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Artwork by Patricia Backora








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* * * * * *


Like Daniel in the den of lions

I face  the fiery foe of hell

As  David dared to face  his giant

I fight a  monstrous fear that kills.


Though satan’s hosts be many or few

God can give the victory to you.

Though bullies’ tongues are deadly  swords

God is a Shield, the battle  the Lord’s.


Ye who love the Lord, hate evil (Psalms 97:10).



A  tragedy written every day, in too many lives.



Bullies Hell-Bent on Hate





The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it? (Jeremiah 17:9)


* * * * *


What a horrific commotion! Chanting and foot-stomping  in the back rows, rippling like a contagious rash through the pulsating mass of fidgety teenagers. Gum and candy wrappers  wadded up and thrown by slouching youths with comatose faces. All the frazzled principal could do was stare down at his podium and shake his head helplessly.


Coach Ed Miller, a mountain of a man,  sat in the front row.  Seeing Mr. Tyson’s plight, the powerful  athlete bounded onto the stage.  For a long moment he stood there, narrow eyes blazing.  To drive his point home he flexed his bulging bicep, then punched the palm of his left hand.  He shouted into the microphone: “Y’all hush up now, or we’ll cancel the pep rally and let the Red Barons win!”


A ripple of silence spread all around the auditorium.  Coach Miller was the only adult on campus who could command any semblance of respect.  One look at his square-jawed frown let the kids know he meant business.  They didn’t want to fall out of the good graces of their football hero.


“Thanks, Ed,”  the  principal whimpered.


The coach’s growl was low and menacing:  “Don’t mess with me.  She was kin to me. Say it or else!”


Mr. Tyson’s buckling knees nearly collapsed under him.  He cleared his throat, staring above the heads of the snickering students, many of whom sagged in their seats, legs draped over the seats in front of them.  They took  in the pathetic scene with   brazen  smirks on their impudent faces.


If only his introductory statement had been dumbed down for his asinine audience.  Maybe the principal  would have drawn a more enthusiastic response.


Weakly he began:  “As you all know, a great tragedy has just struck our school. Perhaps we could begin with a brief  moment of silence?”


Coarse, ribald laughter rocked the assembly hall. Was Mr. Tyson going to pray under his breath?


“SHUT UP!”  Coach Miller bellowed, gripping the principal around the shoulders.  “There’s been enough silence  around here,  Mr. Tyson.  Just say what you got to say.  Don’t  pay those idiots no mind.”


Knowing that he had the backing of the popular coach, the principal gave him a feeble smile of thanks  and  resumed his lecture.  “Ahem!  Betty Bigelow, a sophomore, passed away two days ago.  Cause of death was diagnosed as suicide. Apparently she found herself on the wrong side of the guard rail encircling the observation roof. It appears she lost her footing and  suffered massive internal injuries and numerous fractures.  She died in intensive care three hours after being admitted to the hospital.  But there’s a silver lining to all this. Only through...ahem!...her faith in a ‘higher power’  did she find a peace in death which she’d never found in life.” Mr. Tyson’s heart palpitated wildly.  Had he finally strayed beyond  the sacrosanct boundaries of “Political  Correctness”?


The principal peered down at his prepared statement. To heck with what the coach thinks, he thought.  I’d better mollify my position a bit.  I’m already in big trouble for violating the Separation of Church and State. With his next words, his timid voice rose in pitch and cracked: “Ah...why didn’t Betty  Bigelow achieve peace in her day-to-day life?  Nobody will ever solve that enigma.”


Coach Miller knew waffling when he heard it.  “Give me that mike!” he demanded.  I’ll tell ‘em why, if you ain’t got the guts to do it!”


The assembly held its collective breath.  This just might be interesting.


How weird to see their good ol’ boy coach  in such a grumpy mood. “Now hear this!”  he roared, pointing toward a cluttered aisle strewn with wadded litter.  “I’m sick and tired of this sorry bunch, always throwin’ their garbage around like this was a hogpen!  Y’all are just a herd of cows chewin’ your cuds!


“YOU!” he roared at Ray Huxton, captain of the football squad.  “Git that gum outa your mouth, boy!  If I EVER see you chewin’ gum in assembly again, I’ll  bust your sorry carcass  down to  water boy!”


The crowd loved it.  The former drill sergeant was one tough dude, a pillar of power.  Grudgingly Ray removed his gum and stuck it under his seat.


