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He was a lonely young tard, like most of his kind. A quiet, diminutive little excuse for a human being, with his hydrophaelic-like head dwarfing his pale, delectable little neck and his small chest; the muscles in his chest small, the collarbones jutting out like the whitewashed ribs of a long-decomposed cat. His skin was complected to the uneven shade of spoiled milk, a sallow, pale color, likely because his parents didn't let him out very much. I remember him well.

His name was Mudd.

This, of course, branded him for life as a schoolyard pariah. Hated even more than the other tards, like the pimply one who would stand in the corner of the playground and stare at the bugs in the pavement, picked his snot-encrusted nose with one long, bony finger. Even more than the fat, dumpy little boy we called Shitface due to his unsanitary habit of running his palm sensuously along the cleft of his asscrack, his baggy Salvation Army sweatpants hanging just over his Plumber's Smile, the sharp row of his knuckles visible scraping, scraping into the encrusted layer of shit. Then, once his hand was throughly moistened with fecal matter, he would absent mindedly touch his face as if swatting at a fly, leaving a small streak of bilburin to accentuante the delicately pale curve of his cheek.

How I hated these retards. But I digress, this is not a story to be concerned with just yet. The tard tale that I must relate is the story of Mudd. It is a tale of a little boy's cruelty; that boy was me. The lonely tard, this boy called Mudd, longed, no, lusted for companionship. I have long suspected of his homosexuality. True proof of his sexual inclinations did not manifest until five years after the events of this post. But he was always a delicate boy, moving with what I thought was a womanly grace, his schoolbooks pressed to his sunken chest, eyes moving around furtively from within their sleepsand caked sockets. How I loathed him.

There was nothing in common between us; I was a relatively attractive young man, save for my glasses, and he had the build of a scarecrow coupled with the eternally, ethereally sad face of a bloodhound. I was fairly popular, and he, as I explained before, was a social outcast in the cruel code of the schoolyard. But we both had speech impedients. He had a lisp, a small and quiet thing, and I had a problem pronouncing my "R"s probably. The problem is gone now, save for the small inflection that makes me sound vaguely like a Southerner; "idear"? And I live in New Jersey.

Being in the same speech class, Mudd thought we were due to be friends. He would tag along after me in the hallways, ignoring my loud curses and the occasional slap I would give him. The boy's beautiful pale skin would always flush a dark crimson red - brings back memories. I smile to this day, remembering how I beat the boy, and yet he continued to follow after me, like a dog will love its abusive master because it knows nothing else but pain.

Then one day, I decided to show him what true pain was.

We were both in the schoolyard, and I was engaging in a vigorous game of dodgeball with my fellows. Mudd, as usual, was off in the desolate corner of ashpalt labelled the Tard Corner. Manned constantly by one of the fat, harelipped lunchladies with the promiment ethnic mustaches, the Tard Corner was a no-man's land. If you threw a ball in the Tard Corner, you didn't expect to get it back. That day, we were down to our last dodgeball. The only one left was a Nerf football (for shame! Not even enough to raise the slightest welt, to cause the smallest bit of physical pain.) So we were motivated to be careful not to lose this ball. But Atropos had other intentions.

Thomas Kemp, a portly, ruddy-faced young man always clad in a pantsuit, threw the ball with a lusty curve at one of the fellows. The boy ducked, as is the expected result in dodgeball, but instead of falling to the ground the ball veered off a ball and bounced - with a satisfying plop - into the head of a girl nearby playing jump rope. Uproarious laughter echoed from the group of boys playing dodgeball, so much that as the girl bent over to pick up the dodgeball, I was the only still upright to see a glimpse of tiny, well-formed pussy lips under the full volume of her skirt. The girl didn't seem to be amused by the wayward ball. She hollered, "Wanna throw balls at people? Well, go and get it!" and threw the ball with great force - - right into the Tard Corner.

