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The Homeless Bearde
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"I don't want you monkey-mouth motherfuckers sitting in my throne again."
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Run it back, they'd said, to the group of kids - ragtag and worn through - gasping for breath in the summer heat. Baxter had felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck, lines of dirt from the salt that rolled off of his helmeted head in little wet pinpricks of moisture that beaded outwards from the skin. The boys of the team were dressed for war - helmets and shoulder pads and cleats - while those barking instructions were in polos and visor-style hats, chewing gum, overweight.

It was the constant strain of those washed up and those working out. Those that lived their middle-aged lives vicariously through the group of young boys, healthy and strong and eager with their whole world opening up, between the goal posts and the hundred yard markers between them.

Baxter thought nothing of any of that, though, as he slid his hands underneath the rump of the center, chewing idly on his lip.

He just wanted to throw the ball.

---

((Brandon Baxter, start))

"Tickets," Baxter said in a bored voice, scratching idly at the beard that covered the lower half of his face, his blue eyes watching the passerby in the front foyer of P.J. Hobbs. The board on the desk he was sitting at proudly read "Pumpkin Festival Dance" in a frilly, cheerful pink - sequins filling the space between the careful black lines. The number 5 and a dollar sign was written with equal cheer - obnoxiously so - all over the background of the page.

Usually, when a girl texted you asking for a favor - misleadingly saying it'd be, quote, 'worth your while' - you'd be a fool to say no. Especially when the things that made it worth his while involved tangling sheets and moisture somewhere on or around his nethers, if he was being delicate.

If he wasn't, he was expecting a blowjob.

He didn't get a fucking blowjob.

"It's worth your while in extra credit," she'd said, all innocence as he'd raised his eyebrows in exasperation, seated at the table where he'd be stuck - for both of his breaks today - selling tickets to a stupid dance to a PC version of Halloween in order to raise funds for better chairs in the caf.

Who ate in the caf, anyways?

"Tickets," Baxter said again, on the back half of a sigh, and rattled his coffee cup in a poor and distasteful impersonation of a homeless man.

No blowjob was worth this.
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Torn Jeans and Prom Queens · P.J. Hobbs Senior High School
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