Hi… Yes, this chapter's late. I know.

I haven't updated in over a year. I know. And I am sorry, but… what can I say? I've been busy. Anyways, here's the fourth chappeh. I made it extra-long to make up for the insane wait.

IMPORTANT!: Go back and look over the previous chapters. I've changed a lot to make it better. So if you're not new to this fic and loved the chapters before, you'll love 'em even more, now! Also, I've used German in this chapter. It'll probably be in italics. So if you see him saying 'Was?,' it's not 'was,' it's German for 'what.' Just so ya know.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for the students. And I don't own the Martin Luther King Jr. quote that's in the beginning of the fic. I own practically nothing! DON'T SUE ME, PLEASE! I HAVE NO MONEY! –sobs-

School of Jak

Chappeh Four


BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

Ah, the last bell of the school day. The most beautiful sound in the world. Almost as soon as it ended, the many doors of the school campus (which, may I remind you, stretched out several cities) banged open, and thousands of students piled out in swarms. The students cheered and whooped in glee, clearly ecstatic to be out of the prison.

But none of the students were nearly as happy as Jane, Jorge, Gaylord, and Eggbert, who were leading the mass mob of students away from the school.

"FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST! THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, WE ARE FREE AT LAST!" whooped Eggbert, performing a few cartwheels to express his happiness.

"I'm never coming back here!" vowed Jorge vehemently, huffing and puffing as he ran. "Never ever again! I swear!"

"Amen to that brother," gasped Gaylord from the back.

"Less talking! More running!" screeched Jane from the front, who was clearly eager to put as much space as possible between her and the school.

And so, the four idiots and the rest of the student population ran off into the sunset, back to their homes and their parents, unaware that despite their feelings, they would indeed be returning to the school the next day. After all, their parents didn't care about their happiness. They just wanted the brats out of their hair.


The Next Morning…

Damas was not in a good mood.

"What do you mean, he won't come out of his room?" he growled, his dark blue eyes narrowing dangerously. Below him, scuffing the dirt floor with his foot-paws nervously, stood Daxter. The ottsel gulped anxiously.

"I dunno!" Daxter whined. "He just said that he wasn't coming out! That he had enough of being a teacher yesterday, and that he'd rather attack a metal head nest with a stick and no armor than go back and teach."

They were, of course, talking about Jak.

Damas sighed irritably. "I don't have time for this! You tell him that if he isn't down here in exactly half an hour, that I'll take away his entire gun collection, and he won't be allowed to race for the rest of the week!"

Daxter blinked. "Can you even do that?"

"Of course I can," Damas snapped back. "I'm his father! As long as he's under this roof—" he jerked his thumb up at the rock ceiling of his throne room for emphasis—"he will abide by my rules!"

"But didn't you, like, die and stuff in the third game?" the ottsel asked curiously.

"Just because I died doesn't mean I can't run a school!" the sand king snapped back. "It's called artistic license, you little runt!"

Daxter blinked. "Okay then. I'll just… go deliver your message, then…"

And with that, the little ottsel took off.

With a big sigh, Damas threw himself onto his throne dramatically. It was so hard to be the principal of a ridiculously large school that took place in three cities sometimes. It was quite stressful. Poor Damas. He was so misunderstood.

Daxter returned a few minutes later. He didn't seem very happy.

"Well?" asked Damas expectantly.

"He started whining something about how all the students made fun of him… Called him a dirty old man, or something like that… I dunno…" the ottsel replied, shrugging.

Damas let out a frustrated growl. "That's it! I've had it up to here!" (He held is hand about a foot above his head for emphasis.) "He's gonna get a spanking!"

He yanked out his 'Punishment Belt' from behind his thrown and waved it in the air menacingly. Daxter raised his eyebrows.

"…You do realize that Jak's not exactly a little boy anymore, right?" Daxter asked conversationally.

"Again, I'm his father," Damas repeated, striding towards the elevator-thing in the middle of the room. "I'll punish him however I see fit. And it seems to me that all he needs is a good spanking to make him see things clearly!"

And with that, the Sand King left the throne room. Daxter cringed. "I'm surrounded by psychos…" he murmured to himself mournfully, shaking his furry orange head.

