Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, Ian Brennan and their associates do. Believe me, if I owned Glee it would be a very different show. For a start, Sue would be even more evil and conniving than she already is, and Rachel would have been locked up in Kurt's basement until after Sectionals. No, make that after Regionals. Nationals. She can just stay there, okay?

A/N: This is something I wrote last night and this morning. I got very little sleep last night because I wanted to get it finished and I've been planning the whole storyline. Later on, if I continue, I'm going to be adding three new characters, Sam (Kurt's BF), and two others which I haven't given names yet. I'm a hardcore Chris Colfer and Kurt Hummel 'Lady Face' fan so I hope it does them justice XD I think I went a bit overboard with the Sue quotes and the fancy words and exaggerations but it was fun. :D Please tell me if I'm utterly rubbish at it. I made up some references like the Isaac Newton one, and Sue being the child of...I won't spoil it, but others are from the show or Sue's Corner, like the 'sneaky gay' quote.

Contains spoilers from Journey, and quite a few others involving the baby issue. And several bad words.

This is the first fanfic I've ever written, so tell me what you think by reviewing, please? :) I love to write.

Sue's POV

William - no, make that Sue McKinley High School

Sue's Office

Tuesday, 2.01pm

The week after Regionals

Dear Diary,

I, one Sue Sylvester, 29, coach of the highly prestigious and world-leading cheerleading group The Cheerios, unanimously proclaimed the cheerleading captain of the last 2,000 years (despite fierce and yet cringingly insubstantial competition for millenniums from prancing fairies around the globe), astonishing undiscovered talent unravelled through the exceedingly gripping and enlightening novel I'm a Winner and You're Fat (which, I may humbly add, has attracted 1,235,235,684,386 fans on facebook since it's much-anticipated release last week), believe that I may, finally, be coming to the end of my remarkably successful Schuester-flattening tether.

I know, Diary, I know. What happened? Well, I'll tell you what happened. This morning, as I was passing the office housing the resident panda from the zoo that was, as usual, refusing to mate, I naturally noticed some disconsolately petrified children cowering in the corner at the sight of the creature in captivity rubbing some unknown substance across every inch of its enclosure with a cloth; no doubt designed for the sole purpose of obliterating children. As it is globally known that Sue Sylvester is the first living being to be born to not two, but three loving parents - Mother Theresa, Madonna, and God (and it is rumoured by some that Chuck Norris may have played a part as well, mostly passing on the traits of strength and invincibility) – it was second nature to stop by to comfort these poor, bruised souls, undoubtedly inches from death.

In this vital moment, cradling the delicate balance between the gift of sustained life and a painful, panda-induced death I so often found myself attending to, I should have known one William Schuester would come trotting smugly along, curly elf-ridden head held high in glee at just the thought of poisoning these already mentally-scarred children with a fresh coat of margarine and bird eggs. Unwilling to weaken the flow of kindness and life I was supplying to these eager children, lying abused and pitiful on the floor of my school, I continued to generously recount to them my endless personal real-life accounts of morals, hope, love, healing the ill, feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, and generally ridding the world of the curls on William Schuester's ungrateful head, which are universally accepted to be the basis of all these worldwide quandaries.

Unfortunately, the poisonous whiff of the various life forms feeding on each other within those stinking depths made my concentration lapse, and the children beneath me wailed out in grief and desolation as I looked away, seeking so desperately that anti-curl remedy I was providing them through my inherited anti-curl gaze – their only chance of survival in such disturbing circumstances. I then underwent a realisation that was destined to change my young life forever, right up until the imminent day in which I achieve my immortality – I could no longer live a single second and feel at peace with the degree of safety and dignity of humankind while that man's head inhabited a single gravity-defying curl, because somewhere in the solar system in a stately intergalactic capsule, at this precise moment, Isaac Newton was crying.

Oh, how I fear for the elves trapped helplessly, despairingly in the deep realms of margarine they are so unbearably contained within, screaming for help with no chance of rescue through the black hole of sound conjured by the deep depths of those deceivingly doll-like curls. I can't help but pity them; every second they are choking on the dense layer of sulfurous eggs laid by diclofenac-infested birds consuming undercooked beef from cows that have eaten grass contaminated with human faeces, and I find it disgusting.

