Why do you pick fights with other boys? It's the question Ryan has been running from all his life. The answer will shock you.
For as long as Ryan can remember, he's always wanted to be someone special. Now, a promising high school wrestler and a po...
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The shock and awe aftermath of the block party was alive and well the following week. With most of the organizers and riot participants coming from WWU, the school administration condemned their actions and vowed to expel anyone involved. Police began scanning social media for photos of the night to charge anyone who hadn't already been arrested. Even the progressive mayor of Barclay vouched to create tighter curfews and laws to put an end to, "Such intolerable, late night recklessness."
Local and state news described the night with colorful, tabloid-like language. By the time the whole state knew about the party, anyone with any responsibility in Barclay, from parents to law enforcement, from WWU's staff to local politicians, felt embarrassed. Someone had to be held responsible for letting these college students go too far and everyone wanted to point the blame for the night at someone. For Sheriff Hornbeck, he wouldn't tolerate anything more than a stranger's second glance.
Not my fault people can't control their kids. The irony was Mr. Hornbeck was wondering if could control his own.
In the following days, Ryan spent a majority of his time going to school, selling to his classmates, and going back and forth to Hannah's to pick up more drugs. Mr. Hornbeck was aware there had to be some drug usage, as he had caught Ryan smelling like a skunk on more than one occasion. Sitting in his psychologist's office, he was now aware of much more.
"What's been on your mind lately?" Asked Dr. Carl.
Mr. Hornbeck sat at the couch across from the doctor, rubbing his sweaty hands together anxiously. He glanced around the room, noticing the cabinets of books and walls decorated in degrees, certificates, and a PhD.
The Sheriff thought, All these books and degrees and he still can't tell what's wrong with me.
"Has it been a difficult day?"
Mr. Hornbeck rubbed his eyes. He was having a hard time staying awake. Just like most days. The only difference was the 2-4 hours of sleep used to carry him a lot further. Father time's a cruel cunt.
He glanced up to look at Dr. Carl, who stared at him nervously. Why do you pay $200 the hour to see this guy? Mr. Hornbeck felt like leaving the room, but thought, Might as well give him something. "I've been thinking about that fucking kid again."
"The teenager that shot his father?"
The Sheriff shook his head. "No, not that poor kid. Harold. Fucking Harold." He covered his mouth to conceal a quiet burp. It tasted like the vodka and egg sandwich he had in the morning.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine." I feel like throwing up. He looked at Carl, who waited patiently for Mr. Hornbeck to continue. Why does he never say anything? He felt another burp coming, but luckily the feeling went away.
"Is there anything else?"
Yeah. The last three years of my life. "Block party bullshit. Typical, slimy politics. Disgruntled employees. Nothing out of the norm."