The Sand King made his way regally down the dusty street towards his son's house, which was only a few doors down from the elevator-lift-thing. He stomped up the stamps and pounded importantly on his son's door.

"Jak! Open the door this instant young man!" he shouted.

"Go away!" he heard Jak shout from somewhere inside. Damas growled.

"I mean it Jak! You're in big trouble little mister! You open this door right now! School is going to start in about—" he checked his watch "—an hour!"

"I don't wanna go to school today, I've got a headache!" whined the blonde.

Damas clenched his teeth together. "I'll give you five seconds to open up this door, Jak Mar! If you don't, I'll have your Jetboard taken away!"

Inside the house, Jak gave an enraged gasp. "You wouldn't!"

"Watch me!" the Sand King snapped back. "Five…"

"I'm not coming out!"

"…Four…"

"I mean it! I'm really not!"

"…Three…"

"You're not being fair!"

"…TWO…"

The door suddenly banged open, revealing a very bedraggled-looking Jak, still dressed in his pajamas. He glared up at his father menacingly.

Damas raised an eyebrow at his son. "You're not dressed."

Jak growled. "We need to talk."

And with that, the blonde dragged his father inside and slammed the door shut.

Jak spent the next five minutes complaining about his horrible day to his father. Unfortunately for him, Damas wasn't exactly sympathetic.

"So you're telling me," the Sand King began, narrowing his eyes slightly, "that you don't want to go to school today because some snot-nosed little brats called you names?"

"And they shot me," the blonde reminded. "But yeah, that's pretty much it."

Damas sighed. "Jak, that's just silly."

"They hurt my feelings!"

"Why should they hurt your feelings? You're a wastelander, boy! The only thing that should hurt you are bullets—and even those shouldn't keep you down!"

"They called me a dirty old man…"

"Yes, I heard about that. And your point is…?"

"I'm not old!"

"To them, you are."

"YOU'RE THE OLD ONE!"

"Watch it, boy! I've got a belt!"

Jak stared at his father. "…You wouldn't really use that thing, would you? Because, y'know… that would just be wrong. Not to mention weird."

Damas scoffed. "I'm your father, young man. It's my job to punish you when you misbehave."

"I'M A GROWN MAN!"

"You're only twelve-years-old!"

"I'M NINETEEN-YEARS-OLD, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"

The author has now grown tired of this conversation and all this weirdness. She is also worried that said conversation and weirdness has lowered your IQ. The author will now skip ahead to first period, where we will join the four idiots in their continuation of their… education… I'm using way too many big words today…


First Period: Chemistry with Jinx (God help us all)

In Some Lab…

We find the four idiots in some dingy, dirty lab in the middle of Haven City. They all looked quite miserable, sitting at rickety, dirty tables that tilted to the side if they leaned on them too much. Jorge sniffed loudly every five seconds.

"I can't believe my parents made me come back here…" he mumbled sadly, picking at a suspicious looking spot on the table he was sitting at.

"It's so unfair," Jane agreed. "And my parents didn't even care when I told 'em that everyone kept calling me a boy."

"Well, you are very manly," Gaylord said thoughtfully.

Jane growled and punched Gaylord in the nose. He fell to the ground, clutching his face. Jane stood over him and shook her fist threateningly at him, growling, "You want some more of this, punk?" She did all of this in a very manly way.

"No!" whimpered Gaylord whimpered. "Please, I'm sorry! I was just sayin'—"

Jane growled threateningly again and pulled her fist back, preparing to punch him.

"I'M SORRY!" wailed the blonde idiot. "HAVE MERCY, MISTRESS OF EVIL!"

Jane stopped mid-punched, blinking. "Mistress of Evil? That has a nice ring to it…"

Eggbert and Jorge exchanged nervous looks.

At that moment, the door burst open. The idiots turned around to look, expecting to see the teacher. But it wasn't.

Instead, it was another boy, who looked to be about the same age as them. He had bleached blonde hair (his brown roots were showing a bit) that fell just below his ears and stuck out all over the place, very tanned skin, and grey eyes. He was of average height, and kinda skinny. He looked as if he had just walked right off the cover of some surfing magazine—hell, he was even carrying a surf board under his arms.