Oh, Diary, how can I ever possibly live up to my late parents' expectations of Sue Sylvester if William Schuester's hair is constantly appearing at every road I turn, forevermore equipped to neutralise my well-renowned healing effects? Every second of every day I spend in terror on behalf of civilization…the only way it could possibly be worse is if the panda, God forbid, decides to mate with margarine-haired man and I am left to face a horrifying briar-patch egg-laying panda hair-product hybrid on legs, with a fear of the messy things. It's only a matter of time…I see the way they look at each other...then there would be no hope left for these terrorised children…

...No. I can't let this debacle escalate to such extremes…I may be barely 29, but the future of the whole of the Earth's population is resting solely in my hands. I believe it is time, at last, to put my plan into action…a plan I have been developing since I arrived here at this school, a plan that has only been growing stronger as I have gradually taken over Lima. A plan to rid Lima and the rest of the world of William Schuester's increasingly obscene hairdo once and for all, before it is too late. I have been training my Cheerios hard and have attempted to disarm Schuester of his faithful Glee Club for so long for this reason alone…and the means by which I will operate this mission..? Only the bitchiest and most cunning Cheerio of them all!

…Lady Face.

Yours, until tomorrow,

Sue Sylvester.

XXXXXXXX

William McKinley High School

Spanish Class

Wednesday, 3pm

Wake up, Kurt. That was the bell.

Perfecting his bangs idly, Kurt Hummel expertly radiated an air of superiority and boredom as he got up from his chair and strolled across to the morose Spanish classroom door, opening it and linking arms with his best friend Mercedes Jones, who had been waiting for him. Once out, he attempted to drag her along by the arm, eager to get to Glee club.

"Woah woah woah! Hold up, white boy!" The diva held up a hand to slow Kurt to a stop, clearly overwhelmed, before pointing a finger to the item on his shoulder. What is that bag?"

Kurt really wasn't in the mood for this; as much as he loved his best friend, he often questioned why it was always left to him to attend to her unacceptable lack of fashion knowledge. He'd known from the moment the girl had walked into Glee club dressed up as a Technicolor zebra that he'd have a lot of work to do on this diva, and sometimes it was downright tiring, despite makeovers being like crack to him and whatnot. There was only so much he could take. But still he turned to her and made a show of rolling his eyes, clutching his red Ralph Lauren shoulder bag more tightly to his side. He sighed lightly.

"That question was an insult to the highly exalted NC Magazine. But if you must know, it's-"

Rough fists twisted bundles of soft, blue pleated shirt as Kurt felt himself being lifted off his feet and slammed – in a completely undignified manner, he thought irritably - against a dirty, jutted-open locker. It caught him directly on the path of his spine and he squeaked minutely as the pressure of it sent shockwaves piercing up his back and then streaking throughout the entire length of his body. He tried to free himself, but only succeeded in squirming around uncomfortably, to no avail; and, in the meantime, a jock with a huge presence (whom Kurt recognised as Azimio) stepped forward and knocked the precious bag that Kurt was still clutching clean off his shoulders, so that it skidded sideways along the floor, collided with several cleat-clad feet (A/N: does this make sense?), and settled eventually in a pooling accumulation of grape slushie.

"…Ralph Lauren."

Mercedes gasped, but did not move. Her feet appeared frozen to the spot.

Kurt eyed the bag from his position in the air, his feet dangling and swinging noiselessly as he fumed inwardly. He'd bought that bag yesterday. It was over two thousand dollars. He looked up to stare blankly at his attacker's face. Karofsky. Kurt was absolutely furious, but he couldn't let the jocks know that. That would just give them another excuse to beat the life out of him. The best option was to remain unfalteringly neutral, and Kurt was very good at it. There was nothing that could break through his carefree façade; years and years of purposeful training ensured that.

"Fag."

