Hey, hey, hey, my people! Here's the newest amusing anecdotal attributable addition! R&R! Survive!

Don't read this book. If you are any of the following things, put it down right now: 1) Human, 2) Ambulatory, 3) Sentient, 4) Alive.

If you are one of those people who is in a vegetative state, and incapable of movement of thought, please keep reading. If you are not human, carry on.

But if you feel like there's something wrong with this book, you are completely right. This book has mystery. Excitement. Adventure. Battles, love, evil, good, gods, dogs, and the occasional flying brick.

Did I just hook you? Damnit.

Don't read this book.

My day as a middle schooler started out like any other. I had school. Played basketball. Went home, yelled at my little brother, played video games.

Then it went bad.

Cause right in the middle of level 5 of Overkill, we got a knock on the door. I went to get it. Standing outside was my good friend Nate.

"Hey, Brett," he said. "Came over to ask if you wanted to come to the thing tonight."

"What thing?" I asked.

"You know, the what's-it-called. The thing. The party or whatever."

"Where?"

"Dylan's house."

Great. I hate Dylan. Most people hate Dylan. His own mom hates Dylan.

"Who's coming?"

"Oh, ah, Jeff, Aidan, Connor, Kade, I dunno. Everyone."

"Kay. I'll be there. What time?"

"Hell, I dunno. Six, I guess."

I closed the door. "BYE!" he yelled through the wood. I shook my head, a faint smile on my face. Nate was an idiot, but he was a funny idiot and girls called him cute.

I played games till six, then yeah. I went to the party.

When I got there, lights were on, snacks were out, people were there.

"So what's it all for?" I asked Dylan.

"Oh, it's for someone's birthday," he said, grinning.

"Whose?"

"I don't know! Someone in Africa, maybe. Someone's birthday today, right?"

Now a quick character check about Dylan. He's hot. Strong. Football running back. Tall for his age, probably five foot nine. But he's not even a stereotypical dumb jock. He's top of most classes. Straight A's. Why does everyone hate him?

Cause he's quite certain that he's the most important thing since Adam. He beats people up on a regualar basis. But again, not even the stereotypical kindergartner threatening. He'll attack, randomly, ninth and tenth graders, unprovoked, and beat them up too. Anyone. It's irritating. And dangerous. He has mental issues and anger management. Once, he gave a twelve year old a concussion. Then he gave a sixteen year old a broken arm.

Anyway, he's stuck up, too clever for his own good, violent, and you can't even call him stupid.

Back to the party: "Sure, okay," I said. "Who brought all this?"

"Moi," he said, pointing to himself. "Free of charge, thank you very much."

Last thing: he's filthy stinking rich. His parents are millionaires each. They co-run a business called MacroCorps, something big.

He wandered away through the party.

I was there for about two hours. Why just two hours, you might ask, when the party was supposed to go on till midnight?

Well, simple. Cause I got put away.

Two hours in, I went to the bathroom. When I came out, I heard whimpering down a hallway.

I ran to see what it was. It was Kade.

Now, Kade. Pretty much the nicest guy since Jesus. Short, five foot one maybe, blonde, funny guy. He was crying in the hallway.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?" I asked. He looked up, startled.

"Noth—nothing," he said. "Nothing."

"Come on, Kade," I said. "Tell me."

"Leave me alone!" he yelled.

"Okay, okay," I said. "After you tell me what's wrong."

He put his head down on the floor. "Dylan," he whispered.

"What about the bastard?" I asked.

"He…hurt me…"

"How?"

He rolled over. On his shirtless chest were bruises and red marks.

"What did he do?" I yelled. Kade didn't deserve this. Kade was better than this.

"Hit me…" he pointed to a stick in the corner. "But don't tell him I told you, please! Don't…"

I grabbed the stick. It was made of the same aluminum as a baseball bat, but thinner and shorter. My vision went red. I couldn't see anything but Dylan.

I went charging back into the main room, Kade behind me. I disregarded his weak protests; Dylan couldn't hurt him f he was six feet under.

Dylan, across the room, saw me coming. His eyes widened, almost comically. A kid saw where I was going and grabbed my arm. I flung him into a table of food. Chip bags and M'n'Ms went everywhere.

Dylan yelled something at me, but I just heard a roaring in my ears. He ran to the wall and grabbed a pool cue.

I swung at him. He held the pool cue in two hands and tried to catch the metal stick between them, but the pool cue splintered. He yelped and jumped back. I took another swing. He caught it on his arm. He howled, holding his arm where I probably broke the bone. He lunged at me, good hand outstretched.

