Sorry, this chaper's painfully short.
--~~*~~--
Mr. Crocker sighed, wistfully turning over a pencil in his hand. He stared blankly down on the sheet of paper before him, lost in thought. The room was deathly silent, as all children were frantically trying to complete the pop quiz he'd assigned to them. The only sounds were the sharp, abrupt strokes of lead on paper, and the distant ticking of the clock.
"Let's see," the abnormally thin teacher muttered to himself, bringing the pencil he'd been fondling down to meet the paper, "How can I gain possession of Turner's shoes . . . without him realizing it?" Idly, he doodled a little sneaker in the corner. After a moment, he added his usual stick-figure fairy, its blank face poking out of the shoe. "Maybe," he mused softly to himself, "when he takes them off in the gym room . . ."
There was a short pause, his pencil hovering, prepared to sketch out his plans. But it abruptly faltered, his palm falling dejectedly to rest.
"No, no, that won't work," he reprimanded himself, "I need something more tactful. More subtle. More . . ." He cried out suddenly as a Scantron flickered across his line of view. Indignantly, he followed it up to the hand, then arm of the impudent child who dared disturb his thoughts.
"I'm finished with that quiz, Mr. Crocker!" A.J proclaimed proudly, a smug grin on his face, "I do believe I'm the first one. This gives you an advantage, as it is undoubtedly easier to grade a perfect test than --"
"Yeeesss, Mr. A.J. I am fully aware of your I.Q level, as well as your constant need to gain the compliments (and jealousy) of others. However," Crocker paused, rising to his full height and looming menacingly over the desk, "If you were as bright and observant as you claim, you would've realized that I am very OCCUPIED! At this moment, and would've then realized it'd be wise NOT TO DISTURB ME!" He glared angrily down at the boy, then sharply gestured to the class, "Please return to your seat and wait submissively for further instruction like the other students."
A.J reluctantly obeyed, scurrying to his desk feeling both insulted and afraid. Crocker glared after him until he was seated, then turned back to his sketch. He plucked up his pencil, one again prepared to scribble out his master plan. But still, no ideas came to mind.
He growled in frustration, glancing angrily over at Timmy. It was then he realized the boy was staring at him, sky-blue eyes glazed over, chin resting in his upturned palms. He blinked, bewildered.
"Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Turner?" he asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. Timmy grinned, unblinking.
"I love how you say 'Mr. Turner'," the boy drawled, his voice a drunken slur, a crooked smile on his face. Crocker became more than a little disturbed, and tried to ignore him.
'That suffocating rally must've taken more out of the kids than I imagined,' the teacher thought, shuffling idly through his doodles, stiff beneath Timmy's unfaltering gaze.
After a few minutes of this, Mr. Crocker was sure he was going to go insane. He wanted to scream at the strange, fairy-bearing child to STOP STARING AT HIM, but something always stilled his tongue. Just as he felt he might explode, the recess bell rang. He'd never heard a more joyous sound.
"Alright, class," he said, trying to keep his voice stern, "Go out and play your little games while I slave away failing your tests."
The students obeyed, spilling out of the room in a rush, trampling some fellow classmates underfoot. They poured down the halls in a pack, like a roaring river, their voices growing fainter as distance increased, until finally the room lapsed into silence.
Crocker sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "Finally, some time alone so I can gather my --"
"Oooo, we're . . . alone,"
The thin teacher sat up abruptly, almost tipping over his desk. Timmy still sat at his desk, grinning idiotically at him. Would it never end . . . ?
--~~*~~--
Once again, a terribly rushed ending. I'm sorry, guys. I need some inspiration for this. I have it planned out, but I'm having some troubles writing it. The first chapter was written right after I watched "Abra- Catastrophe", a good source of Fairly Odd inspiration. But now I've run dry. They need more Crocker-centric episodes, demmit.
--~~*~~--
Mr. Crocker sighed, wistfully turning over a pencil in his hand. He stared blankly down on the sheet of paper before him, lost in thought. The room was deathly silent, as all children were frantically trying to complete the pop quiz he'd assigned to them. The only sounds were the sharp, abrupt strokes of lead on paper, and the distant ticking of the clock.
"Let's see," the abnormally thin teacher muttered to himself, bringing the pencil he'd been fondling down to meet the paper, "How can I gain possession of Turner's shoes . . . without him realizing it?" Idly, he doodled a little sneaker in the corner. After a moment, he added his usual stick-figure fairy, its blank face poking out of the shoe. "Maybe," he mused softly to himself, "when he takes them off in the gym room . . ."
There was a short pause, his pencil hovering, prepared to sketch out his plans. But it abruptly faltered, his palm falling dejectedly to rest.
"No, no, that won't work," he reprimanded himself, "I need something more tactful. More subtle. More . . ." He cried out suddenly as a Scantron flickered across his line of view. Indignantly, he followed it up to the hand, then arm of the impudent child who dared disturb his thoughts.
"I'm finished with that quiz, Mr. Crocker!" A.J proclaimed proudly, a smug grin on his face, "I do believe I'm the first one. This gives you an advantage, as it is undoubtedly easier to grade a perfect test than --"
"Yeeesss, Mr. A.J. I am fully aware of your I.Q level, as well as your constant need to gain the compliments (and jealousy) of others. However," Crocker paused, rising to his full height and looming menacingly over the desk, "If you were as bright and observant as you claim, you would've realized that I am very OCCUPIED! At this moment, and would've then realized it'd be wise NOT TO DISTURB ME!" He glared angrily down at the boy, then sharply gestured to the class, "Please return to your seat and wait submissively for further instruction like the other students."
A.J reluctantly obeyed, scurrying to his desk feeling both insulted and afraid. Crocker glared after him until he was seated, then turned back to his sketch. He plucked up his pencil, one again prepared to scribble out his master plan. But still, no ideas came to mind.
He growled in frustration, glancing angrily over at Timmy. It was then he realized the boy was staring at him, sky-blue eyes glazed over, chin resting in his upturned palms. He blinked, bewildered.
"Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Turner?" he asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. Timmy grinned, unblinking.
"I love how you say 'Mr. Turner'," the boy drawled, his voice a drunken slur, a crooked smile on his face. Crocker became more than a little disturbed, and tried to ignore him.
'That suffocating rally must've taken more out of the kids than I imagined,' the teacher thought, shuffling idly through his doodles, stiff beneath Timmy's unfaltering gaze.
After a few minutes of this, Mr. Crocker was sure he was going to go insane. He wanted to scream at the strange, fairy-bearing child to STOP STARING AT HIM, but something always stilled his tongue. Just as he felt he might explode, the recess bell rang. He'd never heard a more joyous sound.
"Alright, class," he said, trying to keep his voice stern, "Go out and play your little games while I slave away failing your tests."
The students obeyed, spilling out of the room in a rush, trampling some fellow classmates underfoot. They poured down the halls in a pack, like a roaring river, their voices growing fainter as distance increased, until finally the room lapsed into silence.
Crocker sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "Finally, some time alone so I can gather my --"
"Oooo, we're . . . alone,"
The thin teacher sat up abruptly, almost tipping over his desk. Timmy still sat at his desk, grinning idiotically at him. Would it never end . . . ?
--~~*~~--
Once again, a terribly rushed ending. I'm sorry, guys. I need some inspiration for this. I have it planned out, but I'm having some troubles writing it. The first chapter was written right after I watched "Abra- Catastrophe", a good source of Fairly Odd inspiration. But now I've run dry. They need more Crocker-centric episodes, demmit.