…Well, except that. Kurt hated that Karofsky and his cronies would always attack him like this, stare him down, and then mutter this one, single syllable, as though offering it as a justifiable reason for their obsession with bothering him. Kurt was tired of hearing it, and although he was long past feeling hurt by the word itself, there was something about the perpetual spite in Karofsky's tone alone that disturbed a deep place inside of him; pricked at his very being and left a nasty, lasting sting. Kurt just perched there, defeated, his façade long forgotten as his body abruptly broke out into an insubordinate bout of panicky shivers, while Karofsky continued to mutter obscenities into his ear.

Kurt opened his eyes, desperate to find someone, anyone, to make eye contact with; he just needed a fraction of a second for them to look him in the eye for them to know what was going on. From under the elbows of the jeering, slightly swaying jocks surrounding him, he could just make out the distinctive, toned, muscular arms of a fellow Glee clubber.

Kurt hesitated; this Glee clubber was the one that once himself pinned Kurt up to the lockers, muttering fag into his ear, after all. Noticing Kurt's undivided attention over to the right, Karofsky quickly parted the group, swearing at them to get out of the way, following Kurt's gaze to Noah 'Puck' Puckerman.

"Ah." Karofsky frowned at Puck, sizing him up. Puck was just standing there, arms hanging loosely at his sides, his expression blank and cold as he looked straight into Kurt's eyes. Kurt regarded him steadfastly, his eyes wide with conviction. Since joining Glee, Puck was a changed man, it seemed; he no longer followed the daily 'Pummel Hummel' ritual that he had, unbelievably, once founded, choosing to no longer chuck the smaller boy into dumpsters, hit him or give him slushie facials at every available opportunity. Kurt was sure he would come to his aid now, especially after the birth of Beth, Quinn's baby. He was different in a way that no-one could really put their finger on; just gentler, more fragile and caring, like the rest of us after losing Regionals.

Seeing how intently Kurt was gazing at Puck, Karofsky jumped at the opportunity he had just spotted.

"So, you two gonna make out or what?" He looked back and forth between Kurt and Puck, before speaking directly to Puck. "Cos Hummel's looking at you all homo misty-eyed and you don't seem to mind it all that much, Puckerman. In fact, I'd say that's the reason why you joined Homo Explosion in the first place, isn't it?" Kurt flinched at the nickname for Glee club. "Isn't it, Puckerman? You're queer as all hell, you little fu-"

"Shut UP, you JERK!" The words left Kurt's lips before he even had a chance to process them, but still he had more to say. He would not perch here and listen to Puck get scolded for showing a little bit of human decency over the last few months.

"What did you say?" Karofsky whispered dangerously, every ounce of his rage focused on Kurt as he turned back to face him. But Kurt found he didn't care anymore. Surprising everyone, including himself, he opened his mouth and giggled. He giggled louder and louder until it turned into a fully-fledged laughing fit, clutching his sides as he doubled up in hysterics.

As though the Neanderthals had marched into the scene partnered off in groups of two, like in kindergarten, each and every one turned to look at his partner, staring dimly at the other's confused expression. Karofsky turned to look at Azimio, his partner, and Kurt couldn't help but notice how their arms and legs were brushing and their faces were barely two inches apart. He giggled harder. Finally, Karofsky found his voice, which sounded slightly nervous.

"What's so funny, fag?" He snapped.

The anger building up in Kurt from earlier had completely diminished. He found that the outburst he was expecting was not coming. Instead, he turned to Karofsky, and his voice was snarky, very bitchy and still quite giddy as he chuckled, "Well, it's just that…you're one to talk about gays, you and Azimio seem quite chu-chummy if you ask me!"

And Kurt, Puck, and Mercedes – the latter having just joined the little huddle, Kurt now noticed – burst out into fits of laughter as Karofsky slackened his grip on Kurt and let him drop almost smoothly to the ground. He concentrated only on side-stepping as far away from Azimio as humanly possible while remaining in the same building, while his 'partner' did the same, amidst the half-devastated and repulsed, half-laughing cries from the rest of the football team of

"Holy shit, dude!"

