The Detention Squad
HD Remix
Chapter 1
In the pale of 6:00 AM near the southern entrance of Whitney High School lingered a black shadow long forgotten in the minds of the students. Behind him stood a gathering of naked figures not all that different from the shadow in demeanor. The ghost of the past stood anxiously, overshadowed by his peers in physical height.
"Now is the time, my fellow nigras," boomed the tiny figure as he readied his glock, "Time to teach this school about some real goddamn diversity."
His followers shouted in agreement as they all rushed in through the double doors of the school. Corn dogs and twinkies ablaze, they readily decimated the front corridor. In the midst of all the chaos, the cloaked figure gave a gay little giggle and took of his outer robe to reveal the face of the most notorious shoe-stepper around.
The immensely proud Tyson Kemp made his way across the lockers on the west side as his followers ravaged every other entrance. He stopped in his tracks when he realized the battered and bruised Mr. Kelly stood in his way.
"You won't get away with this, Tyson!" yelled Kelly in despair, "I'll push you and your goddamn race back 200 years if I have to!"
Tyson merely stepped over the bitter old man as he strolled across. "You won't even live to see the end of this decade, Kelly, mark my words. After I'm done teaching this school a lesson about inclusion, I will enslave your people and rewrite history. I'll create a crimson brown that not even you will be able to tarnish. It's fuckin' payback time, Kelly."
What Tyson did not notice as he walked away was Kelly reaching into his pocket to bring out his transceiver. "Goddamnit, Spratt. Where the hell are you when we actually need you?" Not that the other end of the line was completely silent, course.
There wasn't much panic in the office. This was due to it being completely barricaded with the strongest element ever created: skateboards. The office aids piled in to Spratt's office for some sign of hope.
"Ah, shit…" moaned Spratt as a pool of blood began to form from under his chair. "I can't fight!" It appeared Spratt had failed at shaving his legs this morning. A perfect ballet man such as Spratt would be dishonored were he to prance around in this state.
"Then what the hell do we do?" asked the confused Kelemen.
"The only people actually ready for this shit this early in the morning are them."
"Who exactly are you referring to, sir?"
"The Detention Squad."
They had to speak pretty damn loudly to overtake the noise of the barricade pounding with anger. Right outside this barricade appeared the prodigal Taekwondo student Christian Balbido.
"You're not getting away from me this time, you filipino fuck."
The unsuspecting Balbido looked hastily around him to spot the source of this echoing voice. He only had time to glance around for about five seconds before the fresh out of prison Bill Cosby appeared behind him.
"Now, stay still, child," whispered Bill.
Christian could only yelp, "Shoot!" while he was being strangled and force fed Ketamine straight out of the pill bottles.
Just as the child felt like he was about to lose consciousness, a man of another distinguishable shade of brown swooped in with a roundhouse kick aimed at Cosby's forehead.
"Diggly dick crack yiff."
It appeared the kick had managed to crush the skull of the famous serial rapist.
"It's been a while, little filipequeño."
"Wh-"
Christian didn't really have a chance to finish his sentenced before being shoved to the
corner by the man who just happened to save his life.
"Be quiet, sped," warned the mysterious mexican, "There's somebody coming just behind here."
"But Brayan-"
The newly bearded glare was enough to put the prodigal son in his place.
"Looks like they're having an argument over there," murmured Brayan.
Across the hall was an unlikely pair arguing amongst the rubble.
"Tyson, you prick! You promised me some new recruits!"
"Establishing race dominance is our top priority, Kony! If you don't like it, then get out!"
"You fuck!"
Joseph Kony brandished his AK-47 and started firing in an instant, but to no avail. The Artesia trained Tyson dodged each and every single bullet before pulling out a glock of his own and assassinating Kony on the spot.
"Brayan, is the rest of the squad coming, too?"
"Sí. They should have gotten the call from Spratt. I'm not sure if I can beat Tyson by myself. In the little time I spent with him in Artesia, he learned a great deal. I wouldn't be surprised if he has surpassed me by now.
"I have, Brayan."
The two allies sat there shocked for almost a whole five seconds before turning around to see Tyson's grinning face.
"Tyson, the training I gave you was not meant for something like this!" It seemed Brayan had finally mustered the strength to speak.
"I don't care what you think anymore, Brayan. I still haven't forgotten that day you left me for dead. All that trickery just so you could abandon me for those two losers!"
"Noah and Jay are not to blame, Tyson! And neither am I! I sensed evil in your heart long ago."
"Whatever. That stunt is only a part of my motivation for this. The blacks and the mexicans have some very complicated history, Brayan."
