Archive Mutants & Masterminds: Future Imperfect - School Haze

[Tim Wiley]

This guy is such a pompous ass, Tim thought over the droning of professor Pluchick. The Russian philosophy professor went on and on about the moral tenents of Relativism vs Objectivism. While interested in both concepts, Tim felt he was far beyond what this ass-hat professor had to offer him. He realized long ago that he was smarter than his instructors and all he had to do was look like he was paying attention. It was always harder than it seemed. Boredom waited for him at every lecture and, most of the time, Tim felt it was impossible to remain conscious. Please God, make this class end! Tim pleaded to whatever gods would answer his call. It was a futile request. The pseudo-intellectual ass-tard would not shut his wrinkled, pie hole.

When class finally ended, Tim felt a wave of relief. The small diagrams and arrows, still on the board, were comitted to memory with a brief glance. School was just that easy. He finished all the books for his classes in the first two nights, with perfect memory retention. Once that was done, he could recall specific passages and diagrams at any time. There was very little that the professors could add. It was 'Higher education': mutant style. With a yawn, he lazily extricated himself from his seat and headed out into the hallway. His hands began to search for the pack of cigaretts. Tim always craved a smoke after Dr. Pluchik's class.

As he walked outside, he was beseiged by his fellow classmates. Like they did before every midterm; they invited him to join their study group. Tim could read their intentions: he was to be used to help them get better grades. There was no interest by them to extend any sort of friendship towards him. Fucking posers! Most of the time, he turned them down for that very reason. He did not wish to be used. They wanted him to help them, they had better pay for his time. It was not his fault that they struggled.

"We are having a study session tomorrow night." a freckly-faced sorority girl smiled at him, feigning interest in him. "You want to join us?"

"I have a paper I need to write." he lied. "Professor Daniels asked me to present a synopsis of the Mexican-American war." In reality, he was going to watch television.

The girl shrugged her shoulders, giving away her genuine disinteret in Tim while attempting a farcical smile. "Ok, Tim. See you on Wednesday at the midterm. Good luck!"

"You too." Tim said, smiling back. Go blow some frat boys' cocks, you stupid sorority whore. His hostility extended to all things 'Greek' at UNLV. The frats and sororities were nothing more than an excuse for idiots to make themselves think they were actually worth something. The sad part was that one of them would probably end up being his boss.

After the gaggle of sell-outs moved away from him, he lit up his cigarette. There, he sought the solace of the UNLV quad, where non-native grass was artificially kept alive with imported water. It was another example of stupidity; wasting time and energy keeping grass alive where it would never exist on its own. He took solace in the fact that the grass, as a non-native species, would die out on its own. Still, the grass was a welcome respite after the long boring class and subsequent accosting by the clueless class. He fell into a deep sleep under the November sun.

When he awoke, much of the afternoon had vanished along with his regularly scheduled trip through the inane halls of Cultural Anthropology. it had ended over an hour ago. Groggily, he clambered to his feet and headed off to his car to go home. He knew that all he had missed, was little more than simplistic prattle by another professor.

Click to reveal..

ST-Edit: XP rewarded on Mar, 12th 2009 for this part

[Tim Wiley]

Another day at the glorious, esteemed, University of Nevada-Las Vegas. The sarcasm was thick and the humor nonexistent. He sat in a darkened lecture hall with 60 other students staring at a computer projection on the screen. It was the 'Death by Powerpoint' statistics class that he loathed. Of all his classes, this one was by an infitessimal gulf, the worst. The instructor was a third rate doctoral student who spent as much time teaching the material as he did making some snide political analogy with the statistical material on the screen. How does some hack like this even get this far in academia? The question answered itself: it was academia. One of the most insular places on the planet.

As the mid 20's ass-hat went on about something completely unrelated to the material, Tim's attention drifted elsewhere. Near him were two giggling young women; Jasmine and Kaitlyn, if he remembered correctly, and they were intently and rapidly texting eachother. Why they wasted the energy and time to do it, when they were sitting next to eachother, was proof to Tim that universities had lowered their standards so that any idiot could get in. His only solace? Both girls were failing the class. He had to suppress a smile.

On his other side, was a serious looking older woman: Irene. She never spoke and always seemed to take copious notes. She was a nursing student and was one of the few A students in the class. Tim noticed that she would bristle everytime their instructor- 'Mr. Halitosis'- got off topic and moved into a political realm. At least someone around here has some brains.

Mr. Halitosis was the name Tim gave to their instructor because the man's breath was so rank and repelling that a person could tolerate only brief moments in its presence. It was akin to standing in front of an open sewer; A vomiferous, sour, fecal and fetid olifactory assault that left one reeling. All you wanted to do was get out of the line of fire. Tim wondered if the guy even knew his breath was that bad. Did the guy even go to the dentist? Did the dentist even survive the assault? Once, Tim had the unhappy experience of entering the instructor's office. The odor was think and had a life of its own; tendrils of the noxious gas wormed their way into every open orifice and fiber on your body. Tim made an immediate 180 to save himself from retching. Afterwards, he spent several hours trying to remove the stench from his clothing and sinuses. How some of the students could tolerate spending more than a few seconds in his office, was beyond all comprehension. Tim postulated they had to traquilize themselves before undertaking such a feat.

As the man's breath odor began to displace the normal air in the classroom, Tim begged for release from this hell. Even the two girls near him had noticed the animal that assailed their nostrils. Their giggling stopped and they stared open-mouthed at the other students around them. They saw simlar expressions on the faces of their classmates. Even Tim felt sorry for them- barely. Blessedly, the class ended and the exodus from the gas chamber into the sweet, fresh air of Las Vegas began.

[Tim Wiley]

Being a hyper-intelligent mutant in college should automatically mean good grades. It was not so for Tim; he knew that if he was discovered to be a mutant, his fellow students, faculty and administrators, not to mention the authorities would treat him like a leper..or worse. He would end up in the MIC. So in order for him to hide in the confines of UNLV, he had to maintain the illusion that he was an overworked B student.

"Pheth!" Tim muttered as the classroom emptied. It was another dry lecture by Dr. Pluchick and Tim's head was going to explode from boredom. All Tim wanted to do now was grab a beer and sit in front of the TV. A difficult task on a college campus during the daytime, as he had competition for the TV. If he didn't hurry, the usual pack of screeching harpies would turn on 'Day's of Our Lives'. Even if he did, their relentless barrages of 'majority rules' and 'we watch it here everyday' would make the experience highly unpleasant. The irony was that outside the TV room, the women would screech 'equal representation' while inside the room, where tim was the lone minority, they then claimed 'proportinal representation'. Hypocrites. It became a game to Tim, where he enjoyed tossing their hypocrasy into their faces. It drove the group of young black women into apoplexy.

Sweet! He beat them into the room. He laughed to himself, as he envisioned the fat-ass bitches doing their best to run to the student union. If they spent as much time exercising as they did doing their hair and nails, thew wouldn't be future poster-children for the Diabetic Society of North America. Tim was actually doing them a favor by making them hurry. They got some excercise.

I win again you pathetic blobs! Tim smiled as he saw the girls stop short of the door and scowl at him through the plate glass window. One of these days, thought Tim, they were going to toss him through that window.