The coach shook his head. “Ain’t no discipline in schools no more.  Used to be, my daddy said, a kid could git ten licks with the Board of Education just for chewin’ gum in class.”


“Hey, Coach!” called a lanky boy reclining in the second row.  “How big did you say the holes in them paddles was?”


Once the din died down, the coach called: “Big enough to burn up your britches, boy!”


He felt a tug at his wrist.  “Ed,” whispered Mr. Tyson, “why the comedy routine?  Stick to your topic, please.”


“Mr. Tyson, please go sit down.  I’m big enough to finish my speech by myself.”


Once the principal was seated, Coach Miller said: “Mr. Tyson seems to think I’ve forgotten  my reason for bein’ up here.  But my point is this: “ Nowadays, nobody worries much about garbage in the aisles or gum chewin’ anymore.  After all, why sweat the small stuff when there’s bigger crimes out there to call the cops on?”


Lots of frantic whispers and  quizzical looks.


“As you all know, I grew up on a cattle ranch in West Texas.  I remember there was an old outhouse on our spread.”


Wild pandemonium, mixed with expletives.  Mr. Tyson looked like he could sink through the floor.  “Cut it out!”  Coach Miller bellowed.  “I’m tryin’ to teach y’all somethin’!”


The hellacious din finally subsided enough for the coach to continue.  “Well, anyhow, that outhouse was there for the benefit of the ranch hands.  After a while, we got modern facilities installed in the bunkhouse. One day, old Jake wanted to save himself a few steps and went back into the old men’s room. But he came a-flyin’ out of that place, a-hollerin’  like he was on fire. Wasps were a-chasin’ him, and he got bit real bad. After that, nobody ever wanted to use it  again.”


The students were very merry by  now.  Their sides ached, they laughed so hard.  The thunderstruck principal  was much too stunned to question the coach’s train of thought.  Once the latest laugh attack  died down, the coach resumed his discourse.


“We knew that privy was a magnet for every hornet in the county, but we never did tear it down and fill in...ahem!”  he caught himself, fearing he’d gone too far over the edge of good taste.


It was some moments before he could pick up where he left off, the din was so deafening.  The vice principal turned to Mr. Tyson. “What an idiot, Clarence.  It doesn’t take many brains to gain rapport with those kind of kids.”


“You should give Ed more credit, Jim,”  Mr. Tyson stammered, eyeing the stage nervously.  “His methods are a bit unorthodox, but I believe he’s trying to build bridges of goodwill to help everyone put this tragedy behind them and go on.”


The kids were on cloud nine now.  They’d always hated assemblies before. Usually, they were dry, dull affairs, presided over by starchy stiffs with deadpan faces.  But now they were savoring every word.  “Hey, coach,”  the loudmouth in the second row yelled, “where’d he git bit?”


“Never you mind!”  Coach Miller snorted.  “Now you listen here, boy,  I’m dead serious.  Lamebrains that we were, we just left that thing sit there. We didn’t even bother to spray the wasps’ nests.  We were just too chicken to open the door...” he was drowned out.  My, but he was connecting.


At last the clamor calmed, and he could drive home his punch line. “There’s always a price to pay for failin’  to clean out the wasp nests of life.  One day, one of our newborn calves wandered away from its mama.  It was a frisky little critter, and didn’t think where it was goin’.  It just liked to run free.  Anyhow, it ran smack dab into that old outhouse and shook the daylights out of it.  Well, those old wasps inside of it were in an ornery mood that day.  They got all riled up.  They all lit out after that poor little calf and chased him clear across the cow pasture.


“Now anybody’s got sense enough to steer clear of barbed wire.  But when YELLOW JACKETS are chasin’ you, you go crazy and can’t see where you’re runnin’ to!”


At the mention of the team name, an angry buzzing swept through the auditorium.  Maybe this wouldn’t be such a fun assembly after all.


Undaunted, the coach continued.  “That little calf’s mama heard her baby squallin’, and ran like mad to go help it. But before she could reach it, the little thing had been slashed to ribbons by a snake-wire fence.


“Now everybody knows cowboys have tough hides and never cry.  but we sure did.  Our hearts broke, just seein’ that poor mama cow standin’ there, cryin’ over her calf.  Of course we had to put it out of its misery...thanks to YELLOW JACKETS!”  the coach thundered.


