THERE HE GOES

He is superman.
Somehow the notion of wearing His underpants over His pants doesn’t appeal to his not so subtle fashion ethics but that’s all right; He is superman after all, THE superman! It’s already eight and He’s being late for the reception at Whitehouse, someone called Bush (for god’s sake Bush! That a name?) is waiting for Him.
One Two Go! And He’s flying! No big deal for superman.
But what’s that noise? What IS that bloody NOISE? And why does He seem to be falling? Something is not right. Something is seriously not right! He can’t be falling! He shan’t be falling! No, no stop! STOP!
06:00 The blinking display of the digital clock reads.
06:10 Get out of the bloody bed.
06:15 Brush teeth etc, etc.
06:30 Bath...
6:40, 06: … 06... 06: … You kinda get the idea don’t you?
Ready get set go! GO GO GO!
Run! Run for dear life! Run for not so dear school!
07:01 The hideous big blue gate. The grey and painfully plain building. That’s school all right. No mistake there.
Take a long, deep breath and take in the clean, fresh air as much as you can. The air of freedom. Take as much as you can because there’s an acute shortage of the stuff inside the boundaries of the school premises.
Stairs, stairs and bloody stairs. There are so many of them that He always looses count after the first 696, not that He doesn’t know His numbers, mind you.
That same dark hallway which always smells and feels like somebody freshly painted the walls with rat piss. Classroom a dingy, gloomy, hideous (His adjectives aren’t too abundant to go on so etc will do for now) room.
"May I come in teacher?"
The teacher is apparently engaged. No. Seriously engaged! In some private joke with the girl at the front row. The one whose upper front and middle back dimensions seem a little too, well , exotic (for lack of a better more sophisticated word). And of which the teacher seems to be a little too fond of. But of course that’s all right. He is the teacher. THE teacher, like in THE man.
Repeat "May I COME in TEACHer?!"
Only now does the teacher seem to be aware of His existence and with a swift move of hand ;the discussion with the dimensional-chic being of a serious nature can’t be disrupted, ushers him inside the classroom.
The last bench, that’s the destination, that’s where he goes. Rambo is already in position, at the free end of the bench. Alpha one and Delta two are also in position at the second last bench. The manners of courtesy, of ethics notwithstanding, he walks the walk, grunts the grunt, eyes the eye and with the kind of hand shake known only to boys of his elite unit, occupies his position at the corner of the last bench. That’s the vantage point. That’s where the projectiles of paper balls originate from, that’s from where live rounds of erasers are fired and that’s also where the most explosions originate-explosions of teacher’s slaps, apparently.
Silence.
Apparently the teacher has finished with his usual round of class-DISCUSSIONS and is in the mood to blurb out some gibberish and distribute some slaps on the way. But that’s all right with Him. After all there can be only a little that’s not right when one serenely occupies the corner seat of the last bench and is surrounded by a battalion of loyal lieutenants expertly trained in the subject of classroom warfare.
The teacher with his usual arrays of "am I understood?" and "all right!" tells the class about some absurd species of plant that closes on being touched. It has a funny name too, something that rhymes with ‘mademoiselle pudding". Every time the Teach pronounces the name he wants to laugh.
"Students the thing with Mademoiselle is that if you touch it, it closes its leaves!" the teacher says. But his eyes, they tell different. They tell that he wants to touch the dimensional –chic and well, see if she closes her leaves on his touch or yields to him.
"Mademoiselle is an extremely shy plant." Eyes on the dimensional-chic.
"Blah, blah and bah"
Ha, ha, ha!
Silence! Somewhere a pin drops. One can hear it.
Somewhere, maybe in China, a rat pisses on a piece of cotton. One can hear it too. Oh yes! That’s the kinda silence we are talkin about, here.
Suddenly it seems like the classroom arrangement has changed. Like, somehow He has been able to cross the barriers of space-time and managed to position himself on the first bench. This observation He makes not so much by the rounded eye-balls and stretched mouths of His apparently frozen classmates but by His proximity with the Teach. My god! The Teach is standing in front of him. Right in front of Him. THE TEACH! His face is all worked up and red, his ears twitching and his eyes! Goodness gracious they are about to pop off the socket!
One two go! SLAP!
SLAP, SLAP SLAP and SLAP!
Wow! Five slaps in three seconds. The teach has obviously broken some record here. Let’s see. Previously his personal best had been four slaps in three seconds. Now five in three. Wow! Some record, that!
Others of a little more sophisticated taste would call it "good morning" or "bonjour" or maybe "Buenos dias"
Don’t understand? Silly! The Teach has just wished Him good morning in his usual customary way. That’s the way it happens. That’s the way it has always happened. Teach teaches, He haw haws, Teach slaps, His day starts.
English.
One thing He can’t help noticing. She teaches like shit!
Another thing He can’t help noticing. She’s got one of them damn big boobs.
"The world is charged with god’s grandeur" The eyes are complete.
"People are being materialistic (GULP)" The nose and mouth are complete. No the mouth is a little outta proportion. Erase. Draw. That’s a mouth all right. Not perfect but a mouth all the same.
"People are being hedonist um... hednostic COUGH hedonistic blah blah." In spite of His aesthetic undertaking he doesn’t fail to notice the slip.
But of course, she teaches like shit. But of course!
Hair complete, body complete, legs complete. Finito! Not exactly a Picasso look alike but a drawing all the same.
TRRRRrrring. Time up!
Nepali Trring! Mathematics Trring! Trring… Trring… Trring!
Ready get set go! Go go!
Dark hallways, half a million stairs, hideous blue gate, classmates (Adios fuckers!)
Run! Run!
Home sweet home. Deep, long breath. Oh how clean, how pure, how sweet the air smells. Sweet? Wait, what’s that sweet smell? Is that the smell of freedom? NO fuck freedom! (When did freedom start Smelling any way?) That’s the smell of freshly baked cookies. And umm what is that other smell? Is that the smell of THE ROCK cookin’?
WWF!
Cookies compounded with the proverbial ROCK COOKIN’, that’s the stuff fit for a king! Well our mate is no king, just a home boy. But all the same, as they say "What’s in a name?"
Wait! WAM! Bam… BAM BAM... Bam! WAM!
Obviously there’s gonna be some serious bone breaking today!