Then the bell rang for the next class. On the way in to the classroom, Dirk whispered in Christopher’s ear, “What is this ‘cool’ thing, and what is this ‘fudge’ term she uses? Presumably it is some kind of honorific?”
Christopher laughed. “Cool is slang for ‘great’ or ‘good,’ and fudge is … Well, it’s named after low grades—you know, F for fail, U for unsatisfactory, or a D grade and so on. Basically, she was calling you stupid!”
Dirk sighed. There was so much to learn in this strange place.
Later, when he was taken back to the Pure Guardian jailers after school, he sat on his bed, and wrote in his diary for the first time. He decided to call it:
My BLACK DIARY of Doom
And this was his first entry:
February 1
I have lost my powers. My armies
of Goblin-kind, my Legions of Dread,
my squadrons of winged demons, are
gone. The Ring of Power is dead,
and I have given it up. My Cloak of
Endless Night is worthless. The
Helm of the Hosts of Hades is lost
or destroyed along with my Ebon
Staff of Storms. The White Wizard’s
spell has regressed me into the body
of a child. But the senile old fool has
made a glaring oversight—he has
left my mind unaffected. I still
possess my dark intellect, my genius
for stratagems, my arts of alchemy,
artifice, and persuasion. And my capacity
for infinite patience …
A few days later, he wrote another entry:
February 7
The nightmares are getting worse. I
have at least one a week. The White
Hunter is closing in. I know it wants
to hunt me down, to rip out my heart
and eat it. What can I do to protect
myself?
And then another one. He was beginning to rather enjoy keeping a diary, especially when he could vent some anger …
February 8
Today I received a report card from
those insufferably arrogant and
interminably irritating humans they
call “teachers”! As if they could teach
me anything! I, the Dark Lord, Master
of the Legions of Dread and sorcerer
supreme! It is I who should be teaching
them! Teaching them the value of
subservience, of obedience to the will
of a superior being, for a start.
Teaching them to grovel before me
like the lickspittle dogs they are!
I have attached the report here in my
diary, as a perpetual reminder of the need
for revenge!
February 13
I have come up with a suitable plan of
vengeance for this report card business.
I shall steal a blank report card and fill it
in from my point of view—no wait, from
the point of view of all the inmates of the
school, the pupils, as if we were making
a report on the absurd antics of our
teachers, instead of the other way
around! Hmm, especially that tyrannical
fool, Grousammer. Yes, a report on the
principal! I will then make many copies,
and put them up all over the school! They
shall rue the day they dared to judge me,
just you wait and see! Mwah, ha, ha!
February 14
Even more galling than the report card
debacle, that accursed madman, Mr. Banks—
the human children call him “Sandy”—the
geography teacher, gave us a special
project, to draw up a map of the town we
live in—or in my case, have been exiled to.
Anyway, I completed the task to a level of
excellence beyond the abilities of any of my
“classmates” but that dimwit Sandy still gave
me a detention for it! Why can these fools
not recognize genius when they see it?
Here is the map, as proof of my genius and
the cruel injustice of my punishment. Well,
not really cruel, more of an inconvenience.
These milksop humans don’t have any idea
how to truly punish someone!
The Court
Getting used to life on earth was hard for Dirk. He had to go to school, minimize the number of detentions he was given, avoid the likes of Grousammer the principal, the White Shields High Council, the Social Services Legion and those psycho fools, Wings and Randle. He marked off the days of grueling drudgery in his own way:
February 18
I hate the way they date things here.
When I take over, I’ll change the months’
names. February—when I came to this
land of do-goodery—I’ll change to Fall—
heh, that’ll confuse the humans. March,
April, and May will be Doom, Gloom, and
Dismay. Much better names for those
human-loved months of spring, eh?
February Fall 28
I have gathered together the first of
my followers. Every day at that Dominion
of Doom the humans call “school,” Sooz
and Christopher meet with me during
breaks. We have formed a kind of clique
that I call the “Dark Lord’s Court in Exile.”
The Child of the Night, Sooz, and the
Son of the Pure Guardians, Christopher,
are my lieutenants, my lickspittle
courtiers. However, Sooz and Christopher
do not seem to see it that way.
Christopher said the other day it was
because it was, “Fun, and we like hanging
out with you, dude, pretending you’re a
Dark Lord.”
Fun? Hanging out? Pretending? And
what is this “dude” term I hear so much
of? In any case, it is becoming obvious
that they do not understand their true
positions in my court. They seem to
spend most of their time laughing when
we are together.
recognition of my power and status, for
other human children are trying to get
into the Dark Lord’s Court in Exile.
