It takes only three minutes to make it abundantly clear that today is really not my day. As I round the corner to the vice-principal’s office, I spot Barney Rubble, the last member of the Flintstones-destruction-squad, casually leaning against the wall. That’s not just odd—it’s definitely not okay. No one is allowed in the corridors during class hours. No exceptions.
Even more unsettling is the way he looks—far too relaxed. He seems as if he's waiting for someone, and when he slowly lifts his head, it becomes glaringly obvious: he's not just waiting for anyone—he's waiting for me. Is this my life now? Does it really only take 20 meters before I find myself knee-deep in a new pile of shit?"
Despite his typically casual and laid-back appearance, Barney Rubble is arguably the most dangerous of all the Flintstones. While Fred is strong and cruel, he is also easily provoked, making him simple to manipulate. Barney, on the other hand, is cunning, intelligent, and knows how to avoid getting caught. The fact that he doesn’t fit the stereotypical image of a sadist is perhaps the most disturbing of all. He exudes the effortless coolness of a quintessential surf-dude: broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, blond-haired, and dark-tanned, as if he spends his life on the beach—despite the sea being at least a two-hour drive away. Yet, even when he appears to be doing nothing, entire groups of children start crying, fall silent, or drop to the ground as he walks by. How he does it is a mystery, but the effects are all too clear.
I promised myself early on to steer clear of Barney as much as possible, but there he is, leaning casually against the wall with that don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-hanging-out attitude. No way to avoid him now.
A sly grin spreads across his face as he starts talking in his signature contemptuous drawl. “That must have been the shortest history lesson ever, little mouse.” My brain goes into overdrive. How does he know I just had history class? “History lessons are important,” he continues menacingly slow, “it’s where you learn that you don’t achieve anything by cheating.” This leaves no doubt—he’s not here by accident. He’s on a revenge mission for Scroptz. He’s here for me.
I accelerate abruptly, attempting to slip past him by surprise, but just as I think I've succeeded, the air around me begins to solidify—first thickening like jelly, then hardening like a fist. Invisible fingers of air slowly start to squeeze, making it almost impossible to breathe.
“Look, rodent, you might think you're something special because you've had a bit of luck, but...” He casually checks his perfectly manicured fingernails. (What kind of boy manicures his nails like that?) “The fact is, you're just a piece of toilet paper stuck under our shoes—an insect to be crushed. Putting you out of your misery would be an act of mercy, and I’m a merciful guy. First you, then your sad little friends. I promise they won’t suffer—not for very long. "Scouts honor.”
“They... are... not... my... friends...” I manage to groan through gritted teeth, struggling for air. It’s clear that Barney is here to put me back in my place, and to be fair, his words certainly have an effect—but not the one he expects. Deep in my gut, something starts to itch. A spark ignites into a flame. The flame becomes a fire. Who the hell does he think he is? I close my eyes and feel the heat rising.
A cry jolts me back to reality, but when I open my eyes, I don’t immediately understand what I’m seeing. Barney has tucked his hands under his arms. He has completely lost his composure, looking confused and bewildered. Is that smoke escaping from his armpits? Suddenly, the invisible grip on my lungs is gone—I can breathe again. I lunge forward.
Alarmed by Barney’s screams, doors fly open. Excited students and panicked teachers stream into the hallway. I sprint the last few meters to the vice-principal’s office, push the door open, throw myself inside, and slam the door shut behind me. Panting and struggling for breath, I lean against the door, hoping to prevent him from following me. Slowly, I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.
Only after regaining some control over my breathing do I start to look around. The first thing that catches my eye is an enormous desk with the vice-principal sitting behind it. The man I’ve never seen before and only known by reputation—a mythical figure. A dictator whom no one dares to speak of, yet whose presence is felt throughout the school. Even if you never see him, you sense him in the warnings of teachers and in the pale faces of students who have had to visit him. This is not a man whose office you can barge into unannounced without facing consequences.
I want to mumble an apology, to explain that it's all a mistake, but before I can utter a word, my brain finally catches up with my eyes. How wrong have I been all this time? It’s not his face I’m looking at—it’s hers. The vice-principal isn’t a man; she's a woman, and that’s catastrophically bad news.