hildeguardog's Diaryland Diary


The Sequel

Ok, where did I leave off... Ah, yes, Lawrence’s body had just been discovered. Well lots has happened since that fortunate December evening. Mike has been doing his three favorite things these past few days: doing homework, drinking all the ’Coke and Gatorade at the Pazer’s house, and trying out for the Northside Prep Football Team, hoping to overcome his greatest deficit of not being a student at Mather. He plans on playing the race card if Coach gives him any trouble. Sack turned down the invitation to be mentioned more than once in this sequel to live out his lifelong dream of taking Scott Shoenbeck’s spot of playing bass for Dashboard Confessional. And me? I’ve been murdering time with hundreds upon hundreds of games of MsPac, and I have reset the high score a dazzling three times(or “thrice” for all you old timers out there).

But not everything has been so pleasing. The beloved Quagland was wrongfully tried and convicted as being the one whom delivered the big bloody basket of death to poor Larry. But it gets deeper than that. It turns out that Quagland had been secretly married to old Larry for a little over a year. Why didn’t Larry tell us? He simply forgot. No Joke. Anyways, Quagland was cheating on Larry with this girl Tina. Tina was nowhere near being emotionally sound, meaning she was one crazy-assed bitch. When Tina found out about this Lawrence person, she snapped. So according to the Police Report, She took Quagland’s wallet during the night of December 12th. That night she went hunting. She found LJ walking in tight circles in a small opening in the woods and managed to beat him to death with a small twig no longer than that of an average pencil. The wallet of course, was emptied of any cash, and placed nearby.

As we speak, Quagland is melting away waiting for his day of judgment while Tina is plotting revenge on the hairy-backed man that took her parking space out from under her last week. Back at the Batcave, as my basement was commonly referred to, Mike and I were painting and elaborate picture of the back of Vice President Cheney’s head.

“What!? Why yellow?” I bellowed at Mike in an unusually angry voice.

“It’s art, get over it. If I want a yellow patch on my side of the painting, then there will be a yellow patch on my side of the painting.” He responded firmly.

“Holy shit. Fine. Whatever. Holy Hell.”

We’ve been getting into these kinds of arguments a lot lately, over stupid stuff. Once we got into a fight over exactly how pages there were in the third Harry Potter book. I said 486, he said 413. There were 435.


Finally my dog Simba walked in to break the awkwardness of the moment. She had a note tied tightly to the thigh on her back right leg cutting off the blood circulation to the rest of the leg, which was now a turning a dark shade of purple, even the fur. Simba went over to Mike, because she doesn’t like me, and hasn’t since the day we found her. Mike took the note off and read it aloud:

Hey guys, it’s Quagland. Don’t ask how I got this note to your dog’s leg,

I’ll tell you when I have more time and a better explanation. What’s

important now is that they’ve scheduled for me to fry in three days. I know

what that such short notice isn’t legal or honest of them, but hey, look who’s

president. I need you guys to get me out of here, no matter what. For fun, the

guard’s put penny’s under a lighter, then throw them at me when they get really

hot! It’s horrible. Please help. And I’m sorry for shaving my name into your dog’s



“Oh no! Why would he do that to Simba!?” Mike said ferociously.

“That’s not as big of a problem as them executing Quagland in a few days! He spared our lives for Hell’s sake. We should call Sack, he’ll be sympathetic.”

“We can’t contact him until we write up a tentative contract for him to be in this chapter. See? We already mentioned his name again!”

“Who’s name?”

“Sack’s name!”

“Don’t say that! Hahaha!”

2:07 p.m. - Sunday, Oct. 19, 2003


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