Long Live the Ignorance Killers

This short story is an indictment of a few social ills, mainly the fialed public school system.

LONG LIVE THE IGNORANCE KILLERS

Bonnie Davis

     Houston was extremely hot this time of year, as was the drama that unfolded daily at Harry S. Truman High School.  Anyone entering the building might get a whiff of a strong urine/cigarette/ marijuana aroma, might spy students in the gloomy, dimly-lit hallways or under the rusty stairwells hanging out, making out, or getting “dug out.”  Neither students �"nor teachers for that matter-were above getting freaky in any and every part of the building. 

     Everything about the school resembled a prison, from its white cinderblock walls to the bars at the windows, to the locked restrooms with their non-working faucets and toilets.  Graffiti lined the walls, creating a continuous avenue of poverty-glorifying billboards.

     Security was a joke.  Bumming  Newports from students and  meeting  the known drug boys in the parking lot to cop a bag of weed was a regular part of their day. The rest they spent just sitting and watching.  Metal detectors stood like monuments at the doors of each entrance.  They worked only when they wanted to.

     Cafeteria food was revolting and inedible.  Roaches-some as big as small rats-crawled the walls here and there, claiming their domain.   The mean-spirited cafeteria workers, adorned in cheap plastic caps, served with attitudes that were nastier than the food.  Those kids who counted on the daily meal because of a lack of food at home, lined up to religiously and matter-of-factly recited their lunch codes.    

     The library was no library at all, just a place for kids to chill when they wanted to skip class and just shoot the s**t.  There was no reading there.   The voices of the few teachers  teaching  ricocheted the walls in acoustical laughter .  The ones who’d burnt out and given up long ago, passed out worksheets and sat at their desks reading , doing crossword puzzles, or talking to significant others on cellphones-glorified babysitters.

     Principal Wyatt Earp Tanner had found his niche-the perfect job.   It consisted of delegating all the work between his four incompetent vice principals, popping in to say “howdy” at a few faculty meetings during the year, signing his name whenever paperwork was thrust into his face, and bullshitting parents when deemed necessary.  Otherwise, he sat in his office all day, smoking his illegal Cuban stogies, sipping bourbon and watching old reruns of “Dallas,”  “Gunsmoke.”  and Mayberry RFD.” His favorite pastime was flirting with the cheerleaders.  He was a grimy b*****d who made six figures a year doing absolutely nothing.  Slimier than the snakes who gave up their skins and last breaths so he could walk around in dangerous-looking cowboy boots every day, he wore tight jeans with a big gold belt buckle.  His shirts that never matched his  ties were filled with so much belly, he had to  lift it just to glimpse the family jewels.  He sported a huge Black cowboy hat that hid his auburn hair and green eyes.  He called all the females,  “little filly” and “darlin’.” Tanner never worried about getting caught  by Central for his transgressions.  Worst case scenario-he’d be transferred to another school.  Plus, his entire staff was afraid of him except for one person- is nemesis,  Lt. Mark Kranz.

     Kranz had taught US History and American Government at Truman for six years now.  Started as a sub two days after he was honorably and decoratively discharged from the Army, just finishing his fifth tour to Afghanistan with the 101^st Airborne Division.

     The students called him Crazy Kranz.  His tall, lean frame would jump and  assume the fighting position every time a locker slammed or a basketball hit the floor.  Under the combat helmet he wore daily and faithfully, flowed thick, long, blonde hair that hung over eyes that were bluer than an ocean.  His 37-year-old body was built like a tank, and on his feet-size 15 combat boots with white tube socks.  He has known for being a bit eccentric, but since he taught his a*s off, nobody cared.

      Kranz had arrived early decked out in full gear-green fatigues, helmet, flank jacket, and goggles.  A rifle slumped over his shoulder  when he’d walked through the teacher’s entrance.  Nobody minded. This was considered normal behavior for Kranz.  As well, he was one of seven teachers in the building permitted by law to carry a gun.  After the Sandy Hook tragedy, Truman became one of a few schools  the state elected to pilot the “Secure Our Students” safety program.

     The bell for the last period of the day sounded, and students spilled into the halls, only to halted by the scene before them.  Crazy Kranz had shuffled every piece of furniture from his classroom into the hall.  He lay behind his turned-up desk-a makeshift battle fort, screaming  in military code. The only words  the amused and mystified spectators could make out were “Bin Laden.”  Black and green war paint decorated his strained face, as sweat blanketed him. 

     Tanner, pissed that he had been torn from cheerleading practice in the gym, made his way through the crowd, and in his thick southern drawl whined, “Kranz, what the Sam Hill you doing? You gotta be shittin’ me!  Get your crazy a*s up and clear this here  hallway!” 

     Kranz squeezed the trigger, ratta-tat-tatting into the ceiling, ducking the falling glass and plaster particles. Bodies, leaving behind books, pocketbooks, cellphones, and book bags ran every whichway, ducking for cover.  Tanner fell flat on his behind, becoming sandbagged by his belly, and could do nothing but roll. 

     “Tanner,” declared  Kranz  as he walked  toward him, “On behalf of every hard working teacher in this building, you can kiss my a*s.  Today I declare war on you and all the stinking bureaucrats who created this hellhole.  My colleagues and I are Ignorance Killers, and we deserve a damn sight more respect than we’ve been gettin’. You blame us for all the problems, while you work us to death with bullshit paperwork, we have to spend our own freakin’ money on supplies.  You force us to work long hours for pennies.  You give us faulty equipment, and call too many boring assed mandatory meetings.  You subject us to curse and abuse by these little crumb snatchers who don’t want to learn s**t, and then blame us when their stupid asses fail.  And you know what I figured out, Tanner, huh?  THE MORE I TEACH ‘EM, THE DUMBER I GET!  Didn’t you know you can lead a dummy to knowledge, but you can’t make ‘em think?  Huh, Tanner? But  I won’t let yall kill me!  Naw sir.”

      He drug his rifle along the floor, walked passed a cowering Tanner, stopped, and shook his head. Continuing to a student desk at the back of the hall, he hoisted himself atop it.  A white rope, fashioned into a noose became visible.  An audible unitary gasp rang out. Chilling, shrill screams echoed as Kranz held the gun for protection with one hand-to ward off any would-be heroes-and used his other to bring the noose to his throat.

     “LONG LIVE THE IGNORANCE KILLERS!!” he belted. His words reverberated throughout the hall, while reflex shots penetrated the walls until his gun smacked the dull, concrete floor.

     The drug boys were the first to abandon shelter to examine the aftermath, gathering around the swinging body.  One moved forward to the rescue but was stopped in his tracks by his homeboy.

     “Naw, Mane,” he said while shaking his head, “Give him his peace.  Dude been dying for a long time now.  Let him go, Mane.”

     “Look at his face,” another one exclaimed as he gazed at the corpse,  “Dude is smiling.  A’int that some s**t?”