A/N: A kind of plot you probably wouldn't be expecting to see. I apologize for my use of language, I know it can be a bit much at times. Sometimes I lay it on kind of thick, but words are meant to be used and not meant to be used sparingly! Or maybe I read Lolita too many times. Eh, either way. 21 Jump Street fans, I hope you like. Please review if you're interested/want more. Kind of dark, I know. But MCQUAID!
Straight Edge (In Your Face)
Chapter One
There were times when Little Officer of the Law Tom Hanson did not feel so much like an officer of the law. Sitting with his elbow pressed hard against a graffiti-infested desk, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his eyes fighting sleep, he realized that this was one of those times. He jiggled his leg to stay awake, trying to tune in to the teacher's monotone voice dripping slow words about the quadratic formula. His partner, Doug Penhall, snored softly at the desk behind him. Rain pelted harshly against the roof of the school; it was a grotesque day.
Mr. Kingston threatened to give them a pop quiz if they didn't wake up. His nasally voice, a single note, an everlasting wheeze, did little to motivate the kids to open their eyes. Tom allowed his lids to slide down, sighed against his hand, curtained his sin with his long hair hanging over his face. Stupid high school.
It felt like a second before Doug was poking him between his shoulder blades, urging him awake. He mumbled profanity under his breath, asked his partner "what?", because it was too early in the morning for this.
"The bell rang, Tommy," Doug informed him. "Minutes ago. You missed a pop quiz."
"Good. I'm staying in character," Tom grumbled, before yawning into his shirtsleeve. His arm had fallen asleep and he felt the pins and needles and missed the feeling of numbness. "Did you miss it, too?"
"Nah, I took it." At his partner's bewildered expression, Doug added, "It was a lengthy problem, so I wrote a short story about a kid who didn't like quadratic equations."
"What happened to him?"
"For every day they forced him to do math, he refused to eat. So he just died of starvation."
"Sounds like the next great American novel to me." Tom watched as Doug nodded his head eagerly, his mouth spread into a large, goofy grin. Tom rolled his eyes, slapped his hand on his friend's back and pushed him in the direction of the door. "C'mon, Lord Dougron, it's time to stuff our mouths full o' the nauseating substance known as school food."
Lord Byron was British, Tom chided himself. Nonsensical jokes aren't even witty.
But Doug didn't catch it, and Tom knew that even if he had, he wouldn't say anything, being too amused by being called Lord Dougron to care about the contradiction of nations.
They ran into Joe Vega in the hallway, slammed him against a rusty, red locker. His face twisted in feigned pain and Dougie smiled maliciously as Tommy flicked his fingers against the boy's head.
"Where is it?" Tommy asked, his voice sing-song. Kids stood at an uncomfortable distance, their eyes eagerly soaking in the scene. A few murmured the fight chant, bobbing their fists in their air, hungry for some excitement. Thunder boomed outside. Water streamed down the windows, distorting the view of the school parking lot. Tom thought about how nice it would be to drive away from this place at the end of the day, the fidgety new drivers awkward in their first rain.
"I don't have it," Joe snarled, shoving against Doug as hard as he could and wrenching himself away from the two. They were trouble, he knew. He was the king before these two transferred in, and now he was merely the court jest. He was a burly kid, Joe Vega was, easily as big as Doug McQuaid, and just as strong. But he cowered when faced with competition.
"Sure you don't," Doug snorted, and his brother smirked, leaning into his side, his arms crossed. They didn't look like brothers at all. Tommy was scrawny and childish under his dorag, looked like the kind of kid that helped unload their mom's dishwasher. Doug looked like a construction worker, big muscles and broad chest, the one forced by physique to shovel the snow at the end of the driveway in winter. But here they were, juvenile delinquents, and always a step above everyone else. Just a little tougher and just little stronger, and strangely, always a little smarter.