While Tyson was busy making a speech, Christian slipped away unnoticed to prepare for his special spice kick.
Even before Christian landed the kick, he felt an itching on his leg. He fidgeted in a craze before realizing it was Tyson's almost-Jewfro that had cushioned him from the attack.
"Christian, haven't you ever wondered why your hair matches mine?"
"What?"
"It's because I made you, Christian!"
"Don't listen to him, Christian," interrupted Brayan, "He's trying to get into your head!"
"No...it can't be."
"That's right, Christian. I made you. Evan Balbido is merely a hoax made to help shelter you."
"You lie!" shouted a flustered Christian. In a fury, he dashed once more towards Tyson before toppling to the ground from a headbutt delivered by the angry black man.
"Christian! You idiot!" Brayan was also subdued with a hit on the back from Tyson's football helmet.
"I hoped," started a voice from behind them, "the pinger call would keep you gone for good, Tyson."
"Noah!" exclaimed Tyson with pleasure as he looked behind himself to see the Korean man. "I've been waiting for you!"
Unfortunately for Tyson, his conversation was once again cut short by a fireball aimed at his head.
"You...I thought I'd never have to see your face again." From the finance window appeared Jesus who had transformed into his Mario attire.
"Oh, I know what's coming next. The true brown is next, isn't he?" stated Tyson as he caught a fedora flying towards the nape of his neck.
"Damn. I haven't seen a black man of such strength ever since Delque's arrival here." The tipping Indian was there at the scene as well.
"Good, good. The whole squad's here! Well, almost, I mean. I'm guessing Clark couldn't be bothered to show up with the tortilla on the case?"
Brayan merely wiped a bead of sweat off his head. "Such a tragedy."
"Thanks to my Afro-American connections in Bender's class, I was able to pull off some of these!" proclaimed Tyson as he took out a box of negroid pills. With one swallow, his muscles began to ripple, and his skin tone matched that of the night sky. Tyson's shouts of pain from the ingestion echoed across the whole city while the Detention Squad stood there in shock.
What they were expecting after the transformation was a battle with an extremely powerful colored man, but they were instead graced by his sudden death. All that was stuck on his corpse was a tiny colored needle.
"But who?" wondered Noah as he looked across the hallway.
"They're most vulnerable in that stage of the transformation, you know," sighed a familiar voice. "The nigras, I mean. He left that artery completely unprotected."
"Hey, what race is this guy?" Brayan asked Noah.
"I got no fuckin' clue about his race. Marchant has remained racially ambiguous ever since his employment."
"Noah," began Marchant, "Since you're my TA, I feel like you should know this first."
"No!" screamed another voice in agony.
It was Mustillo hanging on to dear life as he clutched a wound on his stomach.
"Don't trust him, Noah! He's been after the school's hidden treasure ever since he got here!"
"What?" Noah was left confused as he looked from Marchant to Mustillo.
"You see, I knew that the blacks were going to attack Whitney," explained the devious Marchant.
"Hijo de puta! You let all this bloodshed happen?!" Brayan's rage and confusion was held back only by the huge corpse separating the two parties.
"That's right. With such a large rebellion rushing through Whitney, I knew I would have a chance to snatch this away from the office." Marchant held up Briquelet's sports jacket. "For years, I have been tortured and teased for my lack of a racial affiliation. But this will change it all! With Tyson's death along with others I have stealthily slaughtered in this insurrection, I have collected enough nigra souls to add the insignia of the black men to this jacket, thus granting me all their powers! Of course, such a compilation made it all too easy. But I won't end there! I won't stop until I kill enough people from each and every race so I can collect their insignias and gain their attributes. Now, I may even be powerful enough to take all the Asian souls in Whitney!"
"Marchant, you sick fuck!" Mustillo could barely get any words out at all with his hacking and coughing going on.
"Well, I'll take my leave now."
Before the Detention Squad could unleash their respective projectiles onto Marchant, he managed to dash away with classic negro speed.
"Guys," moaned Mustillo as he stooped down to the floor with blood trickling down his chin, "We need to stop him."
"Pero, how the hell can we do that? Did you see how fast he ran?" commented Brayan.
"Please," Mustillo begged, "He came in here with such a convincing facade. I trained him. I raised him as if he were my own son. That damn physics major can't get away with such trickery! He fooled me with no remorse! You have to understand!"
The Detention Squad could only drag Mustillo's body to the infirmary before he fell unconscious atop many other black bodies. Even then, another crude figure had yet to reveal himself from the sidelines of the situation.
TO BE CONTINUED