Devil Boy
by Stefan Case

A message for the soon-to-be-dead/
from the already there.
When the only creation left you
is fear,
and the only thing worth taking/
are the lives they hold so dear.

So. You're mumbling the words to yourself, not bothering anybody. But Old Man George notices, and sneers in that loosey bruce-y fag way of his, "Talking to yourself, Mr. Devil? You only need to worry if you answer back."

You grimace. Your name is pronounced De-ville, like in villa. After he brays his ha ha ha laugh, the kiss-asses all titter along in suck-up sympathy. Suck up symphony?

You know that tomorrow will be just as boring as today--like Shakespeare said: tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow and all that. Which is kinda funny, when you think about it, 'cause you can't even remember yesterday, so how the hell would you know if it was boring?

Buzz...zz. You creak to your feet like a nearly dead, then trudge into what's called the gymatorium. "Wel...ll...come to Macedonia High." You sit, slouched, while everyone jumps to their feet. "Give me an 'M!' 'M!'" Rah, rah.

You listen to the principal actually say, "Remember, the prin-ci-pal is your pal." You wince.

Everybody starts to leave and you don't scrunch your legs up so they can get by. "Move, asshole." You flash him a look that could melt asbestos. He stumbles over your Docs. Fat kid, looking for somebody lower on the totem pole to torment. You're happy to oblige.

You're in Home Room. "Excuse me. Ex...cuse me." You slowly draw your gaze away from your drawing. A hatchet embedded in a skull, brain matter oozing. This is your brain on death. You grudgingly look his way. Mr. Jock says he's supposed to "shadow" you until you become "fully acclimated. Usually takes a day or two." Buzz...zz. You stumble after him; he shouts "hi!" and "howzitgoin'?" into the sea of faces, never waits for a reply.

Your lips draw upward in a fake grin. "Thanks anyway, man, but it'd only take me an hour to get 'acclimated' to hell itself." You can't believe you came up with that, on the spur of the moment. Pretty cool. You watch Jeff the Jock look confused, then an angry blotch stains his neck, spreads to his cheeks. "But you were assigned to me. I'm the Welcome Committee veep, knowwhaddamean? Let's meet after fourth hour, get an off-campus pass, go--"

You laugh, then immediately wonder if you're happy, for that moment at least. You say, as smooth as a t.v. announcer, "Thanks, anyway, Mr. Welcoming Committee Guy, but, I've, uh, got other plans. I'd hate to waste the valuable time you could be spending on some freshman cheerleader wannabe who's secretly cuttin' designs into the soft flesh of her inner arms. On that note--seeya 'round."

You give his back a couple jock-worthy whomps, then duck into the crowd that pours down the halls of Mace-a-don't-ia High. You're carried downstream.

You bark out a few, indiscriminate "Hi!'s", parodying the high school cyborg, Gap-wearing Stepford teen clones. You wonder how long it'll take to sniff out some kindred spirits.

Later. "Lou-zers." Your Mother Dearest says. Followed by: "You're nothin' but a trouble magnet."

You bare your teeth in her direction; you wonder if she thinks you're smiling. "Tree doesn't fall too far from the branch, or whatever the expression is."

Your Mother looks at her beer longingly, but decides to answer first, "Bite me."

You watch her adam's apple as she drinks. Then you ask, "Is that any way to talk to your impressionable offspring, the fruit of your loins, the--"

"Don't get that mouth of your's started. I'm not in the mood. Think I'll head over to The Play-uhs for an hour or so--"

"Of attitude adjustment. Right."

"And while I'm gone I don't want you hangin' out with those stoner friends of your's."

"And I don't want you hanging out with those drunk friends of yours."

You jerk away when she tries to swat you. Playfully? Her low-slung boobs jounce under her "Beer: It's not just for Breakfast Anymore" t-shirt.

You wonder what stoner friends she's talking about, because you don't have any. Or any friends, either, ha ha ha. You wonder if it's possible that Macedonia High doesn't have any "aloners, the purposefully misfitted." (You love Deathrocker's music.)

You know that's not too likely since every high school you've gone to (three so far, not counting the week at Tovas Charter School) has had a few.

Of course you don't count the geeks, losers, born-agains and permanently clueless. You know it only counts if you're trying on purpose to not fit in.

