Cesspool

Cesspool

A Novel

By

Phil M. Williams

Contents

• Chapter 1: White Slaves Get Sunburnt
  
• Chapter 2: WOD
  
• Chapter 3: Guest
  
• Chapter 4: Dr. Dicks
  
• Chapter 5: Protect and Serve
  
• Chapter 6: The Girl Next Door
  
• Chapter 7: Pie in the Sky
  
• Chapter 8: Help Wanted
  
• Chapter 9: Detect, Barricade, and Evade
  
• Chapter 10: Payback
  
• Chapter 11: Reckoning
  
• Chapter 12: Into the Slurry
  
• Chapter 13: Information Is Power
  
• Chapter 14: Preparation
  
• Chapter 15: If You Ain't First, You're Last
  
• Chapter 16: Chucky
  
• Chapter 17: I Love YouTube
  
• Chapter 18: A Tangled Web
  
• Chapter 19: Melty Chocolate Chips
  
• Chapter 20: Take a Bite out of Crime
  
• Chapter 21: Time to Go
  
• Chapter 22: Exodus
  
• Chapter 23: 48 Hours Mystery
  
• Chapter 24: Math and History
  

Dear Reader,

If you’re interested in receiving my new book releases for free, go to the following link:
www.PhilWBooks.com
. You’re probably thinking,
what’s the catch?
There is no catch. I hope you enjoy the book!

Sincerely,

Phil M. Williams

Chapter 1: White Slaves Get Sunburnt

Chapter 1

White Slaves Get Sunburnt

James Fisher sat at the dining room table, his laptop open. His coffee steamed within reach of his pasty arms. He grabbed the mug, took a sip, and scanned the headlines on the screen.

He moved the cursor over the Ponzified Pensions in Pennsylvania link and clicked it. He scanned the graphs and quotes from officials, grappling with the unforgiving nature of mathematics.
Coming soon to a state near you
. He heard quick steps down the wooden stairs. The first floor of his home was open, with no dividing wall between the kitchen and the living room. He turned toward the kitchen, where the stainless steel appliances glistened in the morning light. A small round table for two sat against the bay window.

Lori’s sneakers squeaked as she rushed into the kitchen, her keys in hand and an Adidas bag slung over her shoulder. Her straight brown hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. Her nylon jacket was unzipped to chest level, showing her ample cleavage held together by two sports bras.

She opened the fridge and removed a bottle with greenish liquid. James stood with a groan and trudged across the hardwood to the kitchen. She shook the bottle, avoiding his gaze. Lori rifled through a drawer, grabbing an energy bar and dropping her keys in the process.

“Damn it,” she said as she bent over and snatched her keys from the tile.

James saw the outline of her labia through her yoga pants.
The guys at that stupid-ass gym see her vagina more than I do
.

“Won’t you be cold?” James asked.

She rolled her eyes. “The box gets pretty hot.”

“Why can’t you guys just call it a gym?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said as she unzipped the side pocket of her bag and shoved the energy bar inside.

“Maybe you could wear regular shorts and a T-shirt. That would be comfortable.”

She glared at James. “This is what everyone wears now.”

“It’s just a bit … revealing.”

Her pale face flushed red. “What do you want me to do, James? I can’t change now—I’m late.”

“You just have a lot of … curves.” He winced.

She crossed her arms, still holding her green drink concoction. “You think I look fat?”

Shit
. “No, you look great. You’ve always looked great. I loved your body forty extra pounds ago.”

“I’m late.” She brushed past James and slammed the door on her way out.

* * *

James fast-walked down the empty hallway, a loaded backpack over his jacket. Classroom doors were closed, decorated with snowflakes and snowmen. A murmur of preteen chatter spilled into the hall. He stood at his classroom door, fishing his keys from his khakis. He caught a glimpse of himself in the door window. His nose was too large, his eyes too squinty, and his chin too small.

“Mr. Fisher, I’d like a word.”

James took a deep breath and turned around.

The principal was short, with narrow shoulders, low body fat, but a big head. It looked as though he had the body of one of his middle-schoolers, with an adult head shoved on top.

James smiled, looking down at his principal. “Good morning, Dr. Richards.”

“We need to have a talk—now.” The principal marched toward his office, without waiting for a reply.

James skulked after him. Dr. Richards didn’t look back or hold the door as he entered the main office. Two middle-aged women worked behind the L-shaped reception desk. One was on the phone; the other glanced at James and went back to her work. He shuffled into the principal’s office, shutting the door behind him. Dr. Richards sat at the wooden desk with his fingers interlaced, as if he were praying. James sat across from him in a wooden chair that wasn’t built for comfort.
He might be five three, but at least he has a man’s chin. My chin’s like a girl’s. If only I could grow a decent beard
.

“Mr. Fisher, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, every word,” James replied.
He’ll repeat it
.

“What I asked was, ‘Do you remember what we talked about last month?’”

“Shoot, I’m sorry about being late today. I had a family emergency.”

The principal sat quiet, his eyes on James.

He’s trying to get me to talk. Not going to happen, Dr. Dicks.

“It’s not just today,” Dr. Richards said.

James raised his eyebrows. “As far as I know, I’ve been on time since our last conversation.”

