Cindy Campbell didn't just hate gym class; she feared it. In B.A. Corpse High, the gymnasium wasn't a place for sports; it was a gothic death trap that smelled like floor wax and crushed hopes. The ceiling was so high it had its own weather system, and the basketball hoops were reinforced with jagged metal—mostly to discourage the students from actually enjoying themselves.
"Watch this, Cindy! This is what peak performance looks like!" Greg Phillippe barked. He was dribbling a basketball with the subtlety of a jackhammer. He charged toward the hoop, shoveled two freshmen out of his way, and attempted a dunk. He missed so spectacularly that the ball ricocheted off the rim, flew across the gym, and struck Tom Logan directly in the groin.
Tom folded like a piece of cheap origami.
"My... ancestors... felt that..." he whimpered, collapsing to the floor.
But as painful as it was for Tom, his younger brother George Logan was currently proving that God had a personal grudge against him. George had tried to enter the gym doing a "cool rapper slide," but he hit a wet patch of floor wax, slid forty feet across the hardwood, and slammed head-first into a rack of heavy medicine balls. As he tried to stand up, his baggy jeans got caught in the rack, and he tumbled backward, causing ten-pound balls to rain down on his chest like a hail of boulders.
"I meant... to do that... it's a new workout... for my abs..." George wheezed from under the pile of balls, his hat tilted so far over his eyes he couldn't see.
"Out of my way, you pathetic meat-sacks!" Greg sneered, standing over the fallen Logan brothers. "Basketball is for winners. And winners have legs that work!"
Suddenly, the massive double doors of the gym slammed open with a sound like a thunderclap. A high-pitched, futuristic hum filled the air. Dwight Hartman rolled in, his chrome-plated wheelchair sparking with neon blue lights. He was wearing a silk robe that shimmered with his own name embroidered in gold thread. Polly sat on his shoulder, wearing a miniature tuxedo and looking at the students with pure, unadulterated disgust.
"Did I hear a peasant talking about winning?" Dwight's voice boomed, dripping with silk and arrogance. "Because from where I am sitting—which is on a throne of chrome and genius—all I see is a room full of uncoordinated failures. I am the only winner here. I am the reason this school hasn't collapsed into the abyss yet. My beauty alone holds these walls together."
Greg laughed, crossing his arms. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, Coach? Roll over my toes? This is a game of heights. You're... well, you're stuck at waist level."
I didn't even look at him. I refused to waste a single millisecond of my perfect vision on such a basic creature. I simply pulled out a hand mirror, checked my jawline, and flicked a speck of dust off my bicep.
"Polly. The ball. Now," I commanded.
Polly took flight, dived like a feathered missile, snatched the ball from Greg's hands with his talons, and dropped it perfectly into my lap. What happened next shattered every law of physics ever written.
I began to dribble. The ball moved so fast it created a vacuum. I spun my wheelchair at three hundred RPMs, creating a localized tornado. I wove through Greg's legs so fast he got dizzy and fell over his own feet. I popped a wheelie, bounced the ball off the ceiling, caught it with my teeth for a second, and then launched it across the entire length of the gym.
I didn't even watch it go. I was too busy admiring the way the light hit my gold-tinted sunglasses.
The ball sailed 94 feet through the air, clearing the rafters and the flickering lights. It didn't just hit the hoop; it whispered through the net with such perfection that the friction caused the rim to glow red-hot.
Swish.
The entire class—Ray, Brenda, Theo, Drew, Becka & Katie, and the Simp Army—stood in a trance. Their jaws dropped so hard it was a miracle they didn't break their collarbones.
"He's not a teacher..." Ray whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "He's a god in a wheelchair."
The gym became a cathedral of silence. Even the leaking pipes stopped dripping out of respect. In the dark corner near the equipment shed, Ghostface slowly lowered his machete. The killer stood at attention, his masked head bowed in a gesture of profound, humble respect for my absolute dominance on the court.
Then, Polly took flight. The tuxedoed bird circled the rafters once and landed gently on my shoulder. Usually, this was the moment Polly would start screaming profanities that would make a sailor blush. But today... the air changed.
Polly cleared his throat. He didn't squawk. He spoke in a voice of pure, crystalline beauty, like a golden bell ringing in a quiet valley.
"My fellow students," Polly began. The room gasped. There was no cursing. No insults. Just pure, heartbreaking nobility. "Look upon this man. Mark him well in your hearts. For we live in a world of shadows and broken things, yet here is a spirit that refuses to reach for anything less than the stars. It is not the legs that define the man, but the unyielding fire of the soul within. May you all, in your brief and messy lives, strive to find even a fraction of the grace, the strength, and the magnificent brilliance that resides within Dwight Hartman. God bless this gym. And God bless this man."
