I wake up in the morning with a fresh new tense and no inner turmoil to argue with. So, you know, that’s cool and good. The smell of a fresh bag of Bugles drifts into my little dungeon so I go upstairs and see Dad R. R. Martin sitting at the kitchen table. He has a bag of Bugles and a copy of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. “Fucking kill skinned-knee D, that fucking asshole” he grumbles to himself.
“You’re eating Bugles for breakfast?” I ask genuinely curious.
“Bugles are my entire world,” he says back. I reach for the bag to grab myself a handful but he slaps my hand. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Trying to get some breakfast, I guess?”
“If you reach for my Bugles one more time I’ll write you into my book and fucking kill you. I swear to fucking god I will.”
“Well, what am I supposed to eat then?”
“Knowledge. Go to school.”
So I go to school and run into my best friend, Mickey. “Hi, Mickey,” I say as he approaches me at my locker.
“You seem different. Wendy, what went wrong?” he responds.
“What do you mean?”
“That inner voice you argue with is gone!”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you’re not as insufferable to be around. Plus, I just get you.”
“Get me what?”
“Stop asking questions all the time.”
The bell rings and we realize we’re late for English class. “Who do you think our new teacher is?”
“What’s with all the questions today? Is that what your character has turned into?”
Entering the classroom we see our new teacher, ripe with a dumb hat, a big, dumb nose, a beard that’s bushy and gray and dumb, and glasses that are big and dumb too. The bag of Bugles in his hand does look rather delicious though. It’s none other than Dad R. R. Martin. He notices me and immediately turns his bag of Bugles away from me. All I want is some Bugles. I’m hungry. I never got breakfast.
The class pours in and Dad R. R. Martin starts his lesson off. “I’m sure the question on all of your minds is what happened to your old teacher, Mrs. Unimportant. I fucking wrote her in my book and fucking killed her. Moving on, I want you all to call me Teacher R. R. Martin. Except you, Wendy,” he looks right at me, “you still call me Dad R. R. Martin. Next, write love poems about God’s fruit, Bugles. Go. Or else I write you all into my book and fucking kill you all.” A couple of kids I don’t like being around seem pretty excited at that last possibility, but they’re annoying about their fandom so I don’t really care about them.
We all write our poems and Dad R. R. Martin collects them to read outloud to the class. “ First off, this one’s by Anne Im.
Amazing, so good
I love your saltiness so
Never change yourself
YOU ARE READING
Dad R. R. Martin
Non-FictionWendy gets adopted by George R. R. Martin who is also her new English teacher.
