You sit in one of the two small chairs in the middle of the classroom. Across the table a freshman skater boy looks at you with two large doe eyes, tears streaming down the sides of his face. Behind him about twenty other boys are backed up against the wall, some whimpering quietly, others strangely reticent; still almost disbelieving their current situation. The student in front of you, Dylan S, (a tasty little morsel), is your first test of this class. He’s pale with a chipmunk face. Over his gelled, short hair is a New York Yankees hat, which he smartly removes before the test begins, exposing the studded earring in his right lobe. He wears baggy jeans, a simple white shirt, and generic white Nike sneakers. The whistling of a teapot becomes audible, and you rise to your feet, slowly making your way over to the wooden cabinet where you stored the students from your last class. Like this class, the girls were given permission to take the day off while the boys were forced into taking their ‘manner’ exams. They had all failed, as expected. The group of high schoolers with their backs up against the wall slink away as you leisurely move with deliberately slow motion, dreading what you would do to them if they got too close; and never taking their fearful eyes off of you. However, they had nothing to worry about as long as they waited their turn, stayed still, and managed to pass the test. They huddled together, cowering behind each other, legs shaking.
After opening the cupboard door to the sound of muffled screams, you reach your hand into a jar labeled ‘Miscellaneous Juniors’, ignoring the protests, and lift out a squirming three-inch teenage boy. He flails around as you lift him by the back of his shirt, examining your acquisition. You recognize him as Ben C, one of your ‘former’ students. He was a soccer player at the school, average student. He was popular, but only moderately. He had short blond hair and an adorable face. His skin was pale, but much redder than Dylan’s, and contained many more freckles. Both ears contained a diamond stud, and he wore blue jeans, a short black t-shirt, and black Pumas. Overall a fine specimen. You glance over at the huddled boys, to make sure no one is trying to escape, and shut the cabinet, muffling the screams from within.
Ben’s struggling form is placed carefully on the counter, where you pull up one pant leg, revealing a mouthwateringly athletic calf and a short white sock. Gingerly, you tie a small string to the teen’s ankle, ignoring his screams of ‘the inhumanity’ and not being able to ‘get away with this’. You pick Ben back up, and place him in your apron, stifling him once more. As you pour the steaming liquid from the teapot into a large mug, you hum loudly to block out the whimpering boys behind you. Bringing the bubbling water back to the table, you remove the boy from your pocket and dangle him from the string. His head is only a foot above the mug, and he can already feel the intense heat. Steam and sweat cling to his forehead as he looks down into his doom, screaming with all of his might, and struggling with the string on his ankle. The boys in the back inhale deeply, forgetting to exhale as you slowly lower the tasty teen closer to the awaiting hot water.
When he is about six inches away you get tired of the torturous game and drop the screaming boy headfirst into the mug. He remains under the surface of the water for a few seconds, before pushing his head from out of the boiling hot liquid. He sputters several times, arms flailing, as he uses all of his muscles to tread, keeping him afloat. Ben’s face has grown considerably redder from its contact with the extreme heat. Dylan remains completely speechless as you toy with the string before you, causing his fellow classmate to swish around, bobbing under the water and then resurfacing. “It’s too hot to drink now. Let’s check on the oven in the meantime, just until our tea cools considerably. I wouldn’t want you getting burned Dylan… at least not yet,” you laugh as you push the cup to the side of the table and walk over to the giant home/ec oven behind you.
Immediately upon opening the door, your nostrils are met with the delectable smell of freshly baked bread. With your back to the students, you remove the contents of the oven, wearing mittens to prevent injury, and slowly bring the plate back to the table, where you set it down for all to see.
A perfectly shaped crumpet sits on the center of the plate. Even through the rising steam coming off of this freshly baked treat, you can see the horror in the eyes of your other captives as they notice the special ingredient you have added to your recipe. Stuffed in the middle of the fluffy pastry is a shrunken boy, Andrew N. He was a senior jock, playing for both the Football and Baseball teams of the school.
Andrew had been your demonstration earlier in the period. As soon as you announced the test your students would be taking, telling them what would happen if they refused or failed, a group of boys had laughed and gotten up to walk out of the room. Rather than show them one of your collected treats from the last class, you decided to shrink the leader. Andrew had called you a “fucking freak” before walking to the door. As soon as his hand had touched the knob, he had shrunken down to his present size. You immediately stuffed him into the dough of your crumpet and stuffed him into the oven before preparing to test Dylan.
You look down at the tasty little morsel now, as the scent of freshly cooked boy meat meets your nostrils. The crumpet’s occupant had short brown hair and a tough face with hooded eyelids. He wore a gray tank top and was stuffed into the pastry up to his armpits, (with his muscular arms sticking out), flailing around uselessly. His plump, long fingers stretched out trying to grab at nothing in particular as he moaned in pain. His skin was nicely browned from the oven. On the other side of the dessert, his jean clad legs pumped furiously. They ended in plain white sneakers, larger sized duplicates of the ones Dylan wore, (although now they were a fraction the size of his larger classmates’.)
Taking a large knife from the rack on the counter, you place it over your tasty snack, in the center of the treat, (just about where Andrew’s back would be hidden under the fluffy dough). The boys gasp as you speak to Dylan. “What’ll it be cutie? Heads or tails?”
Andrew screams out more in fear than in pain from his cooking ordeal, as he had been shouting about previously. You snicker to yourself as Dylan finds the words he is looking for. “Nuh-none for me thank you.”
You smile back at your potential meal. “Quite right. You’re pudgy enough for my liking. You’ll make a fine meal soon enough. All right, more for me.
Dylan whimpers silently. He swallows back the tears that have been welling up inside him. Before you begin torturing Andrew, you move the cup from its position on the side and place it directly in front of Dylan. He doesn’t dare look inside at his burnt, drowning, delicious classmate. Instead, he merely tries stalling, reaching for some sugar to put in the boy-flavored tea. Your smile broadens.
“Oh, I’m sorry Dylan, but it seems you fail.”
“What?!” Dylan rises from the table with a start. His eyes are wild, as he is obviously petrified. “Why?! Oh please. Please don’t do this.”
An instant later, Dylan is a mere few inches tall. You grab him in one hand, and licking the drool from your lips explain the reason for his failing grade. “I’m sorry my sweet little snack, but manners dictate that you try something before adding a condiment or sweetener. How did you know your tea would be too bitter? You have to taste it first. As punishment…
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