Author's Note:
I just don't know, you guys. If you've seen my FFN page, then you know that the rest of my stories are on hiatus. Also, it's idiots like Anonymous Eccentric that keep annoying me. Also Anonymous, if you're reading this, let me ask you a question: if you're just going to criticize my stories in a mean way, why review? Also, notice once you review one of my stories and I tell you to back off, you don't review that same story again. What's up with that? Are you too scared to try to come back and submit another review again for the same story? What's the matter, cat got your tongue? Or, you don't believe in submitting two reviews for one story.
But I can't just beat up on Anonymous Eccentric all chapter long. I suppose I can make a small exception to make another chapter, but just this once. Until I'm done with Quigley's Quest, no more chapters for this or another story. So here it is.
In detention, it was filthy. Dried spitballs hung from the ceilings, and some kids were even chained to their desks.
One boy with brown hair smiled at Carmelita. "Hey," he said.
She ignored him and started to draw a picture of VP Nero chained to a wall while the National Dodge-Ball Team hurled dodge-balls at him. He screamed mercilessly.
"Nice picture," he said, peering over her shoulder. She elbowed him in the face.
"Ow!" he said, getting a tissue for his bloody nose. "Whaddya do that for?" "Leave me alone, pot-licker," she said.
The detention teacher glared at Carmelita Spats. "Carmelita Jacqueline Spats!" he cried. "No name-calling."
"No name-calling," she mumbled. Then she continued her raw sketch.
The boy took her drawing and stared at it. "Give me that back, four-eyes!" she cried. "What's the magic words?" he asked sassily.
"'Black eye' if you don't give me that back!" she said, whipping it out of his hands.
When she finally got a good look at the detention room, human skeletons were still chained to seats, kids who were given millions of write offs had no hands, and a Lebanese leather whip was on the detention teacher's table.
All of a sudden, the detention teacher, Mr. Morris, yelled, "Mort, up here! Now!"
Everyone gasped. Mort, a short boy with shaggy brown hair and a faded green shirt stepped up to Mr. Morris's desk.
He took Mort's hands and chained them to a wall. "What's happening?" Carmelita asked a girl with a headgear.
"See that whip on the teacher's desk?" asked the girl, rubbing her retainer.
"No…" Carmelita was stunned. "Yes," the girl said.
Mr. Morris took the whip and whipped Mort several times, until the shirt was torn and bloody.
Mort was unconscious.
Mr. Morris washed his hands and said, "Well, he deserved it."
"That's child abuse!" Carmelita cried, standing up. "You could be sent to prison! What kind of idiots does VP Nero have hired on staff, anyway?"
"Write-offs!" he yelled. Carmelita was forced to do write-offs until her hands were sore and her fingers swollen.
"Class dismissed," he finally said at three fifteen.