“Attention all teachers: lockdown is now in effect. Keep all students in your rooms, lock the doors, and use the fattest kid in the class as a meat shield,” I hear on the announcement system. The voice sounds serious and slightly panicked. Never in my four years in this school have I heard of this being a drill – something seriously dangerous must be going on.
I’m in English and everyone is huddled around in a circle, hugging each other and praying. Some students are writing goodbye letters. Others are calling their parents to say their last goodbyes. I’m anxious because I really want to get out so I can go take a dump – this turd convoy has been tugging at my intestines for the past four hours. Fuck, I really have to shit. Ain’t nobody got time fo dis lockdown.
I’m trembling in fear because I don’t want to be that guy who shits himself in an emergency. This scene keeps replaying in my mind: The shooter barges into the room and I lose my shit – literally. I let out the biggest fart ever. Shockwaves can be felt three blocks away by the waitresses at Applebees. Geologists read a magnitude 9.5 on the Richter scale and scramble to notify FEMA and the President.
The fart is followed by a gallon of liquid poo, splattered all over the kids behind me. All thirty two kids in the room are killed by the blast, including the shooter. And it’s all my fault. I’m on the news and there are pictures of the police taking me away in handcuffs. They consider the shooter a victim of the attack, and I am portrayed as the deranged villain.
I snap out of my delirious day nightmare and shift my focus back to the struggle of containing the contents of my large intestine.
The next five minutes are the longest five minutes of my life. There’s a puddle of sweat on the floor and a green cloud of toxic gas floating in my general area. I’ve been slowly and nervously letting out the gas in discrete packets, hoping no one would hear the distinct sound of my butt cheeks flapping and no one would know that horrible stench is coming from me.
Except everybody knows it’s coming from me – and they’re staring at me, hoping that when the shooter makes his way to our classroom, I’m the first one that gets shot dead.
Ten minutes pass and nothing happens. There is no shooter. There is no danger. There’s only me, alive, and thirty two kids who will never talk to me again.