The Morose Delectation of Davey McKidd

“It is not the thinking of impure thoughts that is evil, but the enjoyment that makes it so.” -Anonymous- March 3rd, 1987 Davey McKidd was a wimp, that is, if anyone was wondering. Davey was also Irish descent, immigrating over to the states with his mother and father just two short years ago. Davey however, was found lacking in all of those deliciously vulgar traits he should have inherited. He couldn’t throw a punch without ripping his knuckles and bursting into heaving, hyperventilating sobs. He sure as hell couldn’t handle his alcohol, the smell of it caused him to retch. Not to mention, he was only fourteen, and the whole fighting-Irish-drunkard thing… heavily stereotyped. The bullies knew it. Davey knew it. Davey McKidd was pretty much worthless. “Hey you little jackass!” Jeremy Gasch yelled from the open science room door. His dyed pink shirt from the chemical Davey threw at him eliciting some "looking for a good time" giggles from the science class corner prostitutes. Mr. Schneider threw his classroom door open. He was menacing, a six-four giant with bulging arms more fit for P.E. than Junior High Science. “Girls inside. Jeremy, language. David,” he paused, he always softened around Davey, his eyes taking a pitying light. It was almost like he knew something awful, but was powerless to stop it. That pissed Davey off so bad, it was hard enough being weak, but being treated like you were didn"t make things any better. Although sometimes, he had to admit, it was a comfort that somebody felt something other than malcontent, embarrassment, or disgust for him. Mr. Schneider sighed letting his hand trail from his forehead to an absent-minded stroke of his gray flecked beard. Davey could tell he was wrestling with the decision of pretending he didn’t see what had just happened and sending him to the principal. After a long pause, “Come back to class pal.” Then he was gone. Back to his classroom, this in his brief absence, had nearly exploded in pandemonium. Davey ducked into the bathroom to compose himself before returning to class. He let the water get to the point of steaming up the mirror before he leaned in to wash off the bit of chemical that had gotten on his hands. There was something so cleansing to Davey about hot water. If only he could make the water hot enough, maybe it could wash away his sins. He smirked, recalling the pointed fingers, the laughing, all at jeremy’s expense. For once Davey was on top. He felt a sharp sting at his side and lifted his shirt to see a small trickle of blood. Absent-mindedly, he must have stowed the scalpel from the dissections in his pocket. Ha!” Davey loosed a war-cry at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the glass cracking at the force of his scalpel-spearing. “Take that Germy Gash you Persian jerk!” “Cute.” A voice behind Davey snickered. Davey was startled, and he dropped the scalpel in the sink. He knew who it was. There was no need to turn around. “I didn’t know you loved me so much.” Arms took him from behind in a tight headlock and Davey found himself sputtering and gagging on the floor of the bathroom. Tyson Jones, Jeremy’s right hand muscle, had Davey pinned, and Jeremy himself was straddling Davey’s struggling body while unzipping his Levi jeans. Davey eyed his crotch warily, the terror building in his eyes. Jeremy noticing this, spoke up, “Hey, I know you’d like it, but relax, I ain’t gonna nail ya. I’m just gonna piss on your face.” He smiled cruelly. And just when Davey thought he was just trying to terrorize him, the stream came. Warm, golden… rank. Davey began to cry. “Jeremy! Please, please!” “Please what? Please stop? But I’m having so much fun!” Jeremy’s eyes danced with a giddy pleasure at the squeamish terror emanating from Davey"s eyes. Suddenly, as if for the first time, Jeremy noticed the scalpel. “You know Davey, dissecting those pigs was pretty cool.” He fingered the blade. Davey assumed he must fish a lot or something because he was master at wielding it. He could possibly even grow up to be a surgeon… yeah, his hands were that steady. “Let me tell you what little fag, I want you to strip down and I’m going to cut you. Just a small little cut, IF you do exactly as I say. No fighting. Now, if you cry out or fight back, I’m gonna slit your damn throat. You understand?” Davey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Swirlies were fine compared to this. Jeremy was going to cut him, it was now or never. Davey bit Tyson’s hand so hard he tasted blood and felt a soft crunch. Tyson let out a banshee like cry and whirled back, grasping his hand. Davey ran. Screw the last two periods! Screw school! Davey McKidd hauled ass across the football field and jumped the fence with astonishing ease. Setting his jaw to a fierce determination, still tasting the bitter copper of Tyson’s blood in his mouth, he ran home. ********* “The hell?” Patrick McKidd slurred from the La-Z-Boy in the living room. Whereas Davey didn’t fit the mold for the Irish stereotype, Patrick was probably the one they modeled it after. Patrick was balding, beer-gutted, liquor-breathed, and had arms like cannons from working on the fishing barges. Yeah he was definitely one of the fighting Irish…just another drunken asshole seaman. In fact, Patrick was a raging-alcoholic. Ever since his beloved Mariann had passed away a year ago, his only joys were whiskey, (Irish or Canadian, none of that cheap American s**t), his armchair, his 24 inch color TV, and his Celtics team. Davey for the most part, was ignored. As long as he slinked like Fatty Magee, (his mother Mariann’s spoiled cat who had, ironically, outlived her). As long as he slinked, never ate much, and didn’t bring too much attention to himself, he was fine. But, he had just slammed the door. “Disrespect?” Patrick towered over his son when Davey turned from the door. Arms folded over his thick chest, resting on his gut. He wore no shirt. Just half un-buttoned jeans, for the belly, or for easy access, Davey didn’t know. Not like it mattered. Davey knew today was a track and field day and would soon be running again. “Pa I didn’t mean to…” “Shut up,” Patrick bellowed, the smell of alcohol permeating the air between them. “Just shut it, Davey. You think you can take my good nature, my blessings, and my god-damned decency for granted and just do whatever you f**k-all please? Huh? Boy? Answer your father, DAMN YOU!” After Davey had been watching the tight clenching of his father’s overworked hands he knew, eventually. “POW!” Like a Batman villain in that weird TV series with the painted-on eyebrows on the bat mask. That’s what Davey saw, “POW!” written in the little animated star icons. His lip was bleeding, puffy, his whole face was smaller than Daddy’s fist, and it was a wonder that he was so lightly maimed. “Dad, I’m sorry, there was a bully and I just..” Patrick relaxed a little. “What? Kicked his ass? Stuffed him in a locker?” A little too much pride began to shine in his eyes. The alcohol probably had a bit to do with it. “I, well he,” Davey paused. He didn’t want to confess to his father what had happened in the bathroom. “What?” Patrick grinned, a truly rare occurrence. “He pissed on me.” Davey quietly mumbled, not at his father, but to the floor. The smile slid off Patrick McKidd"s face like a hot egg in a frying pan. “He…WHAT!?” Patrick masticated each word, subtly dripping malice and barely-at-bay rage. “You are so worthless! An embarrassment! Your mother died because she couldn’t bear a p***y for a son!” POW! WHAM! KERSMACK! And with that, Davey took flight up the stairs to his room, seeking solace, comfort, and support from his movie posters, Taxi Driver, Star Wars, Alien to name a few. The characters and their fantasies made his life a little more tolerable. He would imagine himself in their shoes, acting out their parts. He was the hero, and everyone looked up to him.