Me (putting on my best "sorry" face): "Dabi, listen—I'm really sorry you got beat because of me. But damn, you sound cool saying 'motherfucker.' If you don't believe me, go tell Meelas. Say anything, just drop a 'motherfucker' in there. Watch his reaction."
Dabi hesitated, his face a battlefield of trust and suspicion. Before he could overthink it, I marched to Meelas and winked.
Meelas was too clever for his own good. His eyes narrowed—he knew a scheme was brewing.
Me (grinning): "Meelas, you know what happened yesterday with Motherfucker Richard?" (Another wink at "motherfucker.")
The hook was set.
Meelas (playing along): "Ohhh, so cool. What happened?"
Dabi, ever the impulsive storyteller, cut me off. His tale unfolded like a drunk poet's manifesto—every sentence laced with motherfucker. Meelas nodded along, but his eyes darted to me, sensing the trap.
Me (innocently): "See, Dabi? He thinks we're legends. Right, Meelas?"
Meelas nodded like a bobblehead.
Me (lowering my voice): "Dabi… why not impress the girls with this story? Tell 'em how we fucked Richard's tiles."
Before I finished, Dabi launched himself at the nearest girl—let's call her Egg-Burger. Total nerd. Glasses thicker than a dictionary.
Dabi (yelling): "HEY, EGG-BURGER!"
She spun around, rage simmering. "Don't. Call. Me. That."
Undeterred, Dabi unleashed his profanity-laden epic. We watched Egg-Burger's face morph from annoyance to horror to I'm-about-to-end-this-man's-whole-career.
In Pakistan, a 12-year-old swearing is like bringing a flamethrower to a tea party. Egg-Burger sprinted to Miss Fatima.
The teacher stormed over, her glare sharp enough to slice steel. Dabi? He smiled at her. Ignorance is bliss.
Miss Fatima (grabbing his ear): "WHERE did you learn this filth? I'm calling your mother right now."
The color drained from Dabi's face. I almost felt bad.
(Key word: almost.)
Me and Meelas? We were howling.
The Walk of Shame
Dabi stood in the hallway all day. But the real horror? The walk home.
As we neared our street, the group fell silent. There she was—Dabi's mom. A mountain of wrath, arms akimbo, elbows jutting like weapons.
We mentally prepared his eulogy. RIP Dabi. Gone too soon.
Dabi didn't run. He trudged forward, head bowed.
Dabi (whispering): "Can we do this insi—"
CLAP!
A sound like thunder cracked the air.
Me (gasping): "Oh shit—she had a slipper in her hand!"