"We've got fucking queers on the team!"

"I bet they just wanted Hummel for themselves!"

"They're getting some ass tonight!"

Mercedes looked a bit shocked by this last comment, before chortling and grabbing Kurt by the arm.

"Baby! I'm sorry," Mercedes said sincerely, as Kurt reached down to carefully pick up his bag from the puddle on the floor, holding it a fair distance away from him and grimacing. Kurt's grateful glance was replaced almost immediately by a look of utmost irritability.

"Why are you sorry? I told you. That," and he waved his pinky finger in the general direction of the retreating thugs, "is always going to happen. It always has. And it doesn't bother me. I'm just fine knowing that I'm – we – are superior to all of them."

Mercedes grinned. "I know. What I meant is, I'm sorry for not knowing. You know. Ralph Lauren." Her brown eyes almost vanished completely as her face's eyes to teeth ratio was, in a second, overcome by a majority in the latter.

"Don't worry, you're not the only one, 'Cedes," Puck contributed before taking hold of her other arm. "I could never keep up with all this designer, label and fashion shit." Mercedes turned a slight shade of pink as she smiled at Puck. Ironic as it was, Kurt thought that this was probably one of the politest things that had ever come out of the footballer's mouth, even now.

Too preoccupied to even think about Kurt's bag that they had just successfully seized, Karofsky and Azimio ran, terrified, away from their team. Halfway down the corridor, they bumped into the lockers, one jock on either side in a simultaneous collision; the momentum of which caused them to bounce back into the centre of the hallway and right into each other's flailing arms. They clutched each other for a second, panting, before it dawned on them what exactly they were doing, and they jerked apart, squealing, ramming back and forth, into the lockers, all over the place. By this time, the whole school it seemed was in on the joke, and the pair was followed by cat calls and wolf whistles all the way down the rest of the corridor, before they finally collapsed against a wall, a comfortable distance from the football team and each other, sobbing silently.

"That's it, RUN AWAY LOVERBOYS. You don't want to be late for your appointment at SUPERCUTS!" And with that, Kurt re-linked arms with Mercedes and shot a high-five at Puck, before marching down the opposite side of the corridor, carefree nose held high in the air; a small, triumphant smile gracing his lips, as half of the school followed behind him, chanting his name. Unbeknownst to Kurt, the silent sobs down the corridor they just left intensified into pitiful wails of loss and despair.

XXXXXXXX

William - no, make that Sue McKinley High School

Sue's Office

Wednesday, 3.56pm

Dear Faithful Diary,

Loss and despair…that's what I like to see, I mean- Oh what poor, unfortunate - although bullying - jocks…I'll go down to check on them in a minute, but that's not so important right this instant. What are important are the vast implications of what I have just witnessed, because Lady Face proved something to me today. Not only is he as gay as a pink Dolce and Gabbana handbag full of rainbows and a variety of shapes and sizes of unicorn plushies stolen from Brittany's house by a gold and pink pick-up truck, but he is also shamelessly ruthless, bitchy, conniving…all the qualities required to bring down this school for good - I mean, bring down William Schuester's child-molesting curls for good. Of course, these events were only confirming my suspicions...I knew the lady had it in him all along, just look at the way he sits on a chair! It screams bitch! I could almost go as far as to say that today he put on a performance worthy of a young Sue Sylvester…almost. He sure as hell won one over those jocks, though, as kids say nowadays. I was right to assume that he is more of a bitch than that Quinn Fabray could ever be, and that's saying something. What's more, he showed up those gays in denial for what they really are…and that only makes me like him infinitely more; there really is far too much sneaky gay deception in this world.

Oh, and the addition of the hair joke right at the end, when the Neanderthals were in the middle of bawling their eyes out, to rub salt into the already excruciating wound? Beautiful.

Lady Face: 1

Neanderthals: 0

Yours Faithfully,

Sue Sylvester, the loyal child of Mother Theresa, Madonna, and God.

A/N: If you got down this far, thanks for reading :D I thought I'd leave it there for now. What do you think; should I continue?