Mr. Fonday

Loud and intense teachers always scared me.

The first few days of classes, and more importantly, the first times one meets their new teachers for the semester, always emulate the feeling of high-stakes gambling for the student. They see a surname on a sheet of paper, and they usually have no idea if that surname belongs to a good or bad teacher. The same could be said about a teacher’s feelings as well, though, and perhaps even more so, as there is the possibility of multiple little jerks raising Hell in his or her class, and not just one big jerk dispersing his Hell over all of the students. Simply put, the dawn of a school year is a nerve wracking time. However, Mr. Fonday’s class didn’t get the opportunity to gamble, because the whole school already knew that Mr. Fonday was a screaming, red faced, forehead-veined a*****e.

Knowing their fate for the year, Mr. Fonday’s gym class had nothing to say as they sat on the school field awaiting their new teacher’s arrival. Or, more likely, they had a lot to say but they didn’t want to risk being screamed at on their first day. They were eerily quiet for a high school class. There was red rubber balls lying in a pile mere feet in front of them, but not one student dared to reach out and grab one. The only words spoken came in a whisper from  Mark Csandl. Mark said to his best friend Steven, “My brother had this guy when he was in grade ten. Apparently he’s f*****g nuts.”

Across the field and behind a chain link fence, a man sat in his rusty dumpster of a car and took the last few drags of his cigarette. This man had the look of someone who had spent the last few years in an institute for the criminally insane. He was older, around forty, and his face (when it wasn’t yelling) was in a permanent scowl. He had short cropped, sporadic hair and a grizzled half-beard. His eyes were like blood soaked bullets. He snuffed his cigarette out on his tongue and exited his car. He approached the fence and, even though there was a gate five feet to his left, he opted to jump over the fence because he’s hard as f**k.

He stomped over to the group of students like a man with grim intentions, and when he got to the front of them, he blew on the whistle attached to the lanyard around his neck and bellowed, “SHUT UP!” even though not one of the students were saying a word. His lip twitched and he bent down to pick up one of the red rubber balls lying on the grass, and he continued, “Now, my name is Mr. Fondy, and I will be teach--“

He was cut off by the upthrust hand of a student. Like some sort of self-calibrating laser machine all of the students eyes darted to Calvin. Without waiting for permission, Calvin asked, “I was just wondering, if your last name is spelt F.O.N.D.A.Y, wouldn’t it be pronounced Fonday, not Fondy?”

After a very noticeable neck muscle twitch, Mr. Fonday walked forward until he was barely a foot away from the front row of students, and looking at Calvin, he ordered, “Stand up, please.”

Calvin gulped in nervousness and slowly rose to his feet. Just as he stood up, a red blur that was the rubber ball in Mr. Fonday’s hand shot and hit Calvin in the face. He staggered back and fell on his a*s.

“Now, do any more of you piss-knuckles think this is a f*****g English class? No? Good. As I was saying, before Mr. friggin’ dick over here interrupted me, is that I will be your gym teacher this semester, and we’re starting with dodgeball. Now,” he gestured to Calvin, “he has the upper hand because he already decided to challenge me to a game, and lost, so I expect you all to gang up on him to even out the odds.” Mr. Fonday said as he rolled his head in another twitch.

Another hand shot up, and after an irritated acknowledgement from Mr. Fonday, Alex carefully asked, “Hello, sir. Alex, sir. Sorry to interrupt again, sir. But... well... will we be playing on the field? I think dodgeball is usually played inside. Sorry sir.”

Mr. Fonday simply replied, “Shut up.”

Alex obliged, and Mr. Fonday began pacing in a lecturing manner and continued speaking, “Now, we will be playing dodgeball from today, which is fridy, until next mondy--“

He was interrupted by a violent, crippling twitch in which his face twisted horrifyingly and he made a gesture with his arm similar to that of pulling a lawnmower’s ripcord. The students fought back laughter. All were successful except for one, and immediately after his twitching fit was finished, Mr. Fonday’s predatory eyes locked onto the laughing student. He reached behind the pile of dodgeballs, and before the students knew what was happening, he threw a rock at the poor student and, with a loud THUNK, the student was unconscious. Silence gripped the class.

“I’m sorry for the overreaction. It’s just, I suffer from...asthma, and I get very self conscious when people make fun of my symptoms.” Mr. Fonday explained. The class still silent, he went on, “But back to dodge ball. It was invented in 19--“

“That’s him! Over there!” A voice yelled from just off-field. “That’s the guy who knocked me out and stole my clothes!”

Accompanied by two police officers, the real Mr. Fonday came running on to the field towards the impostor. The impostor twitched one last time and then bolted towards the other end of the field. The two cops continued after him while the real Mr. Fonday stopped at the group of students. The last the students saw of the impostor was him at the other side of the field, sprinting past a confused student, and turning back briefly to punch that student in the face for no apparent reason. Mark leaned over to Steve again and said, “I don’t even think that was our real teacher.”