Mouthes dropped open. Of course, no one was brave enough to grab the ball at first. Eventually, to my extreme horror, Mudd walked up from his section of the Corner and, wiping a smear of drool from his sausage-like lower lip, and picked up the ball in his shaking, palsied hands. He looked over at the group of his fellows and smiled grotesquely, spotting me... "Hey, J.D., ith thith your ball?" He shouted in his wavery old man's voice. "Do you want me to throw your ball to you?"

There was more laughter from the group this time, but derisive, aimed at me. "Yeah, J.D., go over and get your -ball- from your girlfriend!" "Oooh, J.D.'s friends with a retard!" "Tart lover!" "Tart lover!"

My cheeks burned with indignation, and I screamed, "I AM NOT A TARD LOVER!"

Time seemed to slow. Mudd lowered his eyes almost sadly, but still watching me, a gleam of something like hope in his myopiac eyes as he clutched the dodgeball. "You... you can have the dodgeball..." he moaned pathetically, "You guyth can have it. Just don't make fun of my good friend. Pleathe."

This was more than I could handle. Marching over with all the righteous an eight-year old can muster, I snatched up a nearby jump rope and marched to the Tard Corner. Some of the tards, long immobile under the spell of the afternoon sunlight, scampered away in my wake and left small strands of drool and half-digested shit behind, spat into the thick dirt. Mudd looked up and smiled widely at me, exposing his yellowing teeth. All the while, behind us, the boys watched...

"Ith thith -your- ball, J.D.?"

I gave him a vicious left hook to the face. At the time, I was not a particularly strong lad, and still aren't to this day unless I am heavily sated with PCP. But Mudd wasn't expecting this. The fist hit his snotty nose with all the force of an anal plumbing against the virgin skin of a shoplifter on his first day in prison. Mudd groaned and fell backwards in the dirt, clutching his bleeding anatomy and blubbering in that half-wail, half-sob affectation that all tards seem to possess. At the sight of this, the slavering and drooling retard rolling in the grass, a sort of power and disgust galvanized my soul. I began to kick and punch viciously at Mudd, pummeling his weak body, feeling the beginnings of a hard-on with my junior choad as blow after blow sank into his sallow flesh. I punched until Mudd had nothing left to give, no sound left to scream, the blood pouring from his wounds. Time was slowed to an inch. No lunch lady dared move.

As I rose, the crowd of boys and tards alike backed off into the corner of the playground, bound together by a common emotion - fear. I stood with blood dripping from my mouth from where I had haphazardly bit Mudd, and a tent-like growth standing out amid the groin of my fashionable khakis. No one dared look at me, all eyes on Mudd. I decided to give them something to look at.I rose, unzipping my fly and pulling out my swelling erection for all to see. "I HAVE TO TAKE A PISS!" My voice unthundered throughout the schoolyard like that of some ancient Norse god. As I stood over my prey, gently forcing his jaw open, I heard a faint groan and a stream of slobber draw down to his pointy chin. Good, I thought, he'd -better- be awake for this.

Then I rose, standing back a few inches from him, and grasped my pecker with both hands. Precision aiming was required for this; I didn't want to soil his clothes, nor did I want to waste any precious golden shower on the dirt. I was aware of a slow murmur from the crowd behind me, a first silent, then breaking out into a steady crescendo, a tribal drumbeat.

"PISS. PISS. PISS. PISS."

As my golden shower streamed into Mudd's mouth, I heard him scream at first; I heard him gurgle, gasp, trying to swallow it at first in order to breathe, then to spit it out. His chest, exposed through rips in his shirt due to my initial breathing, rose and fell with the speed of a jackhammer. Pneumatic, as Huxley would put it. He was a pneumatic toilet-boy. I pissed into him, my whole load of piss, for about two minutes or so. By that time he was a coughing, gagging wreck.

"So this is power." I thought.

Some of the shower -had- spilled onto the ground, and I knew what I must do. Marching over to my fallen quarry, I grabbed him firmly by the back of his neck and muttered with pure hatred, "Now drink it all up." Then I held his head in the puddle.

He learned his place, after that: That the only place a tard belongs is in the dirt.

-torquemada

The Evil Inquisitor

credit given to original author if known

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