General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War I

Just to let you all know, for the next two weeks, it's a post every day as I post the early part of a Middle Grade novel I began writing as an experiment. As always, feedback of any kind is appreciated and I hope you enjoy the Art of War.
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They say that hard work builds calluses. Or at least, that’s what Kenny would always tell me. I suppose he’d be in a position to know. He’s a Library that walks like a man. A bitter, jumpy, paranoid library I suppose. But this is no place for mercy or weakness. This is recess. And only the strong will survive.

“Very well,” Kenny grimaced, “I accept your challenge provided that you give me the courtesy of choosing the means by which we shall duel.” Like all great men, Kenny was far beyond comprehension most of the time, especially to someone like Gordon Wiles.

Gordon was a year older than we were and easily a foot taller. He’s big as a hill and about as sharp. Inhaling sharply against the cold November air in fear of losing the snot it took him so little effort to make, Gordon turned to his chief man-at-arms, a gangly kid named Paul and asked what the heck Kenny was talking about.

Paul didn’t know. Neither did Billy, George, Timmy, John, Robert, Bert, Billy, Gene, Jane, Joan, Helen, Kelly, Samantha, Thomas, Kate, Christie or any of the other fifth graders watching the daily shakedown. Or if they knew, they didn’t say anything. They all just looked on in excitement, safe in the knowledge that they weren’t today’s target. They must have figured everything would be okay as long as they didn’t call attention to themselves. Hadn’t they ever heard of survivor’s guilt?

“Ah, allow me to elucidate. You wish to prove your physical superiority in regards to my own, correct?” Kenny asked. Paul looked at me. I shrugged. Gordon sucked more mucus back into his nose. “I ask only that I be given the choice of means through which you will prove how much greater than myself you undoubtedly are.”

Gordon understood that one. Anything appealing to his ego would find a way to penetrate his thick skull and make its way into his slow moving mind. Gordon smiled slowly but said nothing. “No, I think I’d rather just smack you one.” At that point, I was just about ready to bolt, but there was nowhere to go as long as Gordon was in arm’s reach.

“Surely you can’t be afraid that I might be able to beat you?” Kenny asked, seemingly oblivious to the way Gordon’s lip twitched in anger. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never seen him act so bravely. Then again, he generally dismissed courage as the delusion of those with no survival instincts. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Gordon breathed in through his nose hard again and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t be such a coward,” Kenny told him. As Gordon drew back his fist, I began to arrange my thoughts.

Kenny Clark was a good man. And although I’ve never seen anyone so smart be so incredibly dumb, he will be missed greatly by his loving Iguana Igor, his mother Lily, and Ms. Jenkins, our second grade teacher.

I knew that as his best and his only friend, it would be my responsibility to give his eulogy.