“We had a complaint that you haven’t been monitoring the hall at the start of school.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Now I know you have your planning time first period, but you cannot show up late just because you don’t have class.”

James nodded along with his principal. “Absolutely. I agree 100 percent. That’s why this is so surprising, because I’ve been here on time. Did you check my scan card?”

The principal tightened his jaw. “It appears you haven’t been scanning in.”

“That’s odd. I definitely scan. Doors won’t open if you don’t.”

“I assume you come in through the main entrance.”

“No, the back by the gym.”

The principal narrowed his eyes. “And why would you do that? Your classroom is on the other side of school.”

James smiled. “I like to stretch my legs early in the morning and walk a bit.”

“We’ve had some problems with that door.” The principal exhaled. “It will be fixed. It has been moved to the top of my list. Do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear, boss.” James saluted his principal as he exited.

He entered the nurse’s office across the hall. The placard on the open door said, School Nurse Yolanda Mendez. There were two rooms, one with a desk and an exam table, and the other with cots. A heavyset Latino woman in peach-colored scrubs sat at the desk. She had short wavy hair with brown highlights. James knocked on the open door.

“Knock, knock,” James said.

She turned with a toothy grin that stretched her wide nose and round cheeks. “Good morning, Mr. Fisher. Dare I ask what you’re doing in the principal’s office?”

“Apparently Dr. Dicks had a complaint about me being late.”

She shook her head. “Probably that little tart across the hall from you. You better watch yourself.”

James shrugged with a grin. “She’s just mad that the kids like me better.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

James put his backpack on the floor and sat on the examination table, the paper covering crinkling under him. “I don’t really function until nine. It’s insane that we start so early. The kids are zombies in the morning anyway.”

She laughed. “Well,
I
have work to do.”

“I guess that’s my cue.” James stood up, the paper cover hanging off the table.

“And look what you’ve done to my table.”

He straightened the paper. “Sorry. I’ll see you at lunch.” He started for the exit.

“James,” she said.

He turned around. “Yeah?”

“I know you stay late, but you need to be here on time. You can’t keep sneaking in the back. Dr. Dicks is just looking for a reason.”

James smiled again and blew the nurse a kiss.

* * *

“The Emancipation Proclamation—what did it do?” James scanned his classroom. The faces were blank. A dark-skinned boy in front was turned around in his seat, whispering. “Vernon, pay attention. This
will
be on the quiz tomorrow.”

Vernon turned around with a half-smile. He had a thin mustache and acne bumps on his cheeks and forehead. He was built more like a linebacker than an eighth grader.

“Can we just get through this?” James asked. “We only have a few more.”

“On the real, Mr. Fish, this is borin’ as hell,” Vernon said.

“Sometimes we have to follow the curriculum.”

“Come on, Mr. Fish,” Maurice said from the second row. “Tell it to us for real, like you do.” Maurice was dark-skinned, thin, with high cheekbones and a bright smile.

James smirked. “I’ll tell you the real story of the Civil War, but you guys have to promise me two things. Number one, we have to learn the real story
and
the government propaganda version. Number two, what happens in Room 124 stays in Room 124.”

“Y’all better not be snitchin’,” Vernon said, glaring at his classmates.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Fish. We got your back,” Maurice said.

“Okay, let’s play a game,” James said.

The class sat up straight and leaned forward.

“Everyone take out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil.”

The kids argued, begged, and borrowed, but eventually everyone had a piece of paper and a writing utensil.

James continued, “I want you to imagine yourself in 1860, living in the South.”

Vernon turned to Maurice. “You’d be picking that cotton, nigga.”

The class laughed.

Maurice smirked. “You’d be gettin’ your black ass whipped.”

The class hooted and hollered.

“Cut it out, guys,” James said with a frown. The boys and the rest of the class composed themselves. “For this game—”

The classroom door swung open, and a short young blonde stomped in. Her face was red.

“Mr. Fisher, we are taking a test,” she said. “Your class is
much
too loud.”

A spattering of oohs came from the class. Someone said, “Bitch be crazy.”

“Quiet down, guys,” James said to the class. He turned to the teacher. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Scribner.”

The teacher turned on her high heels and slammed the door behind her.

“Damn,” Vernon said. “Why she always trippin’?”

“Where were we?” James asked.

“You were tellin’ us about the game. Then
she
interrupted
us
,” Maurice said.

James grinned. “Right, … for this game, you will be wealthy plantation owners.”

“Could I have white slaves?” Vernon asked.

“There weren’t no white slaves,” Maurice said.

“Yes, there were,” Janelle said from the back. Her hair was black and braided, her skin a shiny chestnut brown.

“Janelle’s right,” James said. “There were white slaves.” He rubbed his chin for a moment. “Raise your hand if you would like your slaves to be white.”

Half the class raised their hands.

“I’ll give each of you one hundred slaves. So write down one hundred white slaves—or one hundred black slaves, if you prefer.” The kids scribbled on their papers; James wrote on the whiteboard. “Now write 1 million dollars next to the one hundred white slaves and write 1.5 million dollars next to the black slaves.”

“Hold up, Mr. Fish,” Vernon said. “Why are the white slaves less?”

“White slaves weren’t as productive. They cost less and were worth less because, in general, they did less work, and they were more likely to get sick and die.”