“Y’all know full well why Betty Bigelow died, and who’s guilty of it!  But I blame myself too!  Coach Miller, the ‘Tramplin’ Texan’! Part-time preacher at Fair Haven Church! A fine example I’ve set for y’all!


Tears coursed down Coach Miller’s face.  I had her in my study hall class.  Twice I caught two jokers  firin’  rubber bands at her. Some snotty girls laughed when she jumped up and hollered. I kept those two deadheads  in detention, since I couldn’t give ‘em any real discipline.  But do you think they loved Betty any more after that?  No, they just got meaner and did their dirty work where I couldn’t see ‘em.  Just like the devil.  He does his dirty work under cover of darkness, just like bullies!”


“Ed!”  Mr. Tyson objected, “you know it’s against the law to preach religion here!”


“Well, murder’s against the law too, Mr. Tyson!”  the coach shot back.  “So which is worse?”


“I lied to myself,”  the anguished man moaned.  “Said it must’a been her   fault.  If only she’da worn trendier clothes, flirted with the boys more, acted less serious.  Funny, just last week I was passin’ her in the hallway.  Her dress was torn.  She was cryin’.  but I pretended not to notice and just walked on by.  Mustn’t git too involved,” I told myself.  “After all, a feller could git sued.


“Truth is, I just wanted to go on bein’ good ol’ Coach Miller who never makes waves and stays popular with everybody in this school.  Sure I was a Christian.  Sure I ‘loved Jesus’. So long as it cost me nothin’!


“But my cowardice cost the Bigelows their only child.  I talked with Mr. Bigelow yesterday evenin’.  I got to know Betty’s folks better.  Now I’m not one for keepin’ track of relatives, but I just found out Betty’s mama is my daddy’s second cousin, twice removed.


“It sure does tear me up,” the coach choked.  “If only I’da known she was my own flesh and blood, would I have stopped buryin’ my head in the sand and taken a stand against bullyin’ in this school?”


With a shuddering sigh he bowed his head.  At length he continued: “Betty’s mama is under heavy sedation and won’t be able to show up at her own daughter’s funeral.  Mr. Bigelow has asked me to announce that legal proceedings will be taken out against parents and guardians of all perpetrators of her wrongful death...and,” he eyed the principal, “against Yellow Valley High for criminal negligence and failure to provide a secure learning environment!”


In the back row a young girl keeled over.  A sharp jab in the arm made her jump.


“Chill out!” a voice hissed.  “He can’t do anything!  The stupid redneck!”


The girl whispered back, “But ‘Kerry c...face’  was her friend.  She’ll testify for sure!”


“Oh, no, she won’t.  And he won’t, either.  My old man’s loaded.  He’ll pay ‘hush money’ to protect us.”


“So what if they don’t take it?”


“No sweat.  My dad’s got flunkies who owe him a little favor.  Dead witnesses don’t talk.”


Up on the stage stood a man in the throes of spiritual crisis.  His face  turned heavenward.  “Somethin’ died inside of me when I saw her broken body sprawled out on that pavement.  After the ambulance took Betty away, I drove like mad to git to the hospital.  By some miracle, her parents let me in to see her, just before she passed on.


“I’d failed her when she needed friends the most.  But at least I led her to Christ,” the coach softly said, lowering his eyes.  “Right there in that hospital room, just before she breathed her last.  I just told her over and over:  “Betty, I love you.  Please forgive me.  Jesus loves you.  Please let Him love you and live in your heart.’


“She was so weak,  but she squeezed my hand to tell me she’d made peace with the Lord in her heart.  She even   managed a faint smile.  I was amazed that she could ever smile, after all the hell she’d been through.  But then again, it’s easy to smile if you know all your troubles are finally over.  Right after I spoke to her, Jesus came and took her away from this snake pit of a world.”


Wondering what effect, if any, his words were having on the student body, the coach searched the mostly impassive faces in the crowd. Several kids slouched in their seats and pulled hoods and denim jackets over their faces . What were they concealing?  Laughter or tears?


“Oh, shoot!”  Coach Miller huffed.  With every utterance he pounded his meaty fist on the lectern, furious with that sea of  heartless bodies out there.  “What else should I expect? Your parents spoiled y’all rotten!   Y’all were raised by the boob tube,  instead of bein’ raised by parents who've got principles! All of y’all have cut your eye teeth on AK-47 computer games!  The bloodier the better!  Life is cheap!  If it feels good, do it!  Just like YELLOW JACKETS, bullies are drawn to all manner of filthy, unclean things!  And what on earth is uncleaner in the sight of the Lord than malice towards one’s neighbor?


