Disclaimer: I don't own Smallville, but if I owned Stan, he would be on some serious medication.
Story Summary: Meet Stan, head of the Smallville High School Store. He's not that thrilled about meeting you.
Stan
If none of you have ever heard of me, I won't be surprised. It's not like I'm the most popular kid in Smallville High or anything. Nah, I'm just the poor sod who got stuck with running the school store and, trust me, it stinks. You'd think that running the school store would be something a student does by choice to pad their resume but it isn't. I live in a smalltown, 45,000 people and most of them are either in their 20s or late 60s. We still have only one high school, for Christ's sake. I run the school store because my homeroom teacher looked at me one day and said, "So, Stan want to run the school store?" I probably should have pretended to be a foreign exchange student or something but instead I just stared at him and said, "What?" And that's how I ended up occupying a small booth right outside the auditorium where people walk by, give the products a brief glance and then continue talking to their friends.
You think it's boring looking at the stuff, you should try working there. This is most defnitely not the school paper. People never come by to bring me stories or mention, "Hey, Stan, this is really popular with the students right now. You should stock it." I never get to go research ANYTHING. Mr. Thiessen goes to the closet supply room once a week (usually Mondays) and throws a couple trays at me like he's fending off wolves. Mondays are actually the brisk busines days if you can call it that. Half the people are still feeling slightly absent after what ever it was they did on the weekends and have therefore left nearly all their school supplies at home. A number two pencil can go a long way to convince your math teacher you are not hungover.
As for me? What do I spend my weekends doing? Well, let's just say I never saw an invitation to that Rave in the Cave. The fact that it rhymes only makes the insult more scathing. And the party by the lake? Yeah, dream on. I mean, I heard it was pretty lame and damn cold anyway, but still. I may be the guy who sells your school supplies but that doesn't mean I don't breath either.
The one time I actually got any attention at all was when Pete Ross did his expose on me and he didn't even bother to pretend to be interested in me or the store. Still, I have a grudging respect for his honesty. Most people never come out and say what they mean when they think it. I mean, if anyone actually does all the time, they're one of three things: 1. Completly stupid, 2. Brutally honest (you decide if they're the same thing or not) or infected with some sort of freaky flower that makes you lose all your inhibitions. Let's just say I wasn't one of the lucky ones, shall we?
I'd love to get my hands on that flower, man. Nobody'd know what hit them. I can already see the pencils that would be sticking out of people's back...er...you didn't hear that. In any case, everyone who assumes I'm deaf and dumb would learn I'm not the hard way. You don't even know the things I overhear from the other students standing in line. A certain female student in the 11th grade got knocked up by a certain jock and it looks like the fetus will be the only lasting reminder of their relationship. The newspaper staff seems to be undergoing a trial separation. The Banner Committee? Half of them went on strike. I imagine a war of the banners will be breaking out across Smallville anyday now. Lana better guard the Talon Marquee. And not just from the banner commitee. Even I'm tempted to start arranging the letters. Either that or I'm going to climb up there and take on a second career as a sniper. Don't worry about me, though. I'm not the only one in the town who is gripped by a maddening disire to dispose of most people I meet.
I mean, just think about it: town of 45,000. Number of high school students? 2,500 max. Number of deaths? Gotta be the highest per capita in the world. I mean, New York is safer and that's with all the black market cigarette shit they've got going on now. I bet even the number of pencils I've sold here in the last year is the highest per capita in the world. In fact, I'm sure it probably is. Clark Kent seems to be trying to set up his own side business. He probably buys at least 2 or 3 a week. I told him he could probably buy them in bulk from a wholesaler but he just gave me that frozen friendly look people give you when you give them unwanted advice. I'm sure I give the same look to every moron who tells me I should be selling felt tipped markers, too. Dumbasses.
I think they're going to stop giving me the permanent markers to sell, too, mostly because that weirdo Chad keeps buying them and sniffing them. He spent all of English with one of them practically shoved up his nose. I really wish I still had control over items after I sold them else I would have taken the pen back. Then again, why spare his brain cells? Most of them don't appear to be doing anything anyway. Why bother? Would it make my life one bit better? Absolutely not. I garun-fucking-tee you.
Alright, so now I've got you thinking I'm the world's most depressed person. Before I tell you how right you are, consider: every person gives off a sort of stress signal conveying how far they are from the place of their birth at any given time. I was born in the elevator of Smallville General Hospital. So compared to some people, I am not even emoting here. God, I hope they never get the same idea I had and start actually writing their shit down. I don't want to have to read that crap.