"Whassup, dewds?" said the new boy. The kids stared at him.

"Dewd?" Eggbert repeated. "Is that like 'dude'?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, dewd, except it's cooler. So…" He looked around, standing his surf board up against the wall. "Like, where's the teacher, man?"

"Dunno," Gaylord replied with a shrug. "The teachers here are late a lot. They take a lot of coffee breaks. I'm Gaylord, by the way," he added, holding out his hand.

"Seriously cool name, dewd," said the surfer boy, hi-fiving Gaylord instead of shaking his hand. "So, like, what are your names, dewds?" He looked at the other three idiots curiously.

"I'm Eggbert."

"Jorge."

"…" Jane stared at the new boy wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open. She appeared to be drooling a bit as well.

"Um, dewd? Hello? Like, is anyone in there man?" asked the surfer boy, waving his hand up and down in front of Jane's face.

"I'm Jane!" the girl suddenly exclaimed breathlessly, her face flushing. She gazed at the surfer boy starry-eyed, as if he were God's gift to man.

The boy grinned. "Nice to meet ya, dewds."

Jorge looked at the boy curiously. "You haven't told us your name, though."

"That's cause I can't really remember it, dewd," the boy replied, scratching the back of his head. "See, I think I got knocked out by something—my head totally hurts, man—and I can't really remember anything."

"Nothing at all?" Jane burst out. She looked like she was about to cry. This poor, beautiful, wonderful surfer boy! How horrible it must be to have lost your memories! How she yearned to pull him into her arms…

"Nah, dewd," the boy replied, shaking his head. "Not a thing. But when I came to, man, I was in some alley. I walked around for a bit… And here I am, man!"

"You can't even remember your name?" Eggbert asked curiously.

The surfer-dewd scrunched his face up. "I seem to remember… someone calling me… Hugh Jass." (Go ahead. Say it out loud.)

The kids stared at him, stunned.

"…That can't be right," Jane said finally. Whatever attraction she had felt for this mystery boy had faded a bit. "Are you SURE that's your name?"

"Nah, not really, dewd," Surfer Boy replied, flashing her a lazy grin that made her weak in the knees. "But I'm pretty sure that's my name."

The four idiots looked at each other.

"Well… Okay then," Eggbert said finally. "Nice to meet ya, Hugh."

"Likewise, bro," Surfer Boy replied cheerfully.

And so, the boy calling himself Hugh Jass (pardon me while I laugh loudly and hysterically) joined the other four in their ranks of idiocy.

And then things got a little weirder.

The door banged open once more. The kids looked around and saw that their lazy teacher had finally arrived.

This teacher was dirty. Very, very dirty. His hands and face were smudged with some sort of dirt. He had long, greasy, dirty blonde hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and green eyes. His five o'clock shadow was quite prominent on his face. Did I mention that he was very dirty? And that he was leering at the five idiots in a way that can only be described as 'dirty'? Basically, everything about him was dirty. But you already knew that. Because this is Jinx. And that's just the way he is.

Y'know… dirty, I mean.

"Hey, there, kids. You ready to rock and rumble?" he asked the five students cheerfully.

"YOU'RE LATE!" Jane and Jorge screeched simultaneously.

"Woah, don't blow a gasket, there," the pony-tailed man replied, raising his eyebrows at the two idiots. "I got a good reason for being late. I was, ah… busy."

Jane narrowed her eyes. "Too busy to bother showing up on time to educate the empty minds of this city's future generations? It must be a pretty damn good excuse, then!"

"It is—I was busy blowing some Metal Head nests to kingdom-come while being under attack by a massive army of rabid metal heads. Luckily for me, I had Pretty Boy there to protect me." His grin turned even dirtier than before at the end of his explanation. The idiots exchanged looks.

"Pretty Boy…?" Eggbert said timidly.

"You kids probably know him as Jak Mar—the shooting instructor."

Jane growled angrily, her eyes flashing. "That asshole? Ha! I'm surprised you didn't get shot at by him! He's a horrible teacher!"

