"No one is more hated than he who speaks the truth."
― Plato
Dried snot caked his nostrils, forcing the playground bully to breathe through his mouth.
Fists balled into cords of sinew, he perspired amidst the four square diamond, in the midday Sun. He'd definitely lost control of the situation.
Across the pitch, staring him down, was the entire student body ― minus the faculty. An unwavering gaze, they stood as one.
Where could he run to?!
The playground was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with only one breech ― an alloy gate ― on the northwest quadrant of the yard. But that had a lock on it, and it was never certain whether this would be open.
In addition, the gate was 30 seconds away, at a full sprint. Could he reach the egress before the ravenous throng descended upon him?
Even if he was able, did he have what it took to manipulate the lock, or would the witch hunt devour his shrieking face, in redress for years of torment he'd unleashed upon them?
The only way to determine such was to race for the opening. And so, that's what he frenetically did.
The valves of his diminutive heart gaped, as he reached the fence in record time.
Maneuvering the lock, he lunged through the portal. Spinning 'round, he tensed in preparation for the vicious mob that―
Was nowhere near him?!
Confused, he scanned the playground.
What the fuck―?!?
The student body hadn't moved. They were exactly where they'd been when he'd bolted for the gate, still staring at him.
Drowning in adrenaline, he fidgeted with the lock, in attempts to secure it, in case the horde decided to rush him.
They didn't. They just continued to gaze.
Incredulous, the bully had no idea what to make of the situation. After all the milk money he'd stolen from them over the years. After all the threats he'd levied; the mental abuse he'd perpetrated, and the cerebral anguish it had caused.
How many of them had pissed their pants in abject fear of him? How many of them had feigned illness, staying home from school, to ensure he wouldn't make good on his promise to "beat the fuck out of" them?
How many broken arms did they endure?
Where was their enmity? Where was their disgust?! Weren't they going to seek retribution?
And suddenly, he had his answer, although ― at the time ― he hadn't comprehended what that answer meant.
In unison, the mob turned and walked away.
Into the dusk, they dispersed, leaving him to be alone.
He was no longer feared. He no longer controlled his fellow students, because they no longer allowed him to.
The group had made the schoolyard bully, the schoolyard bully. And now, in the same fashion, they usurped him of that crown, transforming him back into what he'd been all along; one of them.
Should he revert to his thug tactics, they'd simply walk away again, and circumvent him at all costs. If he forced his malevolence upon any one of them, he'd be confronted by all of them.
His reign as tyrant was over, because the students made it so, in the same way they'd once made him dictator. He was powerless against the group, just like any autocrat. Kings, popes, presidents, and teachers are only as powerful as the masses make them.
By believing those you perceive as your "leaders" are your leaders, you give these people "dominion." In the same token, you can remove that "sovereignty," by no longer recognizing them as anything more than your equal ― which is all they are, anyway.
It's what the fuck junky was contemplating, when he asked Doris if she'd like to go to a private room, at the swing club. Although he'd been chatting with her for over an hour, he couldn't get an accurate reading on the desperate woman. The ping she was producing was more hazy than 20/1200 eyesight.
Periodically disembarking his train of thought, our hero would temporarily comprehend what Doris was saying, before intermittently returning to self-speculation.
The henna honey was either austerely concerned over the disproportionate size of Steve Harvey's teeth, or how her husband had addicted her to large, strange cock.
Ostensibly, hubby hadn't realized his wife had been suffocating an inner freak for a decade. He'd been on the planet 30-plus years, yet never comprehended marriage ― like any prison sentence ― repressed innate desires.
Now, the wanton woman was freely displaying her unquenchable hunger for the biggest, hardest poles outside of Lech Walesa.
Even so, the fuck junky had been unable to lock the crosshairs on Doris, and fire away. She'd seemed interested, but in what he had no idea.
Thanks to her rejection ― in regard to tfj's advances ― he no longer had any doubt concerning her lack of intrigue in him.
Or did he?
Abandoning the hunt, he departed in search of other prey. Amidst the dungeon room, he spied a wounded GILF trailing behind the herd. Muscles ― or lack thereof ― tightening, he pounced, ensnaring the injured animal, taking her down to the mattress.