“YELLOW JACKETS sting!  And they’re social critters, feedin’ together on the things of darkness and gangin’ up on their victims in swarms!  Bees sting, but at least they make honey!  YELLOW JACKETS ain’t nothin’ but bloodthirsty BULLIES!” The coach was so mad the veins stood out in his neck.


The principal nearly fainted.  The vice principal wasn’t nearly so impressed by the coach’s searing indictment of the student body.  “That’s enough, Ed!” he shouted, as he rose stiffly from his front-row seat.  “You’re ruined for life!  You’ll be slapped with 3000 lawsuits for inflicting irreversible psychological trauma upon impressionable young minds!  And you’ve grossly violated the Separation Between Church and State!”


Coach Miller had a plan, despite the hostility of  the vice principal. Even if those kids were rotten to the core and unteachable, he would at least strike a symbolic blow to vindicate the dead girl. After all, he knew that no apology would ever be issued to Betty’s parents for the bullying.  That might only bolster the Bigelows’ case in court.  No flowers would be sent from the school to the Bigelows, either.  Not so much as one sympathy card would be signed by the student body and sent.  But this horrible thing must not be covered over and forgotten, like a cat buries its own droppings.  Some punishment must be meted out.  But it must be done with subtlety.


With extreme effort the coach composed himself and said, “You’ve made your point, Mr. Stonewall.  If I git sued, I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.  But, still, a man’s gotta make a stand for what’s right, religion or no religion.  If a man ain’t got principles, he ain’t no man at all.  Please let me continue.  I’m just about to wrap it up.”


“Very well, Ed,”  Mr. Stonewall said stiffly.  “What harm can it do?  You’re finished anyway.”


Briefly Coach Miller turned and glanced at the pride of Yellow Valley High_the award-winning “Peace Mural” so painstakingly constructed by the Arts and Crafts Society to commemorate World Peace Day.


So expertly crafted it left the viewer breathless with awe, the stained glass mural sparkled with a  soft prismatic beauty. Its subtle gradations of blue, white, green, gold  and violet  coexisted in a harmony alien to a war-torn world.


As the coach  turned to resume his speech, his fingers fumbled on the shelf under the lectern.   Good, he thought, this’ll do just fine.


“Today,” he said, “ I’m full of grief.  Not because I knew Betty, ‘cause I really didn’t take the time to know her at all, except as a spectacle to be held up to public ridicule. I’m really grievin’ for y’all!   Young people who died to everything good and decent before they were old enough to know what life was all about!


“Now, I’m gonna make a concession to Mr. Stonewall.  He don’t want me goin’ on about religion.  And by that, I assume he means Christianity.  That seems to be the belief that ruffles folks’ feathers the most.  So I’ll talk about another religion most everybody here adheres to...the Religion of COOL!  It opposes everything the Lord Jesus taught, so it’s OK by y’all.  It ain’t COOL to love thy neighbor...unless he’s just like you! It ain’t COOL to walk in the other guy’s shoes!  After all, you just might catch his cooties!  Betty Bigelow wasn’t part of your recipe for happiness, so it’s no skin off your nose if she’s dead!”


The vice principal started to sputter a protest, but Mr. Tyson whispered: “Let Ed finish.  We owe him that much.  After all, the girl meant a lot to him.”


Coach Miller asked them all: “How many of y’all know what grief is?  Raise your hands.”


Amid hoots and jeers, a sprinkling of hands shot up.  One wisecrack from the second row:  “That’s what my old lady gives me every time I get a girl pregnant!”


An outpouring of raucous guffaws and filthy wisecracks.  With uncharacteristic composure the coach stood silently, waiting for the uproar to subside.


Even as the fire rekindled in Coach Miller’s eyes he serenely announced: “All right, y’all. Git ready for a crash course in Grief 101.”


Quick as lightning he whirled around and hurled a heavy-duty staple gun at the treasured glass mural.  A screeching crash,   then the word “peace” exploded into powdery splinters.  The reverberations reduced the rest of the exhibit to crumbled shards. Fortunately, no one got hurt by the flying glass_physically.


