy Friday afternoon, and, like all schools with any academic merit, contained a large football field behind the parking lot. The football field was glorious indeed, with stadium seating to accommodate every one of Halls’ future three thousand students (and a few small, uncomfortable, sodden wood benches on the other side of the field for that other team that nobody cared about). It was decorated with the school colors, carnation pink and neon green, and the finest grass seeds were planted on the field. They could, of course, have left the original grass where it was when building the football field, but where’s the fun in that?
After the football field was constructed, the rest of the school was an easy matter; some classrooms and restrooms and maybe a cafeteria or six were built, but nobody really cared about those after seeing the football field, so they didn’t get much publicity. After everything was finished, Principal Malady knew that it was time to hire some teachers. Why? Because Principal Malady had found that all schools of reputable intent typically contained at least a few dozen teachers. He selected great, intelligent individuals who were truly outstanding in their fields of knowledge. They are an interesting, eccentric bunch, but they all become main characters a few pages down the road so it’s really unnecessary to tell you about them.
So then, on that late summer Tuesday in 1982, Principal Malady opened Halls High School to the inquiring minds of Randomville’s youth. Halls High consisted of three thousand students between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, per usual of a Suburbian high school. The students liked the school (well, mainly, they liked the football field, but the feeling is generally the same) and life at Halls was heavenly. All the students loved each other very, very much. Well, sure, they had an occasional tiff with one another. Okay, and there was that fight in the hallway outside of English class. And so a few of the smaller students were found hanging upside down in a bowl of banana cream pudding one day…but that was only once, I promise! The point is that the students all liked each other, and got along. Most of the time.
Okay, so they hated each others’ guts and Halls was plagued with student rivalry, the like of which Suburbia had never seen. It took less than a week for a bitter caste system to be employed, one that discouraged academic success and built up the cardinal virtues of becoming a sports icon, acquiring the latest fashions, and laughing at those who could not become a sports icon or acquire the latest fashions. Now it didn’t take Principal Malady very long to realize that these were the very things he was trying to change by building Halls. No question about it, something had to be done. But what?
First, Principal Malady tried eliminating the self-imposed caste system of the students. He gave long speeches in the auditorium about loving your neighbor and the golden rule and a lot of other biblical crap, but this only caused the students to fall asleep in the plush carnation pink and neon green auditorium seats. Then, he tried expelling the highest tier of the caste system on the grounds of being in the highest tier of the student-imposed caste system; however, this came back to bite him in the arse in classic Orwellian style. Before the pigs were able to morph into anything against the laws of evolution, however, Principal Malady had a brilliant, wonderful idea.
He would not try to fight the caste system; he would use it, invert it, and groom it to the high academic standards that Principal Malady had come to expect in his life of being the principal of things. Instead of valuing the prized virtues of sports iconship and expensive brand name clothing owning, students at Halls would value the virtues of good grade getting, and band instrument playing, and pocket protector wearing. The students on the lowest tier of the caste system would still probably get mocked, of course…and beaten up, and be pelted with raw eggs, and be hung upside down in many a vat of banana cream pudding. However, the beauty of Principal Malady’s plan was that he didn’t really care anymore. Principal Malady found that it was much easier to sleep at night knowing that his students were being emotionally abused by their peers if he didn’t give a flying buttress about the students who were being emotionally abused.
And then, Principal Malady set his epic plan into action. Sure, it was a difficult battle, one that was protested vehemently among the student body. They held riots and waved banners and picketed the school and quite a few of them went on hunger strikes, but they soon realized that they valued macaroni and cheese far more than their social freedoms and gave up the matter. And so, after a few visits from the friendly neighborhood hypnotist, some electro-convulsive shock therapy, a little bit of Pavolvian behavioral conditioning and a whole lot of brainwashing, the student mentality at Halls had…changed.
It was peculiar at first, especially for the staff who was used to the usual caste system of high schools. Seeing busty, blonde, voluptuous young girls crying their eyes out because they didn’t make callbacks for band tryouts was rather disturbing to some. Seeing other busty, blond, voluptuous young girls hiding in their lockers so they would not suffer unspeakable evils dealt out by braces-wearing, calculus book carrying, allergy suffering members of the math appreciation club certainly took some getting used to. Transfer students were quite alarmed as well, but a few shock therapy sessions later and they were just as happy as their contemporaries. Slowly, Randomville began to adjust to the odd ways of their favorite new high school. And, with that adjustment, came a reverence so powerful that even the mighty governor of California would shudder in its wake.
For the parents of Randomville loved Halls High School (except, of course, the parents of those at the bottom of the caste system, but nobody cared about them because they all worked at grocery stores and fast food restaurants, asking intellectual questions such as “Paper or plastic?” and “Do you want fries with that?”). For the first time, their intelligent, academically inclined, if slightly socially inept teenagers did not have to wait till they were middle aged and overweight to gloat about their successes and the merits of their self-discipline; they could do it right now, right in the faces of those who would have hung them upside down in a bowl of banana cream pudding. The parents of Halls new that the new caste system was a great improvement and they all vowed never to tell their children about the obscene ways of school years gone by. Eventually, of course, said parents forgot all about the aforementioned school years gone by, so they couldn’t have told their children even if they had wanted to.
All these radical developments took effect in the school year 1986 and would permeate Halls High School until the last day of its existence.
Which, incidentally, is what this novel is concerned with.
Because, if the reader will so kindly recall, on a bright, balmy afternoon towards the middle of May, a lot of stuff happened that isn’t important, and then Halls High School exploded. Why did it explode? How did it explode? Who is responsible? What is philosophically wrong with the Pythagorean Theorem? These and other questions of various importance will be answered in this novel’s pages.
The story of Halls is a complicated one, and, though I’m sure the reader would like to know who blew it up right off the bat, and thus be saved from reading this boring novel to find out, I cannot do this. I don’t even know who blew it up!
Okay, actually, I lied. I do know who blew up Halls. I’m the narrator, you silly sprocket. They told me these things when I applied for the job. But I’m still not going to tell you, because the author would really, really like you to read her whole novel, all the way through. I’m a little afraid of her, if she gets her kicks like that, so I figure that I’d better humor her for now. Maybe you’ll be able to persuade me to give it away later one; depends on how much money you offer me. Now don’t give me that look, I’m not happy about this, either! Do you think I like being the narrator of a novel? I’ll let you in on a little secret: authors keep their narrators in little boxes without any food or water or even livejournals to keep them occupied, and they have to stay there until they finish the story. My life sucks. You should feel sorry for me. If today were a fish, I’d throw it back in.
You might think that our story would begin on the day Halls exploded. Or, that it would begin with a bomb. Or, that it would begin with an angsty, psychologically challenged teenager who thinks that violence is a pretty neat idea.
But, in fact, our story begins with none of these things.
The events of this tale are many and varied, but the first of which takes place on a sleepy, innocuous Monday, and it begins with Bonnie Outlook.
2008 words
posted by Katie @ 4:17 AM
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