Pat, a mid-teen rebel with a heart of coals and long, flowing red hair like the fiery tassels on Lucifer’s Schwinn—Pat, Mr. “I couldn’t give two shits but I’ll gladly donate one,” the bearer of an attitude so south even the penguins are flapping in angst—Pat, boy genius with an IQ so high it’s measured in scientific notation—Pat, a boy beyond repair like an old KIA past its 10-year, 100,000 mile power train warranty….

Pat performed the daily rituals of any school boy his age: he woke up mornings, dressed, ate, schooled, ate, schooled some more. But at this juncture during the day i.e. the time between closing bell at the textbook suppository and slumber of the twin mattress variety, an astute observer would notice the difference between boy genius (slight reprise) Pat and a boy of comparable age and socio-economic composition. After the school day had been sufficiently killed off by the greedy hands of three-thirty PM, Pat would wave good byes, no—great byes to his “friends” of the school yard and mosey on to the library to begin the day’s mischief. Like a professional thief in the larceny department at J.C. Take-a-Penny Never Give-a-Penny, Pat would begin to salivate at the sight of the volumes and volumes of unadulterated literary gold.

Pat, the anti-establishment-fuck-everything-and-everyone-I’m-a-pretentious-ass-smart-ass-so-kiss-my-brilliant-ass boy genius, would walk into the libraratory with his reading glasses in one hand and a vacuum from a clenched fist in the other, armed with an open mind (the most dangerous kind) and he would rape the card catalogues, pillage the tall metallic shelves and sodomize the leather bounds, extract their sweet juices. Dickens, Poe, Hemmingway, Hawthorne—none would be safe from Pat’s greedy eyes. Their ideas would make him stronger, make him smarter, make him more dangerous. More ideas mean more potential for mischief. The other boys play outside. They are the unwashed masses, hoarded out to the playground like blond haired, blue eyed cattle. They pose no threat. The aged hegemony feels safe under a blanket of ignorance. So Pat must be stopped. He is a rebel without a pause; he will never stop feeding his mind’s gluttony.

Pat, boy genius, doctor of knowledge with a masters in mischief, a teenager misunderstood and shunned—Pat, a boy who would one day take over the world with one flip of his imagination, and if there’s time, a flip of his middle finger because he still remains a mid-teen devil with a mind of barracudas and long, flowing discourse like the word of God on top Mount Sinai.

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