"They all called me misguided," he thought.  "They would point and laugh.  I'll show them."
    He pulled the welding visor over his eyes.  Sparks flew in every direction, illuminating the dark corners of the garage.  He glanced over at his first and only baseball trophy, briefly remembering that horrible season before melting the metallic figure to add to his twisted creation.  The coach had seemed exceedingly excited that he would be joining the team.  To "initiate" him, they would tie him to the fence of the batting cage and watch as 80 mile an hour fast balls hurled at his stomach.  The coach said that it was to toughen him up for later.  That was the last day he had innocence.  His big day finally arrived.  The coach made him catcher, center of the action he thought.  He would hunker behind home plate and catch balls.  At first he thought that the pitchers were just really bad, but after the umpire started kicking hem, he realized that the whole game had been played at his expense just to humiliate him.  That was the last day he had courage.
    "Oh yes, they'll pay."

    The mangled bits of copper and tin began to take shape.  First an arm, then a leg.  The man paused for a second.  Visions of high school played themselves out in his head.  He could remember the inside of his locker.  He spent almost a week in there before they noticed that he was missing.  He lived off of his bag of lunch.  Six days on a peanut butter sandwich, two Oreos, and a juice box.  He shuddered.  He remembered looking out of those three little ventilation slits in the top of the locker.  The heat inside was unbearable.  It was the end of May, and the temperature had gone up to more than eighty degrees.  Facing the sun, the locker became like a sauna.  For almost four days, he debated whether he should keep holding in his excretions, or just relieve himself where he stood.  Finally, it was his body that decided for him.  The last two days were even more intolerable than before.  The heat made the stench even worse.  Ironically, it was that which tortured him so much that finally came to his rescue.  The janitor, a large sweaty man named George, finally walked by.  He tried to call out, but his throat was slaked from dehydration.  The custodian stopped for a moment in front of his locker. He stood there in the locker, praying for the janitor to notice him and let him out.  The janitor took a breath.
    "Good Lord!  What the hell is that?"
    He pulled out his master key and unlocked a locker further down the row.
    He wanted to yell, "I'm over here!  Please God, find me!"
    Finally, the janitor helped him out of his prison.  That was the last day he had dignity.  But that wasn't the end of that story.  Rumors spread, and he quickly became an outcast.  His prom date dumped him.  That was the last day he had a social life.  All summer they called him Stain.
    He pulled down his welding mask and fired up the torch again.  With the power of his torch in hand, he paused.  Before him, on the wall, was his diploma from the DeVatterott School of Business and Burger Flipping.  He had been certified by DVSBBF to fry up soy patties for the general public.  He was convinced that his life finally had some direction.  That was, until the frialator incident.  The guys who worked in the drive-through, who had thought to be his friends, had grabbed him one day after work.  The took him by his ankles and stuck a basket over his head.  Then he received a hot grease swirlie.  That was the last day he could look himself in the mirror.  The manager deemed him too grotesque to work in the front where the public could see him.  He became the kitchen janitor, but he spent more of his time cleaning up the vomit that his appearance motivated than ketchup that had been spilled on the floor.  That was when he was assigned to clean the grease trap.  They gave him an old rubber wet suit and a toothbrush and he was banished to the little shed behind the restaurant where the grease trap and garbage were stored.  That was the last day he saw the light of the sun.
    "They'll regret the day they ever crossed Stanislav Krgzyxz," thought Stan.  Then suddenly, in the middle of his vengeful creation, he died.  The coroner said it was malnutrition.  Weeks of nothing but Cheezy Poofs had turned his innards to jelly.  His parents locked the door to the garage, leaving it as a silent tomb for their demented child.  His quasimodo instrument of death and revenge remains at it was, unfinished, crumpled in the middle of the floor.
Mrs. Pulem:
    I did this because I thought it would be the best way to show you that Steve and I actually learned quite a bit and did finish the project we started (I know that must be a first).  I hope you enjoy it.  Please give me any suggestions that you have and the pages that are under construction should be up and running soon.  If any of your students next year want to take charge of updating the pages, please have them get in contact with me and I will give them the appropriate passwords.  Thanks.
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