Boy spots Rock. Rock in muck, Rock in fist, Boy holding Rock. Boy suspecting with great genius kiddo clarity Rock = THE Rock. Rock Incarnate. Rock separate from yet subsuming every other peon rock he’s yanked out the creek-bank heretofore/colonized his pockets with. Though what is to be said for rocks of yore? Simply turn one’s back, avert gaze? Audience says...ROCKS OF YORE ARE TOTAL BULLCRAP! GAZE WHEREVER YOU WISH! SANS GUILT! Boy reaps now what Boy once sowed by amateurishly dubbing what should not be even considered to lick clean the boot-heels of Rock rocks. Seriously, how far up butt was Boy’s head then? Audience says...EXTREMELY FAR UP BUTT! Such rocks of hayseed status now vis-a-vis this Rock. Plumb Rock of Rocks. Stately Rock of split-head strength. Rock reminiscent, when held arm’s length, of dangly peen + balls, to which Boy juxtaposes his own peen + balls. Boy shaking peen + balls hurriedly back into pants. Boy feeling low.

Rocks of yore = ungainly adolescent rocks. They = slow rocks. They = looks-like-a-rock-but-actually-not rocks. Rocks slipping into the welfare building toilet bowl after some dingdong left up the seat lid. Rocks toward which Boy, yes, cannot deny, may hold a tender feeling or two, as one with a surplus of tender feelings at his age of nine-and-one-half-years-nearly-twelve often does regarding soft little guys stepped-on. Such as Cat, with whose tail Boy once held experiment, administering patented shoelace restraint system against tree trunk gurney before utility-knifing away one thumb-width after another after another, to chart how brave was Cat going to be, until Cat was just nubbed bloody at the butt making big screams. For that, Boy really feels low. Sometimes he = so worked up! Boy has been told, Boy, why don’t you count back from ten and up ten more and keep going until you are not so much worked up, such is how adults cope with their dark feelings, that offers a healthy alternative, it truly works, and we are running out of cafeteria window panes for you to put your rocks through when you throw them, we have had it up to here with your foolishness—note how high hand towers above head emphasizing annoyance—foolishness deserving of one week away from school to cool one’s jets, to ponder the big questions of life like, What do I, Boy, hope for my future, and How can I, Boy, achieve those hopes, in relation to leading one’s life as a citizen of repute and not, for instance, as you have so noted via school desk surface graffito, an astronaut, being simply out of the question given subpar demonstrated aptitude and emotional displays, astronauts normally of pleasant disposition, don’t you think it dangerous should astronauts go up into space among the burning hot stars and nebulas only to punch one another in their genital areas over who called whom a “poopdick,” how would that make you, a citizen of Earth represented at each newly pioneered galaxy by petty genital-punchers, feel? Audience says...BOY DOES NOT FEEL ONE BULLCRAP ABOUT THAT! Boy wearing angry pants. Angry pants not meant to be talked away by dingdong school head-shrinkers. Angry pants hiked up the instant Boy was to leave alone all rocks he should happen upon as per gentlemen’s agreement. Gentlemen’s agreement = no more rocks. Gentlemen’s agreement drafted to keep Boy out of Greater Crystal Springs, which = neither great nor crystal springs but penned-in resodded meemaw-era prison camp for screw-up kiddos where after a long day of behavioral adjustment + attitudinal reposturing through manual labor, Boy has heard teachers/prison guards spoon you swine offal with crushed glass in it from hollowed-out kiddo heads. Boy should be thankful for gentlemen’s agreement. Boy should be thanking heavenly stars above him.

And yet.

Standing on creek shoals out back his meemaw’s house, reminiscing pebbles/stones/gravel that in past duped him into believing them Rocks, all Boy wants to do is take up Rock + chuck it hard, does not matter where so long as Rock = chucked, deceit riling him like so: shakes fist heavenward! Casts down imprecations!

Who will it hurt, though, just picking up Rock? Holding on for now, not chucking? Admiring Rock? Like learned scientist?

Audience says...NOT ONE PERSON IS HURTING!