I brought it down on his head.

They took me away in a van. I got cuffed and then shoved in a cop van. They took me to juvie, where they said I was probably there for life, no matter about Kade.

I was in Juvie for a week. It was hell. The rest of the guys there were bad, bad dudes. I was just normal, not mental or anything, but I was actually the only person who'd ever killed anyone. It actually gave me a bit of seniority. I got a shower, a good meal, and a noise-free night, guaranteed.

For two days.

The morning of the third day, I was eating my breakfast, a nameless slop and an egg, in the mess room.

A guy came up to me. "Hey, Brat," he said.

"Now, that's not all that clever," I said. I should've definitely kept my mouth closed, but I hadn't learned much in the way of respect. Blame the following on my teachers. "It's not like that's the first time I've heard that. Or the tenth."

"Huh?" he said. "Naw, shut up. I'm asking you why we gotta jump through hoop for you. Looka you. Scrawny little wimp. How you coulda killed that guy's beyond me."

"Not too much isn't hmm?" I suggested. "And I never asked for you to 'jump through hoops'. I came in here like the rest of you. Treat me normal if you want."

"Oh, I'll treat you normal," he grinned. "There's something we do for newbies called initiation. Goes like this."

He drew his fist back.

This guy was probably sixteen. Huge ten pound fist. I could've taken this beating like a man.

Or I could've done what I did.

I jumped back, onto the table, sending plates and the glop flying in all directions. The guy's fist hit air. He growled and jumped up on the table next to me. He swung again. I dropped to a crouch. The haymaker made air.

I jumped back up and roundhouse kicked him in the head. He stumbled off the table. They didn't give us real shoes, just moccasin-like slippers, but my foot at least knocked him down.

He roared something I couldn't understand, then charged back at me. Alarms started to blare.

I ducked to the side. If he'd caught me, he would've crushed me, but as it was he just slipped and cracked his nose on the bench below the table.

He didn't get up.

Guards ran in, and grabbed me and the guy. They hustled us out of the room, into a smaller, stone, cage-like area.

A guy was sitting at a desk. Two guards were next to him.

"Mr. Rilder," he said to me. "Mr. Roskowski," to the other guy. "You've created quite the disturbance out there. What was it all about."

"I'm tired o' doin' whatever this fag wants," the guy yelled, at the same time that I yelled, "I never asked for any of this!"

"Quiet!" the man said. We both shut up.

"Mr. Rilder, why don't you go first."

"I never asked for them to treat me different!" I said. "What kind of sick system is this, that a killer gets seniority for everything. He got tired of it and attacked me."

"Yeah," the other guy said. "I wanted to teach him something. Leave it alone."

"I heard that you were given special privileges," the guy said to me.

I explained. And explained. At the end of it, we went back to the mess, nothing different.

But for the rest of the week, the rest of the guys in my section would do stuff. Bump me, hard, in a hallway. Cut me out of the shower lineup. Cut me in line for food. Little stuff.

But it got hard.

On the seventh day, I was about ready to shoot myself. A guard let me out of my cell in the morning, but instead of leading me to breakfast, he took me to a back hall.

"Aren't we going to breakfast?" I asked.

"Shut your mouth," he said.

I followed him back and back and back. We came out in a parking lot.

"Get in the van," he said, pointing.

I backed away. "Wait, wait, wait. Who are you? What's all this? You can't—"

"Hades, yes I can," he grinned. He grabbed a baseball bat out of the van. "Now you get in here or I'll crack you one."

I got in the van.

"Where…where are you taking me?" I asked, as the van started to pull away from the parking lot.

"Camp Half-Blood," he said.

So? How was I? Good? Bad? Anything you'd like changed? (Except for the minor cussing. That stays. Rated T for a reason, people.) Review! Please! That little box down there? Yeah, that!

Anyhoo, this is the one I promised all y'all. So, quick recap: It's gonna be this one. Then the Untold Chronicles of Jonah Carry the Unbeliever. And the Solangelo Drabbles. Gimme a poke if I haven't finished a story (I lose track) and I'll pop a last chapter on and then pop a Complete stamp.

Note: I meant to say this on the newest Solangelo Drabbles chappie, but I need suggestions for the newest drabble. Madeleine gave me a good one, but other than that I got nothin'. So either here or on the Drabbles, please review any idee that you got.

Farewell, my good people! Until we meet again!