And now, since I had nothing else to do, here's another chapter. (I apologize for the language you're about to read)
Disclaimer: I don't own the show, sadly *sniffle* (wipes away tear)
Chapter Two
Language
Year: 1972- when radios, old-style video games, and television were the only technological trends for teenagers.
"Principal's office, now!" The teacher scolded the dark-haired boy, pointing out the classroom door. The boy scowled and got up from his seat, walking toward the principal's office for swearing.
"Not my fault it slipped out," he muttered to himself. They were having a vocabulary review, and he had mispronounced the word "archaeologist", to which it sounded more like "archie-ologist". That's how the word should be said, anyway. The boy thought to himself. He always mispronounced words a lot, which got him ridiculed by the other kids, up until he cussed at them to shut up.
On his way to the principal's office, another boy- taller with blonde hair- walked by and pushed the boy into a locker. "Watch it, pipsqueak!" The blonde boy snapped.
"You watch it, $$$$$$$!" The boy called to the bully.
"A-hem," Came an adult voice. The boy turned around, only to see the principal standing behind him- arms crossed and glowering. "Come into my office, young man." The boy followed the principal into his office, head down. "Listen, son," The boy cringed. He hated it when someone- other than his dad- called him 'son'. "I know you've been having a tough time at school, but there's no reason to use such vulgar language."
"But it wasn't my fault, sir!" The boy argued. "Luther pushified- I mean, 'pushed' me into the lockers on purpose! I didn't mean to cussify! …Er, cuss, I mean." The boy sank low in his seat.
"I still see you've got that speech problem." The boy clenched his fists. He hated it when people said he had a "problem" with how he spoke. "Well, that's not the matter. What's the matter is your other speech problem. I'd like to hear less cursing from you."
Might as well tell me to be a mime. The boy thought, bitterly. The bell rang and they heard kids walking out of their classrooms to lunch.
The principal waved him to leave. "Go get some lunch, son. …And watch your mouth."
The boy walked out of the principal's office, only to encounter the class' stuck-up nerd, Myron Spensky, who took out a dictionary and held it up to the boy. "Can you tell what that word is?" Myron asked teasingly, pointing to the word 'pugnacious'.
The boy sneered at Myron. He always does this to get me mad… and in trouble. The boy thought. "I don't have time for this-" he said, but Myron stopped him.
"What's the matter? Afraid that you can't get it right?"
The boy clenched his fists and looked at the word. "Pugg-nacious," he said.
Myron sneered. "Wrong! The 'g' is silent, so it's pronounced pew-nacious." He cleared his throat, which meant he was about to brag. " 'Pugnacious: quarrelsome- inclined to fight or be aggressive.' …Say, that pretty much describes you!" He shut the book and walked away. "Don't worry about it, though. Just because you have bad pronunciation doesn't mean you're an ignoramus." Laughing, Myron walked away.
"Ignore- what?" The boy stood there for a moment, then walked out of the school and onto the playground. He didn't feel like eating. "I don't have bad pronouncitation." he said to himself, sitting on a swing. "I'm just different."
The boy sniffed, trying hard not to cry. Tough guys don't cry, that's what he always told himself, and that's what kept the other kids from ridiculing him more, but since there were no other kids around, he shed a few tears. He was tired of being made fun of for the way he spoke- for his mispronunciations, for cussing, for everything.
It's not like I'm a freak or anything, he thought. Besides, a bunch of people talk differently… heck, they even have their own language! That's when he got the idea. "I can make up my own vocabulary." he said, grinning triumphantly and walking back into the school. "And when people think they don't understand me now, wait until I have my own dictionary. I'll show 'em. I'll-"
BAM! The boy accidentally bumped into Luther, the bully. Huh, boy. Here we go. he thought as the bully picked him up by his shirt collar. "I don't think you heard me correctly earlier," Luther said, scowling. "Watch. Where. You're. Going!" He slammed the boy into the lockers, raising his fist to pound him. Some of the kids who just finished their lunches crowded around to see the action.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!" The crowd chanted, demanding to see Luther pile-drive the boy through the concrete floor.
"Let me go, you- you-" The boy growled, squirming. "You- you- you… ignorpotamus!"
The chanting died down, and Luther stared at the boy, questionably. "What did you call me?"
"An… ignorpotamus. Definition: Someone stupid. Like you."
"That does it!" Luther raised his fist again and punched the boy.
"Luther Johnson!" Their teacher cried angrily, startling the bully (along with the rest of the kids). "You're in big trouble! Come with me."
"B-b-but ma'am! He- he called me a-a-a-"
"Now!"
The bully lowered his head, following the teacher into the principal's office. The crowd of kids dispersed, except for one girl, who knelt beside the boy. "You'd better go to the nurse and get some ice on that." She said, referring to the boy's eye, which was swelling.
"Guess so…" The boy grunted, standing up.