Decided thus. Boy carries Rock in pocket indoors for further observation. Hops one-footed across slick kitchen tile to calibrate impeccable balance, skirts exposed nail head grabbing out from door frame, examines refrigerator, removes milk, mouth to milk, milk turned chunky, Boy feeling angry pants building up, though not meemaw’s fault, meemaw shan’t be faulted if cafeteria window bills exceed weekly chow budget, spelling Cabbage Crap Supper Week all week that week for supper. Serious angry pants now in the cooking! Boy noticing note on refrigerator door, written in big bubble letters for Boy to read: AT SPECIAL ADULT MEETING CHOW IN FRIDGE STAY IN YARD NO ROCKS!!!!!

Gentlemen’s agreement fine so far. No wrongdoing. Rock—though being face-in-millions-of-bits Rock/Incorporeal Rock of Doom—is simply hanging out in pocket, harming nothing, causing no harm.

All week to cool one’s jets. What to do, what to do, what to do? Begin with nap under dinette table on floor tile where it is cool for sleeping? Meditate upon enemy faces needing fist of swift justice? Oh hello Dean Tenant, hello Trip Crandall, how nice of you to stop by whilst my meemaw is away at special adult meeting, except totally not nice for you, quietly speaking in riddles when I said that, as I, Boy, am sole master of Perfect Killing Weapon, would you like to take a deeper gander? and as the two boys lean in close under black magic Rock hypnosis, Boy enacts ruse! slams Rock against their peon skulls eggshelling them to teeny puzzle pieces! both of whom Boy believes, no other explanation, must have been recruited by secret government agencies to participate in experimental invasive brain-to-crap conversion surgery, so little do they have going on upstairs in terms of knowledge.

Boy = so hungry, though. Feeling like stomach pulled out + switched with Dust Devil. Note says chow in fridge, chow ≠ in fridge. Boy won’t deem greasy-bottom paper sack of fish meat quote-unquote chow. Could go for a pepperoni stick + mayonnaise sauce for dipping down at the Winn-Dixie. Boy looks for chow card in designated area beneath cookie jar. Chow card in absentia. Cookie jar itself hiding cigarette stubs. Contemplates testing out Rock against cookie jar for sitting there empty of chow when it shouldn’t. Audience says...NO TIME FOR LITTLE KIDDO GAMES! GET SOME CHOW IN YOU, BOY! BEFORE YOU EXPIRE THIS VERY SECOND!

Audience has point but does not understand predicament that = Boy. Gentlemen’s agreement requiring house arrest when Winn-Dixie = one mile hoof + zero money. Already twice this month Boy turned away from deli section for smudging up sneezeglass with grubby little Boy fingers. Boy staring too close at old deli men doling chow. Boy no longer allowed inside unattended. Boy spooking customers. Freaking them out.

Which is another thing. Neither Troubled nor Emotionally Incapable Of = Boy. Boy = amazing sensitive genius kiddo. How come dingdongs aren’t able to see with their dindong eyes + notebooks + brains? What questions on the dingdong tests he is locked in a room and made to take is Boy not answering? Look at these two pictures. Jim and Jen utilize a seesaw. One is happy, another sad. Which one, Boy, do you think is the sad one and which the happy? Can you tell us, examining closely and sharing whatever thought comes to mind? Audience says...WHO THE HECK GIVES A BULLCRAP! BOTH LOOK PRETTY HAPPY WE GUESS! BOTH WEARING EXCELLENT KIDDO CLOTHING! JIM’S MOMMA NEVER SAID TO FLASH HER HOT STUFF AROUND TOWN! CONTINUE STARING AT TABLE IN SILENCE, BOY, THE TEST IS R-I-G-G-E-D RIGGED!

Must Boy once again, for hundred-trillionth time, remind all dingdong lifeforms inhabiting galaxy of duct-taping car battery to tennis racket, which, were enough juice available, would have created legitimate atomic explosion during electrical surge? No dingdong State Office test-giver could say they had done the same. Ha ha! Point Boy! It is they who are failing the tests now! Tables turned! Examination status: Dingdong+!