Reactions were mixed.  “Way to go, Coach!”   a few punks shouted from the back row.  Hysterical crying broke out, or outraged screams  from those who had invested countless hours into the creation of the mural.  No other school in the state could have boasted a more glorious exhibit.


The vice principal rose to his feet, appealing for calm.  He promised to remedy the situation promptly.  He whipped out his cell phone from his coat pocket.  Before he could press its tiny buttons, a hand restrained him.  “Put that away, Jim,”  Mr. Tyson advised.  “I’ll handle him.”


Mr. Tyson knew the coach had a chokehold on him:  A desperate senior had  needed her transcript doctored up so she could get into Buford University. Mr. Tyson had eagerly struck a deal with the girl. His mind travelled back  in time. He’d never, ever forget the shock  of  seeing the coach walk through his office door, and calling out his name, even barging into his private conference room, shouting something about getting major league publicity for the regional sports competition.


The principal cursed himself for assuming that since his secretary and most of the school were at lunch in the cafeteria, no one would suspect them.  Damn his nervous jitters for making him forget to lock his door!  The coach had caught the girl keeping her end of the bargain.  The coach was such a religious fanatic he’d never forget what he’d seen.   The girl hadn’t been too bothered by something which would have reduced earlier generations of girls to tears of shame.  Nor had Mr. Tyson felt any guilt.  She was one of the wildest girls in school, but it still amounted to serious professional misconduct. Coach Miller might have told other faculty members, or even the girl's parents . But loan sharks were after him and principles could be bought by principals.  Once his benefactor bailed him out, the coach, being a man of his word, had kept quiet about the affair. Mr. Tyson knew that had the coach shown more Christian integrity, his days as principal might have ended in disgrace.


Mr. Tyson couldn’t let the coach off the hook entirely but he had to deal very discreetly with him. He gritted his teeth. “Just GO, Ed!  Don’t ever come back, and we’ll forget this fiasco ever happened.  Your severance pay will arrive in the mail.”


“It’s too late, Clarence,”  the vice principal whispered, tugging at his sleeve.  “I’ve already paged security.”


“Oh, no!”  Mr. Tyson moaned.  “Jim, I told you to keep your nose out of this.  That man never forgets an injury.  He’s a Texan!”


“Relax, Clarence.  We’ve got enough on that imbecile to keep him locked up for life in a nut house.”


Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the roar of excited spectators, each student shouting support for his favorite gang.  The Cougars and the Cobras had been spoiling for a fight for a long time, and now they’d found the perfect excuse for their big blow-out.


Shane Flink, the King Cobra,  signalled his gang to rise up and storm the stage. Shane wore army camouflage fatigues and a metal-studded  headband topped with  spiked, red-tipped hair. Shane wore blue war paint, as his cohorts did. Evidently these school dropouts had  sneaked into the  assembly after the lights were dimmed, right under the nose of Security.   Backpacks were  zipped opened and weapons withdrawn from them. Brandishing BB pistols, sawn-off shotguns, blackjacks, stun guns, stink bombs  and switchblades, the opposing gang of scowling toughs braced themselves to defend “their turf”.


Aghast, the school administrators watched as Turk Sparks, First Fang of the Cougars, warned the Cobras: “Leave the coach be.  he’s one of us.  We ordered  him to terminate that fascist eyesore.”


Shane was one big bad dude, but Turk was no powderpuff either. A big muscular guy with a bulldog glare and backward baseball cap, his silver and jade jewelry clanked in the darkness as he swayed and made menacing gestures toward the Cobras.


At the order of Shane Flink, the swaggering, swearing Cobras snapped to attention and stood stiffly, awaiting his command to move in for the kill.  Their devil skull  tatoos, emblazoned on bare biceps,  quivered with tension.


A martial arts expert, Shane looked at Turk Sparks like he was a worm and hissed, “You’re a dead dog, Sparks.  Stickin’ up for that scuzzball after the way he spit on our school!”


“So now you’re an egghead, huh, nerd?” Turk retorted, itching for combat.  “You guys been cuttin’ into our action at this school.  Our agents know where you got your stuff stashed, and there’s gonna be one hell of a raid!”


By the time a lone security guard showed up, grousing about an interrupted coffee break,  a full-scale paramilitary war was raging between fourteen Cobras and twelve equally fierce Cougars.  The timid-looking man jabbed at his cell phone with trembling fingers.  “All hell’s broken loose here!  Get the Swat Team over to Yellow Valley High Auditorium!  On the double!”