Jinx raised his eyebrow, and Jane gestured to her still-heavily bandaged butt. "He shot me in the ass yesterday during cooking class."

Instead of being sympathetic (a feeling that probably didn't exist for him, anyway), Jinx burst out laughing. "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"It's not funny!" Jane whined, stamping her foot. "It hurt like crap, man!"

Hugh winced sympathetically. "That's totally not cool, man. Like… you won't even be able to sit down."

Jorge and Gaylord rolled their eyes. "I'm sure she'll manage," Jorge muttered. "If you wanna hear something really bad, I got shot in the face. I had to spend the better part of yesterday with my head wrapped up completely, and nobody could understand me."

"It's always about you, isn't it, Whore-hey? You never think about anyone other than yourself—in case you've forgotten, you shot yourself in the face! It's your own fault!"

Hugh held up his hands. "Dewds, dewds! Like, chill, okay? This is totally bad karma, man! We shouldn't be fighting. We should, like, join together and rise up against the Man!"

Everyone turned and stared the surfer-idiot.

"'The Man?'" Gaylord repeated, raising his eyebrow.

Hugh nodded furiously. "Yeah, man, you know… The Man. The one who makes all the important decisions and stuff. Like, you know!"

"…D'you mean the principle?" Eggbert asked.

"No, dewd! I mean—ah, never mind…" Hugh sighed, shaking his head.

Jinx shook his head. "Look, we've wasted enough time as it is. We don't have time to just sit around chattin' our asses off—let's get this class started!"

The kids straightened up obediently, albeit a bit wearily. Jinx shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.

"Umm… Yeah. Don't suppose you guys know what I should do first…?"

"You're the teacher—you're supposed to know," Jane said irritably, already deciding that this class was going to be a waste of time. Jinx scowled at her.

"Look, kid—I'm a bomb expert, not a teacher. The only reason I'm doin' this is 'cause business has been lousy and I really need the money. That, and the fact that Pretty Boy works here…" Another disturbing grin stretched itself across his face. "Well, I figured, 'why not?' Know what I'm sayin'? Though I'm startin' to think this was all a bad idea, 'specially since I hate kids… Loud, obnoxious, annoying little brats…"

"Gee, thanks for not hurting our feelings," Gaylord muttered, giving Jinx a rather resentful look.

But Eggbert, whose mama raised him to always think about the good qualities in a person, no matter how horrible, mean, and obnoxious they seemed, took pity on the pony-tailed elf. "Well, the teachers usually start off by introducing themselves and taking the roll."

Jinx shot the boy a leering grin, and Eggbert involuntarily shrank back a bit despite himself. "Thanks for the tip. Now, since that stupid attendance computer-thing didn't work, I used it to block off some wayward Metal-Pede while I was blowing up those Metal Head nests I was tellin' you about. So basically… yeah. It ain't exactly workin' anymore." As if to prove this, he fished around in his pocket and pulled out a very battered, very dingy attendance-book-thingy that had several deep scratches embedded into it. It spewed a few feeble sparks before smoke began to seep out of it.

With a sigh, Jinx tossed it off to the side. "So, screw the attendance. I'll just go right ahead and introduce myself. The name's Jinx. Not Mr. Jinx. Not Mr. Ponytail-Man. It's Jinx. Call me anything else, and I'll place a loaded bomb into your sandwich at lunch. Understand me?"

The kids nodded weakly.

"Good," Jinx said, obviously pleased. "Now in case you pipsqueaks didn't get the memo, or whatever, this here's Chemistry class. I'm gonna teach you everything there is to know about all the exploding chemicals that exist…"

Eggbert raised his hand.

Jinx frowned. "Yeah, what is it?"

"Um, shouldn't we be learning about all the chemicals and elements? Like, all the stuff on the periodic table? And how chemicals react to one another and stuff?"

He shrank back immediately when the teacher narrowed his eyes dangerously. He shrank even more when Jinx began to speak.

"Are you the teacher here, kid?"

"N-no, sir…"

"Are you an expert on every single element, chemical, and radioactive compound that can ever be found on this planet?"