Story Summary: Meet Stan, head of the Smallville High School Store. He's not that thrilled about meeting you.
Stan
If none of you have ever heard of me, I won't be surprised. It's not like I'm the most popular kid in Smallville High or anything. Nah, I'm just the poor sod who got stuck with running the school store and, trust me, it stinks. You'd think that running the school store would be something a student does by choice to pad their resume but it isn't. I live in a smalltown, 45,000 people and most of them are either in their 20s or late 60s. We still have only one high school, for Christ's sake. I run the school store because my homeroom teacher looked at me one day and said, "So, Stan want to run the school store?" I probably should have pretended to be a foreign exchange student or something but instead I just stared at him and said, "What?" And that's how I ended up occupying a small booth right outside the auditorium where people walk by, give the products a brief glance and then continue talking to their friends.
You think it's boring looking at the stuff, you should try working there. This is most defnitely not the school paper. People never come by to bring me stories or mention, "Hey, Stan, this is really popular with the students right now. You should stock it." I never get to go research ANYTHING. Mr. Thiessen goes to the closet supply room once a week (usually Mondays) and throws a couple trays at me like he's fending off wolves. Mondays are actually the brisk busines days if you can call it that. Half the people are still feeling slightly absent after what ever it was they did on the weekends and have therefore left nearly all their school supplies at home. A number two pencil can go a long way to convince your math teacher you are not hungover.
As for me? What do I spend my weekends doing? Well, let's just say I never saw an invitation to that Rave in the Cave. The fact that it rhymes only makes the insult more scathing. And the party by the lake? Yeah, dream on. I mean, I heard it was pretty lame and damn cold anyway, but still. I may be the guy who sells your school supplies but that doesn't mean I don't breath either.
The one time I actually got any attention at all was when Pete Ross did his expose on me and he didn't even bother to pretend to be interested in me or the store. Still, I have a grudging respect for his honesty. Most people never come out and say what they mean when they think it. I mean, if anyone actually does all the time, they're one of three things: 1. Completly stupid, 2. Brutally honest (you decide if they're the same thing or not) or infected with some sort of freaky flower that makes you lose all your inhibitions. Let's just say I wasn't one of the lucky ones, shall we?
I'd love to get my hands on that flower, man. Nobody'd know what hit them. I can already see the pencils that would be sticking out of people's back...er...you didn't hear that. In any case, everyone who assumes I'm deaf and dumb would learn I'm not the hard way. You don't even know the things I overhear from the other students standing in line. A certain female student in the 11th grade got knocked up by a certain jock and it looks like the fetus will be the only lasting reminder of their relationship. The newspaper staff seems to be undergoing a trial separation. The Banner Committee? Half of them went on strike. I imagine a war of the banners will be breaking out across Smallville anyday now. Lana better guard the Talon Marquee. And not just from the banner commitee. Even I'm tempted to start arranging the letters. Either that or I'm going to climb up there and take on a second career as a sniper. Don't worry about me, though. I'm not the only one in the town who is gripped by a maddening disire to dispose of most people I meet.
I mean, just think about it: town of 45,000. Number of high school students? 2,500 max. Number of deaths? Gotta be the highest per capita in the world. I mean, New York is safer and that's with all the black market cigarette shit they've got going on now. I bet even the number of pencils I've sold here in the last year is the highest per capita in the world. In fact, I'm sure it probably is. Clark Kent seems to be trying to set up his own side business. He probably buys at least 2 or 3 a week. I told him he could probably buy them in bulk from a wholesaler but he just gave me that frozen friendly look people give you when you give them unwanted advice. I'm sure I give the same look to every moron who tells me I should be selling felt tipped markers, too. Dumbasses.
I think they're going to stop giving me the permanent markers to sell, too, mostly because that weirdo Chad keeps buying them and sniffing them. He spent all of English with one of them practically shoved up his nose. I really wish I still had control over items after I sold them else I would have taken the pen back. Then again, why spare his brain cells? Most of them don't appear to be doing anything anyway. Why bother? Would it make my life one bit better? Absolutely not. I garun-fucking-tee you.
Alright, so now I've got you thinking I'm the world's most depressed person. Before I tell you how right you are, consider: every person gives off a sort of stress signal conveying how far they are from the place of their birth at any given time. I was born in the elevator of Smallville General Hospital. So compared to some people, I am not even emoting here. God, I hope they never get the same idea I had and start actually writing their shit down. I don't want to have to read that crap.