Boy suddenly feeling super excellent/alive on this day. Memory of Operation Atomic Battery + afternoon happening upon Rock, Rock of Retribution, goes long distance in making sure Boy feels not so low regarding Cat/dindongs at school/cafeteria windows/empty stomach/momma flashing hot stuff. School suspension ≠ R.I.P. after all. Boy ≠ nameless neighborhood shape. So much Boy might accomplish during week off, given self-mandated pace. Study hard + make grades shine. Train himself from biting dingdong kiddos after they pour fruit juice when he sneaks away to the chow card short line into the cafeteria seat where he had been sitting. Lots of time left to turn over new leaf in Garden of Goodness. Astronaut School on horizon + additional schooling in Moon Presidency. Dawn of new age beginning, in meemaw’s kitchen, right now.

And yet.

Gentlemen’s agreement might require soft bending. Slight modification. Down payment on future good behavior. Consider investment in future Boy, Moon President, that he departs meemaw’s yard with Rock in pocket, so as to continue feeling excellent about himself. To boost morale among troops during this war that = Boy vs. World.

Audience says...CHOW TIME! CHOW TIME! Boy is like, dang, okay.

Free chow at the Winn-Dixie without even entering inside where chow is made = some serious ruse. Must stay vigilant, for meemaw’s special adult meeting held across street at Cameron’s Tavern. How not to be caught by so many watching adults? Audience says...KIDDO GENIUS AT WORK! TAKE NOTES! Ruse = hide between tires in parking lot for when big girls come out with shopping carts full of chow from shopping long. Big girls wearing big girl jumpsuits with tissue wads/chewing gum lost inside getting gunky. Big girls + small ankles = tough to hoof. If able, not so swift as Boy can. Ruse = big girls store chow in fancy car, fight against swinging car door, as Winn-Dixie is located within valley thus slanting, and grab rolling-away cart to carry to cart receptacle. Ruse = only one single cart receptacle at the Winn-Dixie, in middle of vast parking lot, meaning big girls must walk + walk + walk uphill away from unlocked car, stocked with chow, chow calling to Boy waiting for big girls to get extra far from car before possuming low over to car quick, opens door/grabs whatever chow he deems chow, sugar cereal + squeeze cheese + potato salad sweating through plastic lid, potato chips + seltzer water, jerky + cigarettes, grabs entire bags if gone unseen, shimmies then behind Winn-Dixie where abandoned forest resides, deep behind cover of flash flood house trash where no one will come finding. That is how Chow Time happens.

Today parking lot looking skeletal. Sky + trees seeming to say, Stay at home, get rowdy in backyard with kiddos, toss football back/forth, compare tossing form to one of hotshot, make kiddos feel excellent whenever possible, even if they = kiddos of sissy status. On Sundays parking lot = full enough Boy can find chow to last him a week, in case meemaw home too wobbly from special adult meetings to cook/fridge remains chowless. Boy has tender feelings for meemaw, no joke, but meemaw’s head = screwed-on backwards. She does not create time for eating. Brings home pocket full of tavern peanuts for Boy as if tavern peanuts constitute supper, cabbage from chow bank as if cabbage = chow.

Boy leans on truck wheel/pulls Rock from pocket meanwhile. Blocks Rock over pulsing sun. Rock = Big Deal. Perhaps genuine radiation present in pearly streaks? Nevermind bells + whistles. Mr. Bargus and his math quizzes will cower from Our Rock of Perpetual Hope regardless. Boy needs Rock to fill that big fat meemaw-calling mouth. Boy ≠ disruption. Genius status of Boy > genius status of Mr. Bargus. Rock, if willing, will fly through road-facing cafeteria window on line, crack Mr. Bargus square in face, mess him all up, teach him lesson he has not yet learned, which is, Audience says...DON’T MESS WITH BOY YOU FREAKING DINDGONG IDIOT! LEST YOU MESS WITH ROCK OF DEATH!

Bingo.

