The Hurt Patrol by Mary McKinley

Author:Mary McKinley [McKinley, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2015-02-11T16:00:00+00:00

Rule 1) Hurts aren’t supposed to ROFL.

Rule 2) They are supposed to regret their time at camp, maybe by crying.

Rules are rules for a reason, dammit!

And as the silvery sound of the merriment spread, like fairy bells on the breeze, it summoned the scoutmasters. And after they came running, the feuding patrols were required to explain what’s so funny.

“What’s so funny, ladies?” screeched Scoutmaster Whatshisbutt, the lead louse of the Head Lice. “What’s all this, then?”

Chris Louse was frantic. “They called us Stinky! Like before we were! THEY DID IT!”

This set the Hurts off again. If only the Head Lice had intended to amuse up their campmates, like, say, if this was their first attempt at stand-up, they would have been considered iconic. Like comic geniuses. The pissed-off Scout leader of the troop of Head Lice blew his whistle to shut everyone up, which didn’t particularly help. So he tried going boot-camp on them, as usual.

“SHUDDUP! Shut UP! Now, Ladies, who’s man enough to man up? Did you do it?”

They had no chance to answer because Chris was beside himself. “YES!” he screeched. “That one—him—he did it—and that—that balloon-head douche bag was the one who did the fart song!” He clenched his hands in fists of fury. “And I AM going to TELL MY DAD!” he screech/vowed. It was his worst threat. His helmet-haired dad was on the city council and would have them all sent up river.

The Scouts and leaders alike sighed and stared at him without expression. This was not his first tantrum. They half expected him to fall down and start choking himself by the throat this time, as Chris Louse flapped his fists, accidentally doing the Harlem Shake. They pondered what their own responsibility would be in that case, if he did start to choke himself—and they just let him. By this time Chris’s expression was actively hilarious, as he’d added eye-rolling to the yowling/fist shakes and his usual air of “smell-stank.” Like if there was a thing called Dickheads Do Shakespeare, he’d be King Lear. He wasn’t the only one eye-rolling either; so was everyone else. Even his own patrol was sick of him. It had been a long week with the “tell-my-dad” announcement every two minutes.

By then, Scoutie Jeff had also walked over to see what was up. He watched the dramaturgy unfold for a moment, then raised his eyebrows at the Head Lice’s scoutmaster, who scowled back.

Scoutie Jeff glanced askance at the Hurts. He shrugged in baffled solidarity to them as Chris continued to shadowbox in impotent fury, snarling and frothing. At least his meltdowns were entertaining.

Scoutie Jeff and the Louse boss pondered the predicament during the performance. Then Jeff smiled, deciding to remain unaffected. What was that saying? Not my circus. Not my clowns.

“Are you going to handle this, Jeff?” snapped the very bad scoutmaster. He did not want Chris Louse to tell his dad. “He says it was your guys.”

Jeff sighed, “Well, yeah, but I don’t think my guys would do something so calculated.

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