"Do you know the meaning of 'amoral'?" thundered my headmaster, veins popping out of his forehead.
He looked like John Major during a stranglewank; grey suit, grey hair with a side-parting, ashen skin flecked with the crimson of burst capillaries in his apoplectic rage. I looked back at him, my sixth-form phizzog bearing a punchably smug grin.

"Yes sir, that's why I wrote the letters".

He wasn't expecting a frank confession. For two weeks, boys had been pulled from classrooms at the whim of the Head to be interrogated about a series of letters, published in the local newspaper under the name 'Mrs. Mullet', shaming the school's recent spending policy. Once the rumour mill had coughed up a suspect, I was hauled in for questioning.

"Wipe that idiot smile off your face. You think this is funny?" he blasted. "You've dragged the entire school into disrepute." The vice-head, called in to witness the meeting, nodded his agreement.

"Did I sir? Most of the parents who wrote in seemed to agree with me, that a new boiler was more important than a third cricket pitch".

The headmaster exploded. He screamed, he shouted, he threatened suspension, expulsion, banning me from taking my A-level exams, stripping me of my prefect's badge (as if I gave a single flying fuck about that). I stood facing him, to attention, hands behind my back, outwardly calm but inwardly struggling to keep my sphincter sealed, while he flew completely and utterly off his handle.

"Well?" he finally concluded, staring me down while my own gaze darted towards the dry spittle in the corners of his lips. I swallowed in a desperate attempt to spread some saliva around my own painfully dry mouth.

"Is that your official comment, sir?" I replied, my voice ever so slightly breaking with the forced bravado. "Only the editor has asked me for the story, since you wouldn't return his phone calls."

The vice-head managed to bundle me out the door before the Head had completed the vault over his desk, and as I was frogmarched away the corridor shook with the furious cry of "GODFUCKINGDAMMIT I HATE CHILDREEEEEEENNNNNNN" echoing from the Headmaster's office.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 11 Sep 2015, 10:43, 8 replies)

/talker to win qotw, again

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Fri 11 Sep 2015, 12:07, closed)

Grrrmachine to win qotw, again

( Moon Girl Technologies horrendous beanbag, Sun 13 Sep 2015, 20:41, closed)

When I was at school, I couldn't even spell "precocious".

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Fri 11 Sep 2015, 12:09, closed)

I didn't even read it and I clicked like.
It's probably just nonsense about his fucking car, or Poland or some other bollocks. Still, this to win. Whatever it is.
( Windy Pig I'm naturally quite suspicious about the moon., Fri 11 Sep 2015, 12:34, closed)

wait, i'm confused.
so the cops knew internal affairs were setting them up?
( The Doveston haunted by the memory of his own amnesia, Fri 11 Sep 2015, 13:48, closed)

Was that one of the questions last night?

( tangledupinblue hairy badge with moving eyes, Fri 11 Sep 2015, 16:05, closed)

I feel like I missed part 1 of this
is there a summary somewhere I can scan?
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 11 Sep 2015, 14:06, closed)