"N-no—"

"Would you like to teach this class? Huh, kid? It'd save me a hell of a lot of trouble."

"No sir! I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean to—"

Jinx sighed, waving his hand impatiently. "Don't worry about it, kid. Just… sit there and smile, okay? Act like ya don't know what's goin' on. You'll be a lot happier like that, believe me."

Obediently, Eggbert leaned back and plastered a vacant, goofy smile onto his face. His eyes glazed over and he started drooling a bit. Jane's eye twitched, and she scooted away from him.

"Alrighty then, let's get down to business," Jinx said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. "First thing that we'll learn is how to make a bomb. After that, we'll move on to how to install a bomb into a zoomer so that'll explode whenever some idiot turns the ignition, and then—"

Gaylord raised his hand.

"What?" Jinx asked, his tone edgy.

"Sorry, but… what does this have to do with Chemistry?" He cowered when Jinx gave him a glare that promised death and destruction.

"Look, kid, if ya don't like what I'm gonna teach ya, then leave! Makes no difference to me—I'll still get paid."

Gaylord fidgeted nervously, looking abashed. "I didn't… I was just… I wasn't trying to… I'm sorry, I…"

"Whatever," Jinx muttered, taking a long drag from his cigar. "I see what the problem is. Your parents—and the rest of this damned society—has planted the idea that bombs are evil into your head. They've probably told you that only bad people play with bombs, and that bombs can hurt you, and that you'll go to hell if you mess with bombs. Right?"

The idiots exchanged looks. "Uhh… not really, dewd," Hugh said after a while. Jinx didn't seem to hear him, but if he did, then he merely ignored the comment.

"But that's all bullshit. Ya gotta get it through your head that bombs ain't all that bad! You've let society brainwash you long enough! I'm here to educate you about the beauty of a pipe-bomb blowing a building to bits, on the awesome power of watching a nuclear power plant exploding from a well-placed time-bomb, and that wonderful new-bomb smell." An eerie gleam was present in Jinx's eye, making him look even creepier than before. Jorge gave a violent twitch.

"Why do I get the sinking feeling that we're all going to need a lot of band-aids by the end of the day?" Gaylord asked a loud.

"Because, more than likely, we probably will," Jorge replied bitterly. "This isn't fair! I'm only twelve years old! This is too much pressure for me to take!"

"Oh, shut your noise, you," Jane muttered. "You're making my depression even worse."

Jinx began to speak again. "Now, in order for you to make a really good bomb, ya gotta make sure you have all the right ingredients. Yellow Eco is the best to use, pure Yellow Eco mind you, but ya gotta make sure that you pack it into the container nice 'n' tight, and make sure that there aren't any leaks in the container. 'Cause if ya don't, the bomb can go off any minute, and well… you'll die."

And somewhere in the universe, a chicken spontaneously combusted.


Meanwhile…

Up In Some Meeting Room… Somewhere… Yeah…

Jak knew that he was acting like a child. He was sulking in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his lower lip was jutted out as far as it would go. But in all honesty, he really didn't give a damn. He didn't wanna teach anymore, dammit! He was NOT a dirty old man! He was only nineteen! At the prime of his life! He hadn't even gotten any gray hairs yet!

Beside him, in the much taller, broader chair, Damas sighed and gave Jak a reproachful look. "Would you please sit up straight? You're not three anymore—the meetings about to start."

Jak grunted, resisting the urge to whine that he didn't care if the meeting was about to start—he was depressed, dammit, and he was gonna mope and sulk all he wanted!

Oblivious to all of this, the rest of the room continued to talk quietly amongst themselves. There weren't many others—most teachers had their class periods at that time. The ones who were present were Daxter, Tess, Torn, Samos, Onin, and Pecker. Oh, and Vice Principal Praxis. But he wasn't really seated at the table—he was actually skulking around the back of the room in the shadows, muttering darkly under his breath and shooting Jak and Damas murderous looks. This did not bother anyone—Praxis did this all the time.

"Silence!" Damas said loudly, and everyone shut up and looked at him. "Let's get this meeting over with. Now… does anyone have anything they'd like to say about their first day of teaching?"