Of course, Tommy was the cold-blooded killer. Everyone knew that. So there he was, cute as a bug, swamped in his badass torn denim, little and lithe, causing Joe's hands to shake with fear.
"Swirly," the smaller brother said decisively.
"In your dreams, McQuaid," Joe snapped, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice.
"Confucius say our dreams come true if you don't hand it over," Doug said, his voice lilting, a happy melody to a sad tune.
But Jimmy came, and Joe knew he was saved for at least another hour. Best friends since they were four, Jimmy and Joe always had eachother's backs. Even when faced with the brothers McQuaid.
"Beat it," Jimmy growled, standing his ground by his friend's side and the voices of the onlookers grew, because two on two was even more fun than two on one.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
A crescendo of teenaged angst, someone had to bleed to quench their thirst for violence. Half of them hoped that little Tommy McQuaid would pull out a gun, his adorable face tight with concentration as he aimed the barrel at his opponents. Such fun, they thought, to go to school with lowlifes.
Dougie's large fist clenched as he grabbed the collar of Jimmy's shirt, and his knuckles were bone white pressed against the boy's cheek.
Tommy walked slowly, deliberately, towards Joe, his large brown eyes dancing with mischief and impending fun. Joe was reminded of his five-year-old brother, and how he had flung peas at the dinner table the night before. Twinkling eyes, happy giggles.
"Stop. Right. There."
Dougie dropped Jimmy nonchalantly to the floor. Tommy halted his steps, his eyes still doing ballet, his lips twitching upwards, still focused completely on young Joe. Principal Polanski did not look amused.
"To lunch. All of you. If this happens again, the four of you are suspended." The older man turned to the surveyors of the scene, growing more irritated by the second. "Well?" he demanded. "What are you still doing here? Go to lunch or go home hungry!"
The hallway emptied as quickly as it had filled. Joe and Jimmy dashed off, loudly claiming that they were so hungry, their stomachs were eating themselves. Tommy and Dougie McQuaid stalked begrudgingly empty-handed to the cafeteria, vowing to throw their half-empty milk cartons in the direction of the faculty table.
Marty Normick stood by his locker, swaying ever so much, eyes still slightly bloodshot from the pot he had smoked a while ago. He reached into his book bag and took out a bottle of Scope, which he swished around in his mouth before swallowing. He sprayed some cologne over his shirt in an attempt to cover the scent, but realized the attempt was futile – it was absorbed in his long blond dreadlocks, which his mother had half-heartedly threatened to hack off this morning. She had then kissed him, her breath heavy with tobacco, her smile fond and loving. She smoked like a chimney. He had been trying to get her to quit since he was twelve. Smoking kills, that's what all the posters had said, and Dad was already dead. He had to take care of Mom.
He sighed, and shut his locker door, wincing at the noise created by slammed metal. He could really use something to eat, and food always tasted better when he was slightly high, anyway. Maybe Cassandra would be eating alone again, as Tiffany was out sick today. He really liked Cassandra.
"Fucking junkie," were the last words he heard and the voice that uttered them was practically inhuman. The crowbar was blunt and painful against his head and he felt his knees bang against the dirty floor of the school hallway. He tried to crawl, but a foot pinned him to the ground, hard and pinching into the small of his back. He felt the crowbar strike him again, and the florescent lights started blotching, black, white, black white, like the spots of a dalmation, cluttering slowly together, black black black – black lab, jaws tight around the neck of the dead duck. And this was asphyxia, the sounds of the rain and thunder beating outside, drowning the grass and the trees and the flowers, flooding the streets in nature's torrent. Marty could feel the rain, dripping down the sides of his face, crimson droplets slowly streaming down his cheek, his chin. The tile was beige, it had been white once years ago, before children had come stomping in with their muddy shoes, but the lockers had always been red. They had been talking about renovating the school for years, repainting, retiling. Now the floor matched the lockers and Marty had saved the school board some trouble.
TBC...?