"Wake up."

Kevin Full rolled over and opened his bloodshot green eyes and stared at the fuzzy image of the person talking.

"Come on, man. Wake up."

Kevin groaned, an odd sounding noise that was almost, but not quite, similar to a word that you could probably be spelled "rrrrrurglemuphinth." He rolled onto his back, knocking over an empty glass bottle and causing the sound of crumpling paper to become audible.

"Shit, man," urged the other person. "Get your ass up."

Kevin sat up and blinked back his drowsiness. In his mouth, he tasted the night-after taste of alcohol and grimaced. His head throbbed painfully with his pulse like a glowing neon sign reading "drink at Joe's," and for some odd reason, he couldn't feel his right arm. Looking around him, he saw that he was lying on newspaper, and the bottle he had knocked over had a half-torn label reading "Vod."

"Oh, man," he groaned. "What the hell?"

"What the hell what?" asked Kevin's friend. He grabbed Kevin's hand and pulled him to his feet.

"What the ? Day is it?" stammered Kevin, trying to make words form with his dry tongue.

"It -forty in the morning."

"What?" snapped Kevin. "Then why the hell did you wake me up?"

The other young man presented a typed paper to Kevin, titled 'Human Limitations.' "This," he explained slowly, "is your college term paper."

Kevin nodded. "So it it is."

"And today is the fifth of June..."

Kevin blinked twice.

".the date your paper is due."

Kevin bit his bottom lip and clenched his eyes shut, silently condemning himself.

His friend crossed his arms. "Come on .say something."

"Rrrrurglemuphinth."

***

The speakers inside the small room blared loudly. Anything less than three pounds was most likely bouncing on the nearest surface in rhythm with the music due to the obscenely high amount of bass, and anyone who dared enter the room had better have tied their shoes tightly or at least have prepared to depart with their soles.

Inside, nineteen-year-old Nick Viola was just rousing from sleep. He smiled a cheerful grin and sat up in his bed. Outside his black curtain- clad window, crows crowed merrily in a dead tree. He ran a hand through his black hair and reached for the small pipe next to his bed.

"Turn that crap down!" yelled a voice from the next room.

Nick smiled, then picked up the remote to his stereo, and raised the volume as far as was possible. He then traded in the remote for a red cigarette lighter, which he used to ignite the green , vegetable-like substance inside the bowl of the pipe. Holding the mouthpiece of the pipe to his mouth, he inhaled deeply and lied back down, smiling dreamily.

"I SAID, turn that crap DOWN!!" yelled the voice, more insistently than last time.

Nick got up, walked to his stereo, and opened the CD player. The silence was brief and eerie as he placed another CD inside, this one brandishing an image of mass graves on a black background. Hitting play, he sat back down to enjoy the results.

Almost immediately, the heaviest of drums and guitars began to blast, and a voice in the background shrieked something akin to "Satan is your lord and demands a sacrifice of goat blood and Twinkie squeezin's," bringing the noise to a grand noise level of about three-hundred decibels.

"THAT'S IT!!" shouted the voice from the room next door. It was followed by the sound of a door swinging open, footsteps down the hallway, and the doorknob to Nick's room being turned frantically in an unsuccessful attempt to gain access. Nick smiled and patted the three deadbolts and giant padlock on his door lovingly.

"OPEN THIS DOOR!" screamed the owner of the voice, who sounded both big and strong. Nick walked to his closet and began to rummage through his large selection of clothes.

"Decisions, decisions," he muttered to himself, pulling out a black shirt, replacing it, and removing another black shirt. Shaking his head, he placed it back in the closet and removed yet another black shirt, which he looked over and then nodded approvingly at.

A violent 'thump,' not heard by Nick due to the loud music, sounded at the door.

"Now," pondered Nick, "what pants shall I wear? The black the black cargo pants?"

Another similar 'thump' sounded, and the door shook slightly. This again went unheeded.

"Hey, I didn't know that my black corduroy pants were clean," said Nick, taking the pants off the hangar. He pulled them on over black boxers and went off in search of black socks.

Thump! Shake.

Nick sat at the edge of his bed, lacing up his knee-high black boots. Tying large, loopy double knots, he moved over to his dresser and picked up his black eye-makeup and began his 'morning beautification' mockery.

The next 'thump,' however, didn't just slightly rattle the door in it's frame; this was no doubt because this one was not inflicted by a large human fist as the others were, but instead with a large sledgehammer that was in the hall closet, a very useful leftover of some previous construction. Nick's head swiveled quickly to the door just in time to see the first splinters fly onto his bed. He bit his tongue.

The sledgehammer hit again and again, and soon, the person outside had successfully removed enough of the door to enter the room.

Nick began to sweat. "Hello, Mom," he said meekly, blinking black eyelashes. "I'm sorry, did I wake you up?"

Mrs. Viola breathed heavily, holding the sledgehammer menacingly. "Yeah, your music is just a tad too loud," she said quietly.

Nick gulped.

***

Camerin Curry sat in class with her friend Ashleigh Gomez, happily discussing the high-points of being a saloon girl in the Old West, when the esteemed college professor entered the classroom.

"Hello, class," said the professor, placing his briefcase on the desk and unlocking the locks.

"Hello, Professor Koritzke," droned the class obediently.

"Today," he began, "we will be talking about money." He drew a large dollar sign on the board, circled it many times, and drew a few hearts around it.

"Well, this IS economics class," pointed out Camerin. "It is customary to talk about money in such a class."

Professor Koritzke glared at the young blond female, an icy cold glare that could melt ice, crumble stone, and make paper burst into flames. "Miss Curry," he said venomously, "I will not tolerate anyone making fun of my class when the topic is money. Understood?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir." Beside her, Ashleigh tried whole- heartedly to hold in her laughter.

"Thank you," he said, smiling triumphantly. "The same rings true for you, Miss Gomez," he added, shooting her the similar glare.

Ashleigh's face turned a shade of red that was only slightly unlike that of her hair.

"Now," began the educator, "other than the fact that it is perhaps the most beautiful thing on the planet, has a completely perfect shade of green coloring it, and can give you an unlimited supply of happiness and power, why is money good?"

"You're drooling, sir," said Ashleigh, pointing to Koritzke's bottom lip.

He wiped away the saliva with a green handkerchief. "Anyone? Anyone at all?"

A single hand amidst the class rose.

"Yes, Mister Pawa?"

Rahul Pawa wet his lips and spoke in a tone that was not entirely confident. " you something to work for?"

Koritzke considered this for a moment. "Well, Mister Pawa, it's a reasonable answer, but it's completely wrong, of course." He turned to the board and drew a picture of a towering stick figure holding a bag with a dollar sign on it towering over a crudely-drawn planet Earth. "You see, when you have money, you don't need to work, so, you're contradicting yourself."

Rahul's brow wrinkled. " need to work to get that initial money, so you are contradicting yourself."

"Mister Pawa, gather your things and leave."

Rahul was taken aback. "But I -"

"You are the weakest link," finished the professor. "Goodbye."

Ashleigh Gomez could not conceal her laughter; a fit of giggles overcame her and she laughed hysterically at the cliché.

"Miss Gomez, you will join him," said the professor, staring angrily at her.

Camerin spoke up. "You can't do that! That's not fair!"

"You too, Miss Curry."

The three, staring in amazement, bewilderment, and utter shock at the adult, gathered their stuff and headed for the door.

"Oh, and remember." began to teacher.

The paused and turned, un-approving looks on their faces.

"The midterm is next week. There will be the usual ten dollar admittance fee."

Rolling their eyes, they exited the class.

***