"The kids called me a dirty old man! And one kid shot me in the ass!" Jak whined.

Damas shot him a look. "You didn't raise your hand, Jak."

Jak pouted once more. Torn, who found Jak's pouting to be very sexy indeed, shot him a leering look. Jak gulped and shrank back in his chair, suddenly worried about his chastity.

"Would anyone else care to comment?" Damas asked, turning back to everyone else.

"Can I resign now?" Torn asked, raising his hand. "I've realized that teaching isn't my thing. I'd much rather lead an army in a raid against a Metal Head nest weaponless."

"No, you may not," Damas replied coldly. "If you had read the contract carefully, you'd have realized that everything was final. There's no backing out!"

Torn slumped in his chair sadly.

Samos raised his hand and spoke, "I think we need to enlist more corporal punishment into the classrooms! All my students so far have been rude, crude, and have been abusive to the innocent plants in my teaching environment! Why, just the other day as I arrived, I found two students mercilessly tearing grass out from the ground and flinging the innocent blades at each other! When I demanded to know what they were doing, they stated that they were playing! Playing! I've never heard of such a thing! Before you know it, children will be shooting each other dead in the streets and call it all 'playing!' We must prevent this madness—"

"Onin says that you are overreacting," Pecker said suddenly, sneering at the sage. "Honestly, are you even listening to yourself? It's just grass! It's not like it can feel anything! You are muy loco if you think that—"

"Can it, bird brain!" Samos snapped back. "You didn't even raise your hand!"

Pecker rolled his eyes. "Oh, bird brain, that's very impressive! You stun me, old one, with your pathetic retorts!"

"Why you little—"

"Silence!" Damas shouted, smacking his hands on the table. "I shall have no more of this foolishness! We are supposed to be planning ways to better our school environment!"

"These sorts of things wouldn't be happening if I were principle," Baron Praxis spoke up bitterly from the back of the room.

"If you were principle, you'd be pumping everyone with Dark Eco!" Jak snapped, giving the vice principle a look of deep loathing.

"Yeah, or you'd use all the school's income to buy your stupid Gundam models," Daxter chimed in with a sneer.

Praxis bristled. "You leave my Gundam models out of this, you mangy rodent!"

"ANYWAYS," Damas said loudly, rubbing his temples—a fierce migraine had erupted inside his head. "We have more important matters to discuss. It has recently been brought to my attention that there is one class that we've forgotten to assign a teacher for."

Everyone straightened up noticeably, eying Damas wearily. They did not trust that gleam in his eye at all.

"Sex Ed.," Damas finally announced, cringing a bit. Gasps of horror quickly filled the room. "Yes, yes, it's horrible," Damas sighed, waving his hand impatiently, "but my hands are tied, and there's no one else left to hire. That leaves me with one option—one of our current teachers will have to teach it. So," he leaned forward, a wicked grin on his face, "whose it gonna be?"

"Not me," Jak said immediately. "All those idiot kids already think I'm a dirty old man as it is. I do NOT want to give 'em anymore ideas."

Damas snorted. "I wouldn't let you teach that class anyway—you and I have yet to have the talk yet as it is."

Jak's eye twitched.

Damas turned back to the rest of the room. "Anyone else?"

Everyone suddenly seemed to find the walls and table surface interesting, coughing and muttering under their breath. Sex Ed. just was not something that appealed to them.

The Sand King raised one eyebrow. "Not even you Daxter?"

"Look, your royal kingliness, I may be able to tell some dirty tales with the best of 'em, but there is no way in hell that I'm gonna give 'The Talk' to a bunch of prepubescent punks, just because their parents are too scared to! No way, nuh-uh! Forget it!" the ottsel replied, shaking his head furiously.

Damas sighed. "Such a pity. I wonder, then, who might be interested in teaching that class…?"

Unbeknownst to everyone else, Baron Praxis was suddenly struck with a wonderful idea. And it was all he could do not to burst into crazed, psychotic bouts of laughter as a plan began to take form in that greedy little brain of his.


Second Period: Cosmetology with Razer (you wanted it, now you've got it!)

