General Jacob Gallbladder and the Art of War III

Just in time, the door cracked open. I slipped inside and slammed it shut, ignoring Gordon’s screams of frustration and the way he brutalized the door. Gasping for breath, I saw Kenny sink to the floor, shaking. I tried to help him up but he waved me off as he pulled out his asthma inhaler. You can always say this for Kenny. He had the reflexes of a rabbit, the grace of a gazelle, and the lungs of a fifty year old chain smoker.

After a moment of silence, I offered Kenny my hand. He took it and I pulled him back to his feet. As we headed back to our classroom early, seeking sanctuary, I planned out my strategy.

“I’m thinking that I’ll be very sick for the next few days.” I told him. Kenny looked at me as if I’d sprouted fangs. “You might want to do the same.”

For a moment we walked in silence and then Kenny looked up at me again. “This is totally going into the eulogy, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is!”

“Jeez.” He said, heaving a big, fake sigh. “My funeral sounds like more fun every day. Shame I won’t be there.”

“On the contrary, little buddy. You’ll be the guest of honor.”

“Well, we’ve survived one more day.” He said.

“And we’ve got a plan that could keep us breathing until early next week.” I pointed out.

“Now there’s something to celebrate. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. You want fruit punch or tropical fruit punch?” This was becoming a bit of a habit, actually. It had gotten to the point where pounding back flavored corn syrup had become not only a reward, but a ritual. Each emptied pouch of juice was a badge of honor. Like a scar on a soldier.

“I’m thinking cherry, actually.”

“You’re a mad man, Astin. You’ll be howling at the moon one day soon, but let’s see what I’ve got stashed away in my locker.”

Kenny’s locker was really just one of the small wooden cubbies lining the halls stacked three high, but he’d somehow managed to create a locking door for his, making it unique amongst the endless rows of identical boxes. How he got permission from the school to install it is anybody’s guess. All he ever says is that if kids had money, he’d make a fortune selling the thing to other kids with valuables to protect.

Valuables like the glossy silver pouch he handed me with a grin. “Drink up, son,” he said affecting a sort of John Wayne cowboy voice “you earned it.”