"By the way… that word you called Luther? Where'd you come up with it?"
The boy shrugged. "I was going to call him something else, but that came out instead. I just made it up, I guess."
"That's cool. Do you make up other words?"
The boy eyed the girl, suspiciously. "Are you picking on me?"
"No, really. It sounds like you have a really cool vocabulary. Would you mind if I wrote down some of your words, including that 'ig-nor-potomas' one?"
The boy grinned. "Sure, why not?" Finally, someone who understood him! …Sort of.
"I'm Brenda, by the way. What's your name?"
The boy thought about it, then grinned wider. "You can call me… Puggsy."
6 years later… CD players still haven't been invented yet…
Puggsy's nickname stuck with him since fourth grade, and he never went by anything else from then on (Even his own parents called him by that name!). His vocabulary never changed either, only he barely cussed anymore. Though, other changes went on in his life. He had grown a couple feet (though he remained the shortest kid in his class), he had gotten his driver's license a couple months ago, his hair was longer (he tied it in a pony-tail, which was cool for guys to do back then) he was more muscular…
And he had stopped crying when he turned fourteen, altogether. That is why he didn't cry when kids teased him, anymore. That is why he didn't cry at funerals. That's why he didn't cry when he got hurt…
And that is why he didn't cry when Snake, the leader of a gang of muggers, punched him so hard in the gut that he keeled over, gasping for breath. "C'mon, Puggsy, you're a tough guy, aren't ya? Let us finish your initiation!" Snake teased, grabbing Puggsy by his shirt collar and yanking him back on his feet.
"Some… (cough cough) initiation…" Puggsy sputtered, only he pronounced initiation as 'ini-tee-ation'. Snake went in for another punch, but he blocked it and punched the gang leader in the jaw with a right hook, sending him sprawling backwards.
The rest of Snake's gang gasped, stunned at seeing their leader go down from just one punch. Snake stood up, glowering- but grinning- at Puggsy, who still had his fists raised in defense.
"That's some right hook you've got, man." Snake said, standing up. "It could come into good use during our boxing matches."
Puggsy grinned. "I figured so," he said. He knew all about Snake's late-night boxing matches: how they sold tickets to guys who were greedy for violence, how they set up fights in the old gym downtown, how they would often rig the fights so a certain fighter would win…
He loved boxing, nonetheless. It was the main sport he was good at. He went undefeated in almost every match, his right hook being his 'deadly weapon'. That's why he wanted to join Snake's gang, not to mug some poor guy for his cash, or for 'protection' of a gang, but for the sheer sport of fist-fighting.
"Good. Come to the old gym at 9 tomorrow night, and we'll see what more you've got." Snake said. "Until then…"
"I never saw you." Puggsy finished, knowing how much trouble Snake and his gang- let alone himself- would be in if anyone (namely the cops) knew about the gang's whereabouts. "Don't worry, Snake. You can trustify me."
"Good." Snake snapped his fingers. "Let's go, boys." On his command, the rest of the gang members dispersed, and Snake disappeared into the shadows of the night. The alley was quiet, with no sound except for a dog barking in the distance.
Puggsy left the alley and walked home, only to see that his mom, Barbara, was standing outside the front door, arms crossed and looking angry. Ah, geez, here we go again. Puggsy thought with a sigh. First she's going to glare at me and say…
"Where have you been?" Barbara asked her son, glaring at him (as he predicted). "I've been waiting all night for you!"
"I was just hanging around-" Puggsy began to lie.
"Doing what? Running into a brick wall?" His mom was referring to the black eye he had gotten from his brawl with Snake. She sighed, irritably. "You've been hanging around those trouble-makers again, haven't you?" Puggsy looked down, avoiding his mother's eyes. "That's it, isn't it? Puggsy, you know I don't want you hanging around with that kind of crowd!"
"Mom, it's not like I'm going to be mugging people, I just-" He stopped, seeing his mother's stern- and hurt- look. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand." He walked inside the house and upstairs to his room, sitting down on his bed and running his hand through his long, dark hair. The one thing he hated about joining Snake's gang was that it hurt his family.
His mom stood in his doorway, looking at her son, her eyes filled with sadness. "Pugs…" she said, using her abbreviation for his nickname. "I just don't want you to go down the wrong path and throw away your future to some gang of juvenile delinquents." She turned to walk away when he didn't answer. "Just… think about the choice you've made." And then she left.
Puggsy looked out the window at the city. Brooklyn shimmered with lights that night, and the stars glittered in the sky around the moon, which glowed brightly. The night was beautiful, and the district was alive on this warm evening…
But Puggsy felt dark, cold, and dead on the inside. He lied down in bed and sighed deeply. "Jumping ignorpotomases…" he muttered to himself (something he'd always say from time to time)/ Closing his eyes, he drifted off to a deep, dreamless sleep.
A/N: Once again, sorry about the language! …Oh, and the cussing, too! Please R/R.