Paine headed out the door to meet the school bus in his polyester white-striped shirt, medium blue slacks that were too short for his long legs and big feet, black-framed glasses as thick as coke bottles, and a Porky Pig pen in his shirt pocket along with a calculator and a slide rule sticking out of his back pocket. He had pasty white skin and really hairy arms. Already at seventeen, he had straight black hairs poking out of his shirt. Even when it was buttoned up to the top.
He carried his books and notebooks on his right side in the usual way. Just as he expected, Marty del Prato jumped in right behind him when he passed the del Prato split-level with the white siding and maroon front door and shutters. Marty had a husky chest, big curly hair parted in the middle, and walked like Demon Wilson on “Sanford and Son.”
“Hey, Paine Goode, whatcha doin’ at school today? Reciting the Gettysburg Address?” Marty said, poking Paine in the side.
“Leave me alone,” Paine answered, picking up the pace.
“Oh, whatcha goin’ to do, buddy? Slap me with your calculator?” And then Marty grabbed Paine’s glasses, threw them to the ground, and stepped on them.
“I’m going to tell your mother on you, you cretin.”
“I’m scared, Paine, I’m really scared … she ain’t been at home for a week,” Marty said, laughing and then turning away from him. “You idiot nerd.”
“No one calls me a nerd,” Paine said. He jammed his elbow into the back of Marty’s head. Marty fell to the ground, hit his head, and passed out. Paine took the slide rule out of his back pocket, straddled his legs across Marty’s chest, and rammed the slide rule down his throat until blood came out.
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