Somewhere in Kras City…

When Shrimpy and Small Fry found themselves in the Cosmetology classroom, they were understandably confused. As far as they knew, Cosmetology was a girl class, and they were both boys. They also had no knowledge of ever signing up for said class, and yet their schedules clearly stated, in bold yet stylish print, "COSMETOLOGY WITH HIS ESTEEMED SEXINESS, LEHRER RAZER."

The only other students present in the room were Gaylord, and some surfer kid who said his name was Hugh Jass. Neither midget cared to comment about the boy's name.

So the four students sat there in their salon chairs, unsure of what to do, nor what to say. It was very awkward, as I'm sure you can imagine, being surrounded by all the hairdryers, hairsprays, nail polishes and other feminine products, and very much aware that most of the décor was a very violent shade of red, with black trimming. Stylish and sexy, yet… more than a little intimidating. And as they sat there, sinking into the black leather cushions of their salon chairs, they felt as though the room was slowly sucking away what little masculinity they had.

"Would it kill this guy to be on time?" Gaylord finally muttered, the silence becoming unbearable. "I mean really. Do all these teachers have some sort of disease that makes it impossible for them to be on time? Or is it some kind of sick conspiracy to drive us kids crazy? Or what?"

Shrimpy sighed. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and no teacher will show up," he said hopefully. "I'm pretty terrified about how this one will turn out, since all the others have been complete psychos."

Gaylord straightened up suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at the midget. "You shot me," he said suddenly, remembering his traumatic cooking class.

Shrimpy blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You shot me!" Gaylord repeated, his voice growing louder as his anger grew. "Yesterday during third period, remember? You had shooting class with Mr. Jak, and we were all cooking at the gun course… and you SHOT me!"

"We didn't have any choice!" sputtered Small Fry in his friend's defense. "The teacher told us to do it!"

Shrimpy nodded in agreement. "And anyways, how do you know that I was the one that shot you? It could have been anybody—there were at least seven of us in that class!"

"I remember because I saw you point your gun at me! You jerk! DIE!" And with that, he lunged at Shrimpy, shrieking like a banshee, clawing and scratching at any part of the midget his hands came in contact with.

The other two idiots, upon seeing this, immediately rushed over and began to try to pull them apart.

"Dewds, dewds, dewds! There's, like, no reason to fight, man! Peace and love, dewds, peace and love!" Hugh wailed, trying desperately to pull Gaylord off the midget.

"DEATH KILL MAIM DESTROY FUN-BLOOD-GUSHING-NOISES!" cackled Gaylord, deaf to his friend's pleas.

Shrimpy was beside himself, trying fruitlessly to hid himself behind Small Fry. "Get him off of me! This guy's nuts! He's trying to kill me!"

"Stop trying to hide behind me, you jerk!" screeched Small Fry to his fellow midget friend, upon being dealt a very painful and undeserved blow to the head by Gaylord.

This squabble would've continued on like this for quite some time, if not for the entrance of one certain individual.

"My, my… and what do we have here?"

The four idiots stopped their squabbling and looked around.

There, standing in the doorway, in all his haughty, stylish, German sexiness, stood Razer himself, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips and a sneer that dripped superiority on his face.

"And what, may I ask, is all this ruckus?" Razer asked, a dangerous edge in his voice. He gave a deep puff on his cancer stick before walking slowly over to where the four idiots stood. There was a dangerous sway to his walk that Gaylord took not of almost instantly—and he did not like it one bit.

"He started it!" Shrimpy shrieked, pointing one stumpy finger at Gaylord from behind Small Fry. "I wasn't doing anything! I didn't even provoke him, and he attacked me! I could've died!"

"You shot me, you little prick!" Gaylord shouted, still struggling furiously against Hugh's hold. "I think that gives me a damn good reason to attack you—dammit, Hugh, lemme go! The midget must die!"

"There's, like, no need for violence, dewds! That's how wars are started and stuff! We should totally just sit around a campfire and sort out our feelings in a nice, peaceful way instead! Like totally, dewds!"

"Stop trying to use me as your friggin' human shield, man!" Small Fry yelled at his fellow midget, having narrowly avoided being cuffed in the jaw by Gaylord.

