Guffin Gary Grover

The Wilcox gang was the most feared in school. Their leader, of course, was Barry Wilcox, Baz if he liked you, and you’d better be sure he liked you before you called him Baz. 

Barry was a bruiser, a fighter, he’d scrapped his way to the top, laying out Harry Jenkins in a fist fight. The gang were all fighters, Larry Stevens a sharp-witted lightweight, fleet of foot, swift of punch, and source of every joke known to man. Dave Smith was the intellectual, he counted the lunch money they bullied out of the younger kids every day, even managing to divide the total by four. 

But the gang’s not-so-secret weapon was Gary Grover, a giant already, tall, fat, muscular beneath the fat, and still only fifteen. But his main weapon wasn’t his punch, Gary had a rare skill, he could fart at will, and when the gang had identified a new victim, they would drag him to a quiet corner of the playground, flatten them to the ground, then Gary would drop his trousers, place his hideous huge, disgusting arse over the victim’s face, and let rip a guff so ripe, so foul and putrid, that the victim would splutter and gasp to surrender, ‘take my lunch money, just take it’ and that would be that. The next day, all it would take would be the mere threat of a fart and the money would be surrendered. 

Until, that is, the gang targeted Sachin Shah, a new boy, a first year, the smallest and meekest boy in the school. 

He was grabbed, grabbed and flatulently assaulted, as so many had been before him. 

“In my sock,” he said, gasping for clean air.  

“Ew,” Barry said in mock disgust.  That’s rank. We’ll take your socket money this time,” he paused for his joke to get the desired laugh from his gang, “but next time keep it somewhere more hygienic.” 

Sachin yanked off his shoe and sock and handed over the money. 

“Fifty pence,” Barry said, disgusted. “Hardly worth our effort.” 

The ‘next time’ was three days away, Sachin taking scrupulous care to avoid the gang. Wilcox despised such tactics, and the gang were waiting for him when he stepped out of his pre-lunch lesson. 

“You owe us three days’ money,” Wilcox said. 

“I don’t owe you nuffin’,” Sachin spat. “You’re just thieves, stinking thieves.” 

“To the shadows boys,” Wilcox said, and once more little Sachin was dragged away to an obscure corner of the playground, Gary dropped his trousers, and the gruesome crime was repeated.  

“I give in,” Sachin screamed, as the fetid odor overwhelmed him, “Take my money.” 

“Better not be in your sock,” Wilcox said. 

“There’s a secret pocket in my shirt,” Sachin said, revealing its location and handing over his dues. 

“Secret pockets!” said Wilcox incredulously. “What are you, some sort of spy?” 

“He’s probably spying for India,” Gary said. 

“Yeah, and doing a shit job of it,” Larry added.  

In spite of his repeated torment, Sachin refused to meekly surrender the next day. He continued to duck and dive and avoid the gang, at least every other day, and would only surrender his money after the flatulent punishment had been administered. 

By the fifth occasion of being grabbed, guffed on and robbed, Sachin had had enough. The next day he came prepared. 

He allowed himself to be caught and taken to a quiet corner of the playground, where these thunderous crimes always played out. But this time, as Gary’s huge, pre-fart-smelling arse descended on him, Sachin took out the trap he’d brought from home, one of the old-style metal-spring rat-traps his father used, and pushed it blindly towards Gary’s nether regions. 

There was a sharp twang, as the trap sprang, followed by a howl the likes of which have never been heard, before or since. 

Gary was too overcome with pain to think straight, his flailing arms failed to grip the trap to remove it, and he ran around the playground screaming at full volume, cock and balls and rat-trap flapping and flying around as he did so. 

“Grover, what on earth are you doing?” A shout across the playground, the dreaded Mr Evans. 

Catching up with the boy, Evans quickly identified the problem. “Keep still boy, I can’t remove it while you’re doing the Watutsi.” 

With great difficulty, Gary stood stock still, while Mr Evans carefully prized the trap apart. Miraculously both testicles remained intact. 

“Who did this to you?” Mr Evans asked, imagining the giant that must exist to have detrousered and testically-entrapped a boy as big as Gary Grover.  

“It was Sachin, Sir, Sachin Shah.” 

“Shah?” repeated Evans incredulously. 

“Yes, the little brown rat.” He looked around, the little brown rat had long since legged it. 

“Little brown rat-catcher by the look of this trap,” Evans said. “He’s about a third of your size, how did he come to remove your trousers?” 

“Erm,” Gary’s confidence went. He realised that the truth would not look good.   

“I’m having none of it,” Evans continued. “Little Sachin Shah somehow managed to detrouser you in front of Wilcox and the rest of your gang? I don’t want to hear the accusation again, I don’t want to see your balls again, take this as a final warning, any more testicular displays and you’re expelled.” 

“My balls sir! I don’t think I’ll ever have children.” 

“Nonsense, it was just your right testicle that was caught, the left one will be fine at least, you’ll just have left-handed children, that’s all.” 

Grover continued to wail in pain. 

“Oh, go and see the nurse. But don’t tell her tales.” 

After the rat trap attack, Gary never dared another flatulent assault. The gang continued to collect their monies, for a while, but with the nuclear threat removed, one by one the victims refused to pay up. They were met with traditional force in response, fists and boots, but black eyes and bruises show, and the trail of bruised boys was quickly followed back to Wilcox and his gang, whose bullying thus ended. 

Gary did go on to have children, and they were both left-handed, but why that should be I will leave to you determine.