March Doom 9
My court is growing. My chief courtiers,
Chris and Sooz, are the inner circle
but others come and go all the time,
like Chris’s friend “Nutters.” All of them
seek to bask in the royal glow of the
Great Dirk. Some even call me the Lord
of Darkness, or other titles I subtly
suggest, like Sorcerer Supreme, the
Dark One, and Master of the Nine
Netherworlds. But most prefer to
name me after something the Child of
the Night came up with, the title “The
Lloyd of Dirkness.” At first I wasn’t
sure whether to be angered. But I have
to admit, it did make me laugh, and it is
obvious that those who address me as
the Lloyd of Dirkness seem to do so
with respect. And affection, which is
somewhat annoying. I earn my respect
through fear! I rule through terror!
By the Nether Gods, people aren’t
supposed to like me!
Still, for now it is the best I can do,
and I am beginning to enjoy our courtly
meetings. I haven’t laughed so much in
two thousand years.
March Doom 17
There are problem
s. My fame has attracted
the attention of larger, more aggressive
children. Sooz calls them mindless bullies.
I call them Ogres. I have seen their type
before, all over the Darklands. Normally they
are easy to control, but unfortunately I do
not have my ancient powers and I cannot
coerce them to my will as I once did.
There are those who mock—we can
handle them with some astute, waspish
replies of our own. But these bullies can get
what Christopher calls “really nasty,” with
pushing and shoving, the ripping of bags,
snatching of books or phones, and even the
occasional raised fist and shove, with worse
threats to come. Of course, it is nothing
compared to battling the Archangels of
the Celestial Court of the Holy Ones, or
struggling with the White Wizard for
millennia. But still, to my followers this
“mindless bullying” seems important, for
they know naught else.
And I’m still getting those terrible
nightmares, or “whitemares” as I like to
call them. It feels like the White Hunter
report card! Blast those do-gooding
teachers, may they rot forever in my
Dungeons of Doom!
March Doom 17
Things are getting worse. The mindless Orc
bullies are beginning to pick on me! The
outrage! They are making comments like
“There goes the Dork Lord!,” or “There goes
404!” or “Hey, it’s Looney Toons,” or “Yo, Dirk,
what’s it like to be a nutjob?”
I am beginning to master that wonder
of wonders—computer technology—so I
know what 404 is, but what are Looney
Tunes? I will ask Christopher—he will know.
Anyway, the point is that I am not
being addressed in the correct manner—
I’m not getting the respect I deserve. In
fact, they are “dissing” me, as Sooz calls
it. Nearly every day. This is intolerable and
cannot go on. I will have to do something
about it. And I think I know what.
The next day at school, Dirk was walking down the corridor to class. Up ahead loomed the worst bully in the seventh grade, Phil Miller, and his two friends, Dave Murray and Jon Chu. Phil Miller was a big guy, much bigger than Dirk by a long shot. They stopped in the middle of the corridor, blocking it off. Dirk raised his eyes, shook his head in contempt, and tried to get past them, but Phil Miller shoved him back, saying, “Oh no, not so fast, Dork Lord, ya wacko nerd!”
“Get out of my way, brainless one,” said Dirk. Even though Phil Miller loomed over him like an Ogre over the tiniest Goblin, Dirk was not intimidated in the slightest. This seemed to enrage Phil Miller even more—why wasn’t this little squirt afraid of him?
“You little freak!” he shouted and gave Dirk another aggressive shove in the chest.
Dirk narrowed his eyes angrily, and said, as loudly and as clearly as possible so that everyone in the nearby vicinity could hear him, “I think it was particularly nice of you to stay at home yesterday to help your mom ice that cake, Phil, instead of playing soccer with your friends.”
Phil Miller’s jaw dropped. “How did you know … ,” he spluttered.
“That sugary pink heart was a nice touch—your little sister’s girlfriends will love that,” added Dirk.
Jon Chu sniggered. Dave Murray, however, looked a bit annoyed. “You said you couldn’t make soccer ’cause you were grounded for smashing a window,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Phil.
“No, I … I was grounded!” protested Phil, caught off guard.
“Pink sugar icing,” said Jon, laughing. “That’s really girlie!”
“No, no … Anyway, it wasn’t pink, it was red!” said Phil.
“So you did stay in and ice a cake instead of playing soccer!” said Dave.
“Er … umm …” Phil Miller went bright red.
“Mama’s boy, huh?” quipped Jon.
The exchange continued, with Jon and Dave increasingly ragging on Phil. While this was going on, Dirk quietly went on his way. When he’d reached the end of the corridor, Phil shouted after him, “I’m going to get you for this, dork boy!”
“Perhaps your friends would like to hear about those Power Rangers pajamas you still keep under your pillow?” replied Dirk instantly, making sure there wasn’t a shred of fear in his voice. This caused even more laughter, and also had the added effect of shutting Phil Miller up.
