Knight in Shining Armor

         Sir David was ready. He waited patiently while the knight in black armor approached the far end of the lists. The gallery was a glorious display of multicolored scarves and banners, and equally as dazzling was Sir David's horse, protected by the red and gold blanket covering its coat of fine chain mail. The silver armor of the knight glimmered in the sun, and his shield reflected the emblazoned image of a mighty silver dragon. He smiled confidently as he surveyed the field. This was a day for justice.

         The black knight turned, positioned himself, and nodded. The ancient man sitting on the raised platform beside the queen, surrounded by his nobles, gestured nonchalantly. Sir David dropped his visor.

         The bugle sounded.

         Sir David kicked his horse into action. He leaned forward, his lance poised steadily, the dragon flashing wildly. As the two knights approached each other, he carefully adjusted his shield.

         The black knight maneuvered his lance splendidly, but his opponent was far superior. Simultaneously, with a great sound of crashing metal, the weapon was struck away, and Sir David's own lance dipped, passing the black knight's shield and piercing his breastplate below the sternum. The weapon ran the knight clean through before breaking; it knocked him backwards off his steed and left him lying on his side in the dust, completely motionless.

         The crowd was on its feet, cheering and shouting, "Hurrah, Sir David! Hurrah!" The victorious knight waved proudly as he approached the king to receive his honors. He was invincible!

         "David! David McGuire, you answer me this instant!"

         David looked up. Ms. Stonewaller was hobbling down the aisle toward him, a ruler clutched in one clawed hand. What was the question? he wondered uneasily. "I...I didn't hear what you asked," he said hesitantly.

         "Of course not, you rotten apple core! All you do is daydream, daydream, daydream!" She had reached his desk. "It's no wonder to ME that you've flunked third grade twice! TWICE! NO-body flunks TWICE! I am SICK of your ATTITUDE, young man! Now you..."

         The ruler came up. David was startled momentarily, and he gripped the pencil in his right hand tightly and shut his eyes. Ms. Stonewaller brought the ruler down on David's back. THWACK!

         "...listen..."

         The hand came up again. It was his father's familiar hand, and the folded belt it held was worn from abuse. David gripped the pencil tighter. Down came the belt. THWACK!

         "...TO ME!"

         Again the belt rose. It had to stop sometime, and David had thought hard and had known he would have to stop it. His father was SUCH A

         "BASTARD!" David cried, and his right hand swung in a deliberate arc toward that inhumane creature he despised so much. The blunt point of the yellow writing tool found its mark in Ms. Stonewaller's belly, and the desperate force behind it caused the lead to sink deep within. The third grade teacher's hand stopped in midair, and her face held such an exaggerated look of disbelief, one could imagine that sweet, innocent Laura Watterson had suddenly hawked and spat in her face.

         "You..." Ms. Stonewaller gasped, and the ruler slipped from her hand. A pretty crimson rose was blooming right there on the front of her off-white blouse, and its petals were slowly spreading wider and wider. The teacher looked down carefully, afraid of what she might see, and then made a small, incomprehensible noise. David drew back, dumbfounded, as she stumbled backwards and fell against Tony Labella's desk. Her hand scrabbled for support, knocking Tony's math book to the floor.

         Laura Watterson screamed. Reality flooded into David's mind as the mental barrier broke; waves of panic covered him. He could only imagine what the tragic consequences of THIS incident would bring. David stood up and glanced around at the terror-stricken faces of his classmates. He ran for the door.

                   

         Sweat was pouring from his face as he reached for the doorknob. Vivian would be home, but his father would not. On weekdays his father worked as a full-time mechanic at the local Grease-'n'-Go, and never came home before five.

         The front hall was cold. As David closed the door behind him, a slurred voice drifted to him from the living room: "Whozat?! Whozeer?! Hey! Frankie, baby...zat you?"

         Shut up, you bitch, David thought. He turned right and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. His mom had called Vivian a "lush" once, and David had understood the word to mean someone who drank a lot. His mom was right; all the bitch did was sit and drink and watch soap operas all day.

         He closed the door to his room and turned on the light. There on the night stand was Sir Launcelot du Lake sitting atop his proud steed, lance in his right hand and shield by his side. Sir Launcelot was always ready; he was the best.

         As David walked over and picked up the cast-iron figure, he noticed the bloodstain on his own hand. I'll wash it off later, he thought. He sat down on the bed and looked at the figure, turning it over and over. He closed his eyes.

         The pencil slipped from his hand and landed on his desk with such a loud noise that David jumped in his seat. He looked around the room; no one looked back. Ms. Stonewaller was writing a math problem on the board. As David picked up his pencil, she turned to him and asked, "Can you solve this problem, David?"

         "Of course I can," he stated with confidence, and smiled.

                   

         Frankie McGuire was found lying against a wall at the garage, a Phillips screwdriver protruding from his stomach.

         When the police went to pick up Frankie's son, who had stabbed his own school teacher in a fit of rage, they received a mild surprise.

         The boy was in his bedroom.

         His eyes were closed, and he was smiling.