Polly bowed his head. Brenda began to sob uncontrollably. Shorty took off his hat and wiped his eyes. Even I was moved, though I spent the time wondering if Polly's speech was being recorded so I could play it back to myself every morning before I shaved.
The spiritual moment was shattered by a loud CRASH from the equipment area.
Tom Logan was trying to crawl away to hide his crotch-related shame. He had backed into a narrow gap between the heavy structural base of the basketball hoop and the concrete wall.
"I just... need a minute..." he groaned, sliding into the crevice.
CLACK.
Tom was wedged tight. His shoulders were pinned, and his legs were stuck. "Uh, guys? I'm stuck in the hoop's machinery! A little help?"
George, seeing his brother in trouble, decided this was his moment to be a hero. He wanted to impress Holly Hale, the blind, beautiful girl who was currently standing five feet away, tapping her cane against a bench.
"Don't worry, Tom! I got you! Yo, Holly! Watch this 'Rescue-Rapper' move!" George shouted.
He tried to grab a rope hanging from the ceiling to swing over to Tom, but he forgot that he had Gatorade on his hands. He slipped, flew backward, and landed directly in a bucket of used athletic tape and old sweat.
Holly turned her head toward the sound of the crash, a sweet smile on her face. "George? Is that you? It sounds like someone just dropped a wet sack of flour into a trash compactor. Are you doing a performance for me? It's very... avant-garde."
George scrambled out of the bucket, his face covered in sticky tape. "Yeah! Yeah, Holly! It's a... it's a new dance! It's called 'The Sticky Disaster'! I'm doin' it just for you, baby!"
"How romantic!" Holly giggled, reaching out and accidentally poking George in the eye with her white cane. "You're so creative, George. Most guys just walk, but you... you turn gravity into a joke."
George beamed, his eye watering. He didn't care about the pain. To him, Holly was perfect because she was the only person who didn't see him as a walking tragedy.
Meanwhile, Greg, still fuming from my basketball victory, saw Cindy standing near the trapped Tom.
"Get out of the way, you useless brat!" Greg roared, giving Cindy a massive, violent shove.
Cindy flew through the air like a projectile.
"WAAAAAAH!" she screamed.
She soared directly into the gap where Tom was wedged. The force of her 110-pound body hitting him was like a human battering ram. She popped Tom out of the structural squeeze—but they didn't stop.
They tumbled onto a pile of soft, blue gym mats. Cindy landed directly on top of Tom, their bodies tangled, their faces inches apart. The air was thick with the smell of floor wax and sudden, electric destiny. Before either could even think, their lips met.
It wasn't a mistake. It was a full, lingering, cinematic kiss that seemed to stop time. Cindy's eyes fluttered shut. Wow, she thought, for a guy who gets hit by every moving object in the county, he sure knows what he's doing with his mouth. Tom, for the first time in his life, felt like the luckiest man on Earth.
I rolled over in my chair, looming over them. I saw the blush, the heavy breathing, and the romantic spark. Usually, I would have screamed at them for "unauthorized saliva exchange on my floor," but beneath my massive layers of self-love, I have a secret weakness for a good romantic comedy. I find it aesthetically pleasing.
"I saw that," I said, my voice dropping into a smooth, appreciative baritone. "I found it... acceptable. The lighting was 666-grade perfection."
The class gathered around, while in the background, George had managed to trip over a flat line on the floor and fall into a locker, which then slammed shut and locked itself.
"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!" I barked, snapping back into coach mode. "Because I am a generous god and I am a fan of the romantic arts, I am giving you a break. Usually, we would do the 10-kilometer Gas Mask Run along the edge of the cliff right now. But... I want you to reflect on Polly's noble words. And these two..." I pointed at Cindy and Tom. "They need to go see a professional movie."
I reached into my silk robe and pulled out two tickets. "These are for the premiere of 'Love in the Time of Slashers'. Only Cindy and Tom get them. The rest of you? Go to the lockers. You'll be doing that 10-mile run after school hours. I have given you time to prepare your lungs because I respect the romance. But don't be late, or I will make you run it in lead boots."
"SQUAWK!" Polly screamed, returning to his foul-mouthed self. "GET OUT OF HERE, YOU WEAK-LIVERED MORONS! ROMANCE IS FOR PUSSIES! SQUAWK!"
As the class dispersed, Tom helped Cindy up, both of them grinning like idiots. George, still inside the locked locker, muffled a shout: "Yo, Holly! I'm in here! It's part of the move! I'm 'Locker-Rapping' now!"
Holly tapped the locker with her cane. "Oh George, you're so mysterious! I love a man who knows how to hide his feelings!"
In the corner, Ghostface wiped a tear from his mask and went back to sharpening his knife. It was a beautiful day for love, but he still had to chase George later, mostly because George had accidentally sat on his backup blade and bent it into a pretzel.