Big girl hoofing through Winn-Dixie doors. Looks like gut on her is one gut cut in middle to make two guts of decent size. So much chow in cart. Chow enough to feed legion of Boys. Big girl has lipstick around mouth that is used, Boy knows, for smooching. What spare time these days can Boy obtain for smooching? Audience says...ZERO TIME! TOO BUSY WITH SCIENTIFIC EXPLORATION! Such = burden of genius status. Though what about Delaney Cooke, who maybe seemed wanting to smooch Boy back, being that she never tripped/pinched/made cracks at his torn-up third-hand shirts of hot garbage funk and did the opposite of customary dingdong bullcrap Boy often had slung at him, such as once even asking if he needed a turn with her own sharper pencil when his kept making the smudgy dull sound across the page, to which Boy nearly crapped his desk-seat? No, Boy would give her the No Thanks Occupied Fully With Game-Changing Projects, and when her tender heart broke from pure love of his genius kiddo spirit, Boy would feel so low as to fashion Rock + Rock Buddies into temporary floral arrangement, securing Delaney Cooke’s affection once/for all, though she must settle for look ≠ touch, what are you, nuts? Rock is way dangerous, girlfriend.

Boy dips softly from behind truck. Follows car-to-car until right up next to big girl’s. Looking at big girl through window on one side whilst she on other, huffing/puffing to get chow put away. Good sign she = sweating tired under afternoon sun. Everything so perfect. Big girl closes door without locking, nearly falls into cart headfirst leaning to forge path toward cart receptacle. Big girl begging for it. Chow Time sequence initiated. All systems go.

Boy = industry expert hotshot. Been there/done that enough times to complete chow mission whilst asleep. With twenty safety seconds remaining in chow raid—making excellent time yet finding not much to eat in big girl’s backseat, such as white gravy/artichoke/plain pie crust—Boy eyes other boy square in face.

Other boy in front seat eyeing back at Boy.

This = new.

Boy has grubby little Boy fingers in other boy’s momma’s chow. Abort mission? Mostly frozen chow, no loss of morale, live to fight another battle etc., zero shame. Though looking at other boy, Boy detects something not correct. Other boy too old to be strapped in car seat. Other boy looking much older than Boy himself, like driver of car or father of teeny tender baby. Other boy’s face twisted up like punched-on wet clay art. Other boy sweating so profusely in car seat. Whole head seemingly held under hot shower then rolled in grease. Car windows secure in closed position. Too dang hot for boy of any status to hang out in.

Other boy flexing so hard to move arms but not able to.

For other boy’s wrists = cuffed to car seat with zip ties.

For other boy wrapped around tight in car seat with rope.

Boy ≠ computing. Error in data unit. Genius status system failing. Audience says...ABORT! ABORT!

And yet.

Boy ≠ aborting.

What Boy knows looking at other boy’s face = other boy has Mongo status. Boy way familiar with Mongo status. Dingdong school head-shrinkers give Boy tests determining if he himself = Mongo. Audience says...BIG HEAPS OF CRAP! Nothing wrong with Mongo status. But Boy ≠ Mongo. Mongo = tests where it does not matter if it is Jim or of it is Jen who is happy, everyone is a winner, explore what interests you, whether it be birds of air or wads of snot, think not in terms of screwing-up, for you are believed in by us! World for Mongos = dictionary in which to color over words with other words, calling Cat Dog maybe, or Florida, if that is what they feel = truliest true. Mongos so friendly because that = all they know. Mongos have only love for everything with their big tender inviting hearts.

Boy ≠ Mongo because Boy has been told Boy = hateful.

Other boy going nuts in car seat now seeing Boy. Twisting like shot duck over river scene. Boy understands other boy has on face selfsame look Cat did, which = What The Heck Are You Doing To Poor Little Me? Genius status ≠ equipped to withstand such brain-stumping. Boy came looking only for chow but now feeling fully-engaged angry pants ready for launch with additional puzzled belt sequence. Hard to think Cat now considered Mongo status furthering Boy’s science. Cat was only doing Cat thing. Climbing back door. Pawing bath towel around gravel like play-pretty. Licking own butt. Now Cat = all messed up. Now Cat ≠ normal. Such low feelings invading Boy’s heart area. Tender turdy feelings.

Other boy mouthing in his crazy Mongo language, Help. Help.

Audience says...TIME TO ROLL, BOY! GET THE LEAD OUT!

