Grade three was in session at the little red rock school in the Sandy Harmonica Stratified District. The Missusfiske held court with a dozen little 8-year-old dinos, all eagerly attacking their latest lesson, making footprints of different shapes in the sand. All except the young Stephenmillerus. He squatted nearby, off to the side in the cozy shade of the Krazyglue tree. He scoffed at today’s activity. When he was sure the Missusfiske wasn’t looking, he carefully wiped his arm against the tree, coming away with a healthy smear of the gooey, gluey, hallucinogenic sap.
He looked down at his arm and reveled in the sticky mess he’d made. The rest of the class didn’t know what they were missing. Would he tell them? Never. This was his tree. His Krazyglue. He patiently waited for the gooey gunk to dry. It tasted better that way. Easier to get down. He blew on it.
As the other young dinos excitedly stamped out their cute little footprints, the Stephenmillerus anxiously awaited his next high. He hummed a few bars of his “Waiting for You, Krazyglue” song, then tapped the smear with a claw. It was dry. Perfect. He stole a look at the Missusfiske. Her back was turned. He licked at the Krazyglue. His lips puckered and he stuck out his tongue. Sour. Repugnant. Just the way he liked it. He peeled the dried Krazyglue off his arm and nibbled at it. Who was he kidding. He loved the stuff. Down the hatch. The effect was immediate. It cracked his walnut in half. Euphoric, he rose from his squat. The Stephenmillerus was taking charge of grade three.
He put on his best sneer and trudged over to the young Cindylulu. He hated the Cindylulu. She was always asking for extra food for her neighbour, some migrant dino. The Stephenmillerus stopped beside her. He pointed a claw at her footprint in the sand.
“I am shocked at your footprint. It reveals your dino culture bias to a shocking degree.”
The Missusfiske arrived on the scene. It only excited the Stephenmillerus.
“No, this is an amazing moment. An amazing moment, Cindy. This is one of the most outrageous, insulting, ignorant and foolish things you’ve ever done.” He looked up at the Missusfiske. “It’s racial paranoia.”
“It’s a circle, Stephen. Have you made your footprint in the sand yet?”
He snorted in disgust. He’d make a footprint alright. On somebody’s back. The Stephenmillerus eyed an easy prey, the Maotsetsemaomao, as his head buzzed with Krazyglue. His eyes narrowed and his neck twitched, giving rise to three of the smallest hackles. Time to kick some more grade three butt.
The Maotsetsemaomao looked down, admiring his footprint in the sand. The Stephenmillerus kicked sand on the footprint.
“You’re a garbage author of a garbage footprint. Your footprint is contrary to reality.”
“What’s con-treh-ree mean, Stephen? Where’s your footprint?”
“Don’t be condescending. This is tragic and unfortunate. You’re obviously an angry, vindictive dino.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You have your 24 hours of Missusfiske coverage. That … that’s a grotesque comment.”
The subject of the grotesque comment, the Missusfiske, once more plodded up to her latest dilemma. The Stephenmillerus leaned into the face of the little Maotsetsemaomao.
“This is spectacularly embarrassing. There is a crisis of legitimacy to your even being here. Tell me, your mom and dad are spies, aren’t they?”
“Stephenmillerus! Need I remind you that this is a bully-free zone! You’re not making good choices, Stephen. Move it on out. Now.”
The Stephenmillerus dragged himself away, but not before giving a look over his shoulder to the Maotsetsemaomao, a look saying the playground travel ban was on.
The Krazyglue high emboldened the Stephenmillerus. The Missusfiske can’t stop me he thought. Not by the scraggly hair on her triple chin. I hope she stays awake all night thinking of ways to break me. This so-called academic bedrock is my playground. My battleground.
There was hell to pay and he sized up the next recipients. A trio of Latinonachos. He loved getting them riled up.
The three dinos squatted nearby, pointing at their footprints in the sand, laughing with each other and chatting in their native tongue. The Krazyglue coarsing through the Stephenmillerus’ walnut told him they were talking about him, running down his every insecurity and physical blemish.
He stormed over to them.
“Stop it! Stop talking about me!”
The closest Latinonachos turned to him.
“No one is talking about you, amigo.”
“Amigo!? You’re speaking Spanish? Now I’m really mad. This is the Milkanhoney Preservation where we speak English!”
Fortunately the Missusfiske was nearby. Grade three teachers have that sixth sense of coming to a student’s aid seconds before being pummeled. The Latinonachos would have left the Stephenmillerus a bloody mess.
“That’s it, Stephen. You refuse to play nice, you’ve earned yourself a time-out. Back to your tree. Five minutes. And stay put.”
She watched him trudge back to the Krazyglue tree. She felt a pang of guilt that lasted two nanoseconds. She continued watching him as he stopped immediately before the tree. He rubbed his arm against it. He was looking at something on his arm. He blew on it. She heard music. Was he humming? She watched him tap his arm, then lower his head. Was he licking his arm? Her jaw dropped. No. Not again. That little turd.
“Stephenmillerus! How many times do I have to tell you? That Krazyglue is going to rot your brain!”