Razer was watching all of this in amused disbelief. But he quickly grew impatient with it all, as was in his nature, and with a last puff on his cig, he whipped out his blade and said in his most intimidating voice, "If all this foolishness does not cease in the next minute, I shall have your testicles for hood ornaments."

All movement ceased immediately. The four idiots looked up at Razer in horror, afraid for their manhoods.

Satisfied, Razer stored away his blade and ordered that the four idiots take their seats. They did so, slumping back down into their salon chairs without complaint, and at such a fast speed that Razer couldn't help but give himself a mental pat on the back—though he was no longer part of one of the most feared crime families around, his powers of intimidation (and sexiness) had never left him.

He took another long drag from his cancer stick, and surveyed his students with barely-concealed disgust. He gave a soft, delicate sigh, and shook his head. Though this was the toughest case he'd ever seen, he was determined to succeed!

"My name," he finally said, his voice still carrying that dangerous edge, "is Lehrer Razer. I shall be teaching you the art of style and elegance…"

Gaylord raised his hand. Razer gave him a look that one gives to a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe. "Was?"

The boy cowered. "U-um… what does 'lehrer' mean?"

"It's German for teacher," Razer replied coldly.

"Oh… you're German?"

Razer rolled his eyes. "No. I'm French. Of course I'm German, you simpleton!"

Gaylord cowered some more.

"Now then," Razer sighed, as he began pacing down the room, "due to certain… er, unfortunate events, I am unable to take the roll for this class…"

"Five bucks says he destroyed his attendance-thingy like everyone else," Small Fry muttered to Shrimpy.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, sir!"

Razer peered down his nose at the midget. "Since I cannot take the roll, I shall not waste any time or energy in trying to learn your names. Nor will I be making any attempts to get to know you, as I'm sure your other teachers have done… You see, I have a feeling that if I were to ask you your ages, you would not be able to count that high."

The kids were understandably insulted, but were wise enough not to say anything.

"Now, I want all of you to stand up so that I may fully survey what I must work with this year—now! Schnell!" he ordered.

The kids immediately hopped to their feet and stood before him, looking more like cadets before a drill sergeant than a bunch of Cosmetology students.

Razer walked slowly from student to student, his nose wrinkling daintily.

"Your hair wants cutting," he said to Shrimpy, eyeing the mop of curly blonde hair with disgust.

Shrimpy flinched, but made no reply.

Razer turned his sights onto Small Fry. "You're obviously a modest little person with much to be modest about."

Small Fry blinked up at him, the insult not quite registering in his brain.

Gaylord quickly said, "That's not very nice! Why are you being so mean? We have feelings too, y'know! And—"

Bright green eyes turned and narrowed at the boy, who shrank back. "Are you always this stupid, or are you making a special effort today?"

The boy mumbled something unintelligible in reply.

"Like, Gaylord totally has a point, dewd," Hugh, who was loyal and always took up for his friends, piped up. "It's, like, bad karma to insult people. We should all just get along, y'know? And, like, give compliments instead of insults, man!"

Razer sneered at the idiot, and pointed at him. "I have good advice for you, boy—fire your wardrobe consultant. The beachey, air-head surfer-dude look is so last decade. Also, whoever told you to be yourself couldn't have given you worse advice."

Hugh slumped over sadly, looking dejected.

The racer took another long drag from his cig before speaking again. "Now, despite these obvious setbacks, with a little work and determination—not too mention a good amount of hairspray—I think I can turn you from the sniveling, repulsive, fashion-impaired slobs that you are now, into well-manicured, stylish, and well-dressed specimens like myself. Of course, you will never be able to measure up to me, but then again, no one can. It's sad, yes, but very true." He flicked his cigarette delicately, sending the ash flying.

The four idiots could only look at each other in disbelief.


OMG SEXY RAZER. OMG THE HAWTNESS:D I put everything I had into the Cosmetology scene, because that's the one that everyone's been demanding. I hope that it lived up to your expectations!

And now, finally, it is done. It is currently 3:45 AM. I started finishing this chapter at 8:35 last night. I am TIRED. I'll post this as soon as I wake up, because I am going to go get some shut-eye now.