Gentlemen’s agreement blown to crap. Contract’s major directives broken thus/thereover. Must cover tracks, find chow elsewhere, day still young. Time left for pepperoni stick if lucky. Yet wheels continue spinning within head area. Boy thinking Boy has chance to shape World into excellent place with single small tender act. Jump off one’s butt + be contributing citizen. Boy can = game changer for real.

Boy can do the Mongo thing.

Astronaut school still imminent. Rock Supreme not leaving. What big fuss could be raised if Boy simply rolls down car window so other boy can breathe/feel excellent? How bad to cut other boy loose from seat?

Audience says...GET THE FREAK OUT OF THERE! YOU ARE INHABITING THE DANGER ZONE!

Boy ≠ listening. Audience saying much, knowing little. Audience not seeing other boy = rocket booster, looking ready to bust out of car seat and into high sky above him. Audience not feeling heat of oven inside fancy car. Audience not witnessing blood/crust skin around wrists + hollowed-in chest of other boy, skinny like cartoon coyote with xylophone ribcage to drum upon. Audience not knowing anything.

Audience obtaining serious dingdong status if skipping this one teeny chance for good.

That = what Boy thinking when Boy hears big girl shouting ugly noise from her mouth behind him. Boy snuck up on. Boy discovered. Big girl right next to open door where Boy is. Lipstick all over teeth as if eating it. Big girl making big screams. Yanking on Boy’s ankle. Climbing into back seat. Getting rough.

Other boy in front seat looking to break apart, making big screams of own. Boy in middle of screaming arena.

Audience says...SHUT THEM UP SHUT THEM UP SHUT THEM SHUT THEM UP SHUT UP SHUT UP THEM UP!

Boy reaching with one hand for car door opposite, with other for other boy in front seat as if to pull-off rescue op. Watching body accomplish mission. Genius status override. Pure Mongo sequence. But Big girl bear-hugging Boy’s legs. Boy ≠ escaping, ≠ rescuing. Boy at serious standstill.

Words coming off big girl’s mouth = foul + stinging. Words Boy’s momma called before obtaining missing-in-Boy’s-life status. Words Boy hears from dingdongs at school when Boy achieves something scientific such as whizz on water-fountain nozzle preceding class water break after class laughs at Boy mispronouncing Europe ear-rope. Words Boy okay never hearing again.

Angry pants in such a state that Boy finds himself yanking on own leg, fighting adult back. Audience says...APPROACHING EXTREME DANGER ZONE! Hand running down pants leg, touching pocket area + Rock of Mass Destruction. Needing big girl to shut big mouth from screaming. Angry pants so tight that Boy ≠ thinking when Rock leaves pocket, goodbye forever gentlemen’s agreement, sayonara cooling one’s jets, buying one-way ticket to Greater Crystal Springs, reaching back hand far nearly scraping car window, swinging hand down hard, creaming Rock into big girl’s screaming mouth, again, again, shutting her up. Not eggshelling to teeny puzzle pieces as per previous speculation. Instead like pushing hand through sun-hot Halloween pumpkin still porchfront at Christmas. Big girl’s face giving in too easy. Boy ≠ thinking when foot kicks big girl straight to head, knocking her from fancy car into parking lot. Big girl rolling away.

Other boy’s screaming = finished.

Genius status silent, audience saying nothing. Boy closes/locks car door. Car secure.

What the heck.

Boy watches big girl outside window ≠ moving. Two adult people then more crowding forward from the Winn-Dixie doors, flapping hands. Boy looks down at Rock still in fist. Not lipstick but blood on Rock, blood on hand, blood on car seat. Hides Rock in pocket. Not wanting to see evidence of wrongdoing. Cannot be construed as excellent from any angle. Dingdong school head-shrinkers = correct after all—one day Boy just picks up Rock, just holding, next day Boy throws Rock at wall, then window, then person. Suddenly Boy smoking cigarettes + drinking beer. What to stop Boy blowing up country?

The saddest thing = Boy cannot even cut loose other boy from seat. Rock ≠ sharp. Not strong enough to pull apart zip ties/rope. Did the Mongo thing in vain. Boy reaches across other boy to roll down window at least but, duh, windows = electric, car keys in absentia. Not even able to help in teeny tender way as per rescue op.