You think about Old Man Georgie-Porgie in Health and Hygiene. You smile. You think you'll go along with his Mr. Devil bullshit. Or maybe you should call yourself Devil Boy Deville. You remember telling everyone at Highlands Ranch High that at Tovas you were called Eric the Barbaric. It wasn't true, but it made you a force to be reckoned with.

You flash on this guy Devon who sits next to you in H & H. Elaborately bored-looking, wearing a "Bricks 'n Mortals" t-shirt--not even reversed like they make most people do--he might work out friendwise.

But you know there's one little problemo--only the jocks and pops are into the whole "importance of communication" bullshit. You believe in non-communicative communication, like gang tagging. You know you've got your work cut out for you if you want Devon for a bud.

Next day, you mutter, "Health-'n-Hygiene's the lamest class I've ever taken."

"Tell me about it." He doesn't look at you when he talks.

"Mr. Devil? You have something you want to share?" asks old Man George.

But the next day after class, Devon slurs something about, "fuckin' assholes, oughta blast this whole fuckin' place sky high." You tell him Deathrocker's "Thrill 'Em, Then Kill 'Em" is your favorite song. You don't understand his reply, and it's not because of the highway-loud roar in the hallways. You take his mush mouthness as a good sign, usually equals substance abuse. You can't remember the last time you toked in this godforsaken mall/big box school. Except in your dreams.

That night you write:

My only goal is to remain goal-less/
My only dream is to destroy your's/
My only hope is that...

You stop. Think: hope is that--what? You realize writing is harder than you thought. Makes you flash on Deathrocker's Japeth Case. That picture taken of him through the window, after he'd o.d'ed.

You imagine what it'll be like when you go postal. Will people be shocked? Say he was the nicest guy? Even remember who you are?

You decide you'd better get more famous at the stupid M-word school so they'll be able to remember you later, but how the hell do you accomplish that?

Ends up being easier than you think. Thanks to all the Macedonia Madman bullshit.

You start falling into place beside Devon after class. You get to where you can understand him when he talks just like you could the chirpy chink at Hollywood Nails back when you were little and still hung out with your Mom. Contact high from the polish remover fumes. Who-ee.

You like Devon 'cause he's just as pissed off about everything as you are: Plastic music/(says he wants to blow away Tiff'nee Sayers, then fuck her)/school-hate/Mom's a bitch, Dad's flown the coop. The usual litany.

Litany. You like that.

Litany of destruction/
Let me sing your song/
Regurgitated depression/
The whole world's wrong.

You think the last line sucks. Whiny. Oh, well.

You felt like crying for joy when Devon asked if you wanted to partake. Fuckin' A. He squinted into the distance as he took a deep hit, then sucked in some little breaths after it. You asked him why the kids called him "Zomboid Boy" but he acted like he didn't hear you. He reminded you of Terry "Tom" Thum your Mom used to hang with when you were a kid. Only 5'6", but broad shouldered, Thum had these righteous fuckin' eyebrows that were so long they wisped in front of his eyes.

You wonder what remembering Thum has to do with the price of tea in China, as old man George would say. You think again, for the hundredth time, about what came down.

People wonder: were there signs? You say no to: tortured animals? Tendency to violence? Breaks from reality? Though you know that's not completely true.

You say you don't know what set things off. You point out that you weren't there. That you were at home watchin' "Judge and Jury", eating your Mom's Ben & Jerry's, strokin' to "Cyber Sluts."

You point out that you'd been expelled. For threatening words, violent writing, fantasies. Busted by Old Man George, but of course.

Zero tolerance and all that.

So you weren't there the day Devon pulled a Palina meltdown and opened fire.

Two bit the dust, hardly counts these days. God, how you wish you'd been there. You wonder if he would have looked you in the eyes, jerked his head--that a'way to safety--you wonder if you could have pulled some kinda hero number.

You wonder why he didn't tell you what was coming down.

You thought he was your best friend. Devon, aka the Macedonia Madman.

You try and write a song about it, but can't.

You're so jealous it hurts.

Stefan Case is a performance artist (best know for Barbie Madness] and inveterate traveler. The good news: in 2002 he fulfilled his long-time goal of living in Italy for three months. The bad news: he is suffering from the "world's worst" case of writer's block and has not finished his first novel, tentatively titled, Spitting Blanks.