Ducking, swinging and darting delinquents provided a big gladiatorial blowout for the  students, who jostled and shoved one another to get a better look, or stood on their seats, shouting themselves hoarse.  By now most of them were too happy to stay mad at  Coach Miller.  The demolition of the mural was a small price to pay to get such an exciting assembly. Even if the spectators’ murderlust was not gratified (yet again), surely one of those cool punksters would be shot or hacked to within an inch of his life and might even end up in the hospital morgue from loss of blood.  The gang who   inflicted the most, and the goriest, injuries before the cops came to break up the fight  would be hailed as the victors and earn  everlasting hero-worship from thousands of thrill-starved teens.


A stink bomb landed on the VIP row reserved for guest speakers, releasing an odor as foul as the hearts enjoying the show. Girls cried out in delight when one boy’s bare arm was nicked with a switchblade.  Students ducked the BB’s whizzing overhead.  Shots rang out  from deadlier firearms. Two  boys who lost their nerve and got up to run out yelled when BB’s hit their backsides.  But their exit was blocked by yelling, jumping teens.   The atmosphere was so supercharged with hate that cries of pain only fueled the fires of collective rage.


A bestial chorus rose up and spread like a rash:  “BLOOD! BLOOD!  WE WANT BLOOD!  YAY!”


The helmeted Swat Team burst in, armed to the teeth and blaring warnings: “This building is surrounded! Everybody freeze!  Drop your weapons!  Put your hands over your heads!  You’re all under arrest!”


Shane Flink spied  an officer  tussling with his buddy Jude, a wild animal of a thug who  held the cop in a headlock and swore he’d wring his head off like a chicken.   Shane slashed the air with karate chops and spun around, jabbing with his foot and letting out a loud war cry. Heady with the thrill of combat, Shane didn’t notice Jude sliding  in  a pool of spilled beer, still hanging onto the cop’s head.  The wrong guy got rear-ended by Shane’s heavy boot. Jude let the cop go and went for Shane.


“About time we had a new leader,” the paranoid dopehead growled, barely down from his last snort of coke.


“Sez who?” Shane hissed.


“Sez me,”you &%$&@!  Don’t come any closer, or I’ll rip yer guts out with my bare hands.”


A little knot of teens gathered to make bets and cheer on their favorite. Girls sighed in esctasy. Before either punkster could land a punch, more cops shoved through the crowd.  “Break it up!” they yelled.


When the pair made menacing gestures at the police, they got a faceful of pepper spray.  Karate chops couldn’t save them from its burning, blinding pain.  They were overpowered and handcuffed.


Once the other gang members saw their leaders in cuffs, their bravado evaporated.     “We better call it a day, Shane,” one Cobra sighed, as he too prepared to face the music.  “Everybody’s bleedin’. and we can’t beat those pigs anyway.  My old man’ll bail us out and when we get sprung we’ll map out our counter-attack  at the safehouse.”


The cursing combatants were handcuffed and hustled away to waiting police cars. One boy snarled abuse at a harried officer:  “You better loosen up them cuffs, pig, or you’ll get litigated for child abuse!”


Mr. Tyson whispered to his colleague: “Jim, let Ed go his way peacefully.  If you interfere, I’ll tell the school board about the discrepancies in the Activity Fund.  I’ve got the goods on you.”


“Why...you dirty little weasel...” Mr. Stonewall breathed hotly.


Disappointed groans filled  the auditorium. Before Coach Miller could exit the stage door, he overheard the wild ravings of a hard-faced creature with spiky black hair. She  staggered around, swooning and waving her spindly arms in protest. Clad in the briefest black leather skirt, she looked like a “heroin chic” hooker.  Melted mascara ran down her face as she wept warped tears.  “They got SHANE!  Those stupid S.O.B.’s ruined our show!”


Her equally deranged girl friend shrieked, “Nobody got killed, just cut!  The - - - -ing PIGS!”


The coach was ready to explode. He was sickened by those foul-mouthed incorrigibles who had sunk below the level of wild beasts. “I QUIT!” he roared.  “You’ll have to find somebody else to coach football for Yellow Belly High, Home of the Yellow Dogs!”


Continued in Part Two



Continued in Chapter 2