Boy is just like, very very tired?

Adult people putting hands on big girl, bringing ears to chest, making points at big girl’s car, running into the Winn-Dixie. Telephone-calling. Commence public commotion. Parking lot looking not so skeletal anymore. Line drawn in sand: Boy on one side, World on other.

Out of nowhere old guy with old eyes beating hand on car window, saying, Come on out now friendly, or else you leave me no choice, I will be obligated to use Extreme Force in order to neutralize the violent threat that is you. Adults cornering big girl’s car on four sides. Boy boxed in.

Even special adult meeting members from Cameron’s Tavern in crowd, meemaw among, wobble-legged from having blast, shielding eyes from sun, hoping to see What Is Going On. What Is Going On = Boy screwing-up.

Boy thinking, other boy lucky. Maybe not lucky, but loved, by own momma and not momma’s momma, who will battle the likes of Boy to protect him. Tying other boy to car seat = problem, but what does Boy know, Boy just Troubled, entire galaxy hitting nail on top of head regarding him.

Old eyes against window saying, Give it up, let us end this right now and on good terms with one another, then we will see what is up later on after all parties involved are deemed safe and secure. Old man putting palm on window for Boy to see. Palm looks carved out of stupid ancient tree.

Boy looks at other boy in front seat. Other boy ≠ screaming/shaking/etc. Other boy looking pretty okay. Closing eyes as if entering nap sequence. Perhaps tender happy look on face in right light?

Audience says...HE WILL MAKE OUT JUST A-OKAY IN LIFE! LET HIM ALONE!

Genius status compelling Boy to agree with squirming crowd, to grab hold of car door, open up + stand around looking defeated. Boy = following directives. Sunlight making teeny bites on Boy’s skin. Crowd seeming not sure what to do with Boy once out of fancy car. Old eyes at front of crowd, reaches rough for Boy’s neck with tree palm. Boy swift enough to achieve excellent dodging maneuver. Meemaw comes pushing through crowd, held back by arms stronger, saying Boy is only thing left for her to love on, Boy will try very best not to do no wrong by World again, that is her promise, Boy is only acting out. Boy is only Boy.

Maybe things better this way. Maybe Boy = disciplined in time. Maybe Greater Crystal Springs = just what Boy needs, eat glass and work honest job scrubbing toilet every day with toothbrush, then using toothbrush in mouth to show such treatment is deserved + wise enough to endure it. Boy = okay with surrender decision. Boy ready for next move. Audience says...A GREAT DECISION HAS BEEN MADE ON THIS DAY!

And yet.

Something not correct. Old eyes + rest of crowd screaming loud, saying foul words, not caring who all hears, Drop it, get down on ground, cooperate, etc. Do not make this hard decision.

Boy looks down + sees. Boy is holding onto Rock still.

Rock never meant to leave pocket. Boy not wanting to see Rock ever again. Rock got him into mess Rock unable to get him out of. Rock too powerful for Boy, acting on own accord. Rock gone rogue.

Boy counting back from ten. Last resort. Trying hardest to cool one’s jets, but jets firing on all engines, blowing up atmosphere, visiting farthest galaxies known to Boy at lightspeed. Boy worked up too dang hard. So many yelling faces making Boy want to snap. Angry pants boiling over. Genius status nowhere to be found.

Inside of Boy’s head = echo of echo of echo.

Boy already at five when autopilot flips switch. Needing to chuck Rock harder than World ready for. Aiming Rock at old eyes, eyes behind old eyes, squaring up on meemaw, turning to bust out Winn-Dixie glass windows. Boomerang Rock to hit every part of Earth at once, crashing it apart, whizzing on rubble.

Audience says...PUT ON YOUR SEATBELT! PREPARE FOR LIFT-OFF!

One voice in crowd directing old eyes to take down Boy. Saying Boy is just boy. Old eyes spitting scared, sneaking two steps forward, extending tree palms. Boy pinned against car. No going farther back. No escape. Old eyes warning, Last chance. Surrender.

Boy ≠ listening. Boy ≠ thinking. Boy ≠ breathing.

Boy too busy counting back from three.