Read The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman for Free Online

all the way to the locker
room. He was a slug of many talents, the most adorable of which was finding
your deepest vulnerability and taunting you with it. In my case, it was my
parents’ divorce. Douglas had been vexing me ever since he’d found out about it
my freshmen year. (You would think the hilarity of my broken home would’ve
waned over the intermittent two years. You’d think HAHAHA! wrong .)
    He’d
go around chanting witty insults like a third grader: “Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah ! Your parents are divorced! Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah,
nyah… ..( ?)….. they’re not to-ge-ther!” Eventually
his atrocious rhyming pissed me off more than anything.
    It
was decided amongst a ring of math nerds that I would quarterback Douglas’
demise. I spent weeks plotting his undoing and whittled it down to a few
possibilities:
    There
was the go-to “bucket of sewage sitting on a slightly open door waiting for Douglas
to enter,”the standard “kick to the balls when Douglas rounded a
corner,”or my personal favorite, “drag Douglas to the locker room with
a plastic bag taped over his head and slam his dick with a toilet lid.”
    Any
one has proven effective in academia for centuries.
    Ruination
of this prick required a different sort of blow, however, one that would
permanently teach him respect. He had been a stain on the mattress for way too
long and it was time to scrub him clean. In the end, his chosen flop was easy
to formulate, for I had a finger on the pulse of his perversions.
    I
knew that Douglas was a peeping Tom.
     
    ***
     
    Lunchtime
found Douglas on his perch. There was a women's bathroom located by the
basketball courts nestled in a corner of school property. A thicket of
blackberry bushes behind the structure had made it an unappealing hangout for
the masses.
    This
was his theater.
    Access
to the ladder was easy. He had caught Mrs. Suckston hoovering the janitor a few
weeks prior and was given a key to the work closets in exchange for silence (my
high school was ran by Pee Wee Herman).
    The
bathrooms were built like the ones you’d find at a camp or an interstate rest
stop. The wall stopped a few inches short of the ceiling and he peered over the
edge. Leering at the girls from atop his metal stilts, Douglas unbuckled his
jeans and let them fall to his knees. The faint whimpers of pleasure soon eeked
from his throat as he fingered his skinflute, feverishly pumping for that
sticky payoff. His load was coming any time now, and the wetter a girl’s fart,
the closer his eruption:
    Almost there.....Oh God.....yes.....yes !..... FUUUUUCK!
    I
jettisoned from my hiding spot in the bushes, ramming the ladder like a bull
and slamming Douglas into the wall so hard they both ricocheted downward in a
majestic arch. He crash-landed and cried like a sex offender on his first night
in jail, squealing as his constituency raced over from the main building to see
their president with his pants around his ankles. Murmurs began circulating
about his appearance as cheerleaders from the bathroom circled him like
buzzards:
    “What
were you doing here, Douglas?”
    “Why
were you on top of that ladder, Douglas?”
    “Why
is your dick out of your pants, Douglas?!!”
    Good luck explaining that, cocksmoker.  
    Having
tied a knot in his beatfest, I fired up a Newport and began trekking to the
main building. That’s when I heard a teacher scream the words that stopped me
in my tracks:
    “Oh
my God! He cut his finger off!”
    I
spun around and told that bitch that liars go to Hell. I didn’t want to believe
her. But her statement was confirmed when I saw blood pouring from the stump
where his finger used to live.
    This
wasn’t in my blueprints.
    A
fucking psychic couldn’t have seen it coming: Douglas fell in such harmony that
he was still clutching a ladder leg with his right hand. It snapped shut when
he landed and cut off his goddamn pinky finger like a deli slicer! Cheerleaders
passed out from the sight of his lone