This altercation with Miller soon went around the whole school—how Dirk had shown him up just with words. There were a few more attempts by Phil Miller types to pick on Dirk, but these soon stopped because every time they came at him or called him out, he’d reveal something really, really embarrassing about them. It just wasn’t worth it. Nobody could figure out how Dirk knew all this stuff about people—but he did, and it was always true.
One day, Christopher and Sooz had asked Dirk how he’d found out all those personal things about people.
“Necromancy,” said Dirk matter-of-factly. “The dead know all that passes on this plane—it’s just a question of summoning forth the spirits of the slain and forcing them to tell you their secrets.”
“Right, of course—how could it have been anything else!” Christopher had replied, and they’d all laughed. And that became the official story around the school. Even though nobody really believed it, of course.
Dirk was beginning to make a place for himself in his own way. However, there was one group he was still having trouble with—the jocks, as they called themselves.
You had to be really good at sports to get in with the jocks. They looked down on anyone who wasn’t, and they particularly liked to pick on the nerds. And Dirk was a bit of a nerd. He was learning all about computers really fast, and he was already champion of the school chess club. He loved super-nerd stuff like the card game Magic and interactive game books and fantasy role-playing games. “Why is the Dark Lord always the bad guy?” he was often heard to say, in genuine puzzlement.
And Dirk wasn’t any good at soccer or baseball, or any other sport. He claimed it was because he couldn’t get used to being in the body of a weak human child, and that he missed his horns, his great fangs, and his superstrength. Everyone else claimed it was just because he was terrible at sports.
The leader of the jocks was Sal Malik and he was captain of the Whiteshields baseball team. He was also very good-looking and a black belt in karate. Most of the school looked up to him. One day, Dirk was up for selection for the baseball team, though it wasn’t an official game, just tryouts and practice. Dirk hated waiting with the other kids to be chosen—he was usually one of the last to be picked and he found it unnecessarily humiliating. After all, he should be the one doing the humiliating, not the other way around. He didn’t even like playing these stupid games, anyway.
Of course, it’d be different if he had a team of Ogre football players, a supervillain soccer team or Vampire baseball squad for instance. The idea threw up some interesting questions. Is drinking the blood of the opposition classed as foul play? A pack of Ogre forwards would make for an unstoppable line, but would they allow it? Would Dr. Octopus make the best goalie?
He’d considered just not turning up, but cutting class would only lead to more attention from the likes of Miss Cloy, and those Child Psycho fools, Wings and Randle, and he could really do without that. So he just put up with it. Eventually, he was the last boy standing and Sal Malik was forced to choose him for his team. Dirk felt angry and humiliated, but kept it to himself. Instead he began to put together elaborate revenge fantasies in his head
, which made him feel a bit better. It was something he’d been doing a lot of recently.
The game began—Sal’s team was fielding, and Dirk was sent off to a corner of the outfield where it was thought he could do the least damage. Dirk did what he usually did in these circumstances—he began to have daydreams (or daymares as he preferred to call them), thinking up complex schemes of world domination, coups, and hostile takeover bids and the like. But then the batter actually hit the ball toward him. Dirk had to pick up the ball and throw it back—all too slowly, unfortunately, judging by some of the comments from his teammates, but at least this time he didn’t fumble it. This caused him to take an interest in the game, and he began to notice a few things.
During a break for drinks, he went up to Sal and said portentously, “Sports Lord Sal Malik, listen to my words!” Sal stared at him blankly. Dirk had his attention, so he fell back into a more normal idiom—something he’d been working on recently—saying, “That batter we can’t seem to get out—he’s left-handed, isn’t he?”
Sal looked at him, one eyebrow raised inquisitively, as if he still didn’t quite believe that Dirk had actually spoken to him.
Dirk went on. “Well, he seems to be really good with that wooden club … Umm, I mean bat, on the, umm, what do you call it—inside corner. That’s where most pitchers throw the ball normally, against right-handers, so he’s practiced with that. Why not give Brownie a try at pitching—he’s slow, but accurate, and tell him to aim for what would normally be the inside if the batter is right-handed. It ought to tempt him into taking some big hits, and his stance is really off on that side. Might get a strike or two, and the chance for an out.”
Sal frowned. Not only could he not believe that Dirk had actually spoken to him, he couldn’t believe what he’d actually said either—after all, nerds aren’t supposed to know anything about sports, right?
Dirk went on. “Move a couple of field slaves out that way,” he said, pointing to places in the outfield.
Sal’s eyes followed his finger. “Oh, you mean shift the centerfielder,” said Sal, automatically processing the tactical thinking suggested, despite his surprise.
“Indeed, as you say,” said Dirk.
Sal stared at him in astonishment some more, and then his eyes narrowed in thought and he went off to talk to some of his team. When the game restarted, Dirk was gratified to see Sal making the changes he’d suggested. And lo and behold, the batter flied out, almost exactly as Dirk had predicted!