It was one of those days that made a person second-guess whether they should have woken up in the morning.

For starters, the heavy, grey, and pendulous clouds heralding an overcast day, clashed horrifically with the cheerful array of songs blasting over the PA system to wake the children up. And much like the rest of the boys in the cabin, Curly had all the hustle of a snail when it came to rising himself from slumber to greet the day and all it held for him and his camp mates. A menu related mishap meant that the homemade Sausage and Egg Breakfast Burritos was postponed for next week (resulting in back-to-back cold cereal and toast days with PBnJs for those who asked), and the next three Friday night 'Coping by the Campfire' sessions had to be cancelled because a mother bear with three cubs had been seen foraging and lurking dangerously close to the camp grounds.

As far as Curly was concerned, these recent developments were only sprinkles on the sundae of suck that was the Warhol Program. With a rueful, steel-withering stare across the mess hall, the boy with the bowl cut listlessly nibbled at his firmed and buttery bread slice as he leaned against the wall and listened to the deluge of precipitation falling from outside.

"Can this day get any worse?" Curly mumbled to himself.

Suddenly the sound of rhythmic drumming filled the mess hall. Each pounding sound of palm on table top further tested the boy's already strained patience as he looked down and saw that in getting comfortable, his elbows had touched the table; apparently a major no-no as dictated by one of the senior counselors. Adding gasoline to the proverbial fire was the insipid song to follow, sung to the tune of 'If You're Happy and You Know it, Clap Your Hands.'

"Oh I just had to ask, didn't I?" He groaned.

"Get your elbows off the table Miss Corrine. Get your elbows off the table Miss Corrine. Well we've seen it once or twice, and it isn't very nice so get your elbows off the table Miss Corrine. Stand up. Stand up and sing a song. Stand up stand up and sing a song. We want a song now! We want a song now! WE WANT A SONG NOW!"

Miss Corrine stands atop her chair, surveying the rest of the campers and counselors of the Warhol Program. Between an attire of knee-high overalls stained with paint and a long-sleeved rainbow-colored t-shirt; an easy, earnest, and toothy grin; and a round guileless face was framed by a cascading river of long dark brown hair which was parted down the middle; her appearance bought to mind a free-spirited girl next door type of young woman. Someone who looked like an ingénue elementary school art teacher, or a baby sitter on some American television teen drama. With a sigh of relief that he had not been called out, the Gammelthorpe lad sat upright gripped with both schadenfreude and curiosity; as much as a thrill ran down his spine over seeing an authority figure momentarily in the hot seat. The question still burned just as intensely…why had he not seen this Miss Corrine before?

But when she finished tapping on her upper thigh and began to sing, whatever seemingly pacific aura Miss Corrine exuded shattered irreparably with her song choice.

I HAD HIM!

A collective shudder fills the mess hall, Curly included. Relishing in how she commanded the attention of all around her at the moment, Corrine continues to sing her song.

His throat was bare beneath my hand.
NO! I HAD HIM! His throat was there and he'll never come again.
(Easy now. Hush love hush. I keep telling you...)WHEN? (What's your rush?)
Why did I WAIT?! You told me to WAIT! Now he'll never come again.

There's a hole in the world like a great black pit
And it's worth much less than a pig could spit.
'Cause the vermin of the world inhabit it.
But not for looooooonnnnnng.
They all deserve to die.
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.

Because in all of the whole human race, Mrs. Lovett,
There are two kinds of men and only two.
There's the one who stays put in his proper place
And the one with his foot in the other one's face.
Look at me, Mrs. Lovett, look at you.
Though we all deserve to die. Even YOU, Mrs. Lovett, even I. Because the lives of the wicked should be, made brief.
For the rest of us death will be a relief.
We all deserve to die. And I'll never see Johanna,
No I'll never hug my girl to me.
FINISHED!

Taking advantage of the pregnant pause, Miss Corrine steps down from her seat and moves her chair to the back of the room. From Curly's vantage point, her hair seemed to sway luxuriously with each step she took. Once the chair is set down, she takes a plastic knife off the front table where the utensils and plates are placed and began to menacingly prance around/between the tables as she performed the second portion of her song.

ALRIGHT! You sir! How about a shave?
Come and visit your good friend Sweeney!
You sir, too sir. Welcome to the grave.
I will have vengeance.
I will have salvation.

Who sir? You sir?
No one's in the chair. Come on come on.
Sweeney's waiting.
I want you bleeders.
You sir, ANYBODY
Come on, gentlemen now don't be shy.
Not one man. No, nor ten men. Nor a hundred can assuage me.
I will HAVE! YOU!

And I will get him back, even as he gloats.
In the meantime I'll practice on less honorable throats.

Miss Corrine falls to her knees as she dramatically belts the last of her song.

And my Lucy lies in ashes and I'll never see my girl again. But the WORK! WAITS!
I'm alive at last

AND!

I'M!

FULL!

OF!

JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!

The canteen is silent, save for Miss Corrine's rapid breathing in the wake of the performance she had given; and the cherry on top was how quickly she returned to normal once her time in the spotlight came to a close. With a final deep breath, she rose herself, grabbed her chair and returned to the half-eaten slice of toast resting on her plate as if the last few minutes never happened.

Silence filled the eatery for the remainder of breakfast, broken only by a few scattered and hesitant applauses (given not out of admiration but more out of not knowing how else to fill the vacuum of taciturnity). But as the rest of the campers and counselors found themselves stumbling about while processing the awkward aftermath of what they had just witnessed, Curly found himself just as weakened and bereft of speech as the rest-albeit with admiration over her display of brashness. Looking down and clutching at his abdomen, he could feel something swan-dive and then dissipate into a warm sensation of tremoring in that region…

…one that before now only came about when faced with vengeance, licorice whips, and (in jest) Rhonda Wellington Lloyd.