[Ja'mie King is leading Nigel Verkoff around a North Shore high school. Nigel is holding a mobile phone, looking bored.]
Nigel: So, Jamie...
Nigel: Jah-MAY. I hate chicks who get prissy about their names.
Ja'mie: Hello, it is, like, my identity!
Nigel: Your "identity" sounds like a Scottish guy in a skirt.
Ja'mie: I am not Scottish! I was born in South Africa!
Nigel: You still look like a guy in drag, Jamie.
Nigel: You know, you don't look 16.
Ja'mie: [flicks hair] Thanks.
Nigel: You look mid-thirties at least. And particularly rough at that.
Ja'mie: Oh, who cares what you think? You wear those stupid glasses all the time, you look like a total child molestor.
Nigel: Well, I thought about dressing up like an unconvincing drag act, but you beat me to it. And aren't you the Jamie King girl going out with a boy in Year 7, who isn't even ten years old yet? Anyone the pedophile round here, it's you.
Ja'mie: That doesn't count, I dumped him for a whole month.
Nigel: You shouldn't have picked him up in the first place. Bitch.
Ja'mie: How dare you? How dare you call me a bitch!
Nigel: Oh, dear. I call you a man you get offended, I call you a woman you get offended.
Ja'mie: Shut up! I'm only leading you around school because you're the new kid.
Nigel: About twenty years newer than you, Methusalah.
Ja'mie: Are you saying my hair looks like snakes?
[Nigel stops and stares at her.]
Nigel: ...my god, I can hear the brain cells dying of loneliness as we speak.
Ja'mie: I don't dye my hair like you.
Nigel: No. You don't. What do you want, a medal for superb observational powers?
Ja'mie: Like any medal from this bogan school is worth it.
[They start walking again.]
Nigel: You're not a native then?
Ja'mie: Oh, just because you're Aboriginal, don't go all abbo-pride on me?
Nigel: Abbo-pride? You have Tourette's or something, lady? Apart from anything else, I'm legally Japanese.
Ja'mie: Oh, great. Another Asian. Just what this country needs.
Nigel: Says the Seth Efrikan snob.
Ja'mie: I am so totally not a snob!
Nigel: So why do you hate everyone who isn't white?
Ja'mie: I don't, I just don't have patience for them, that's all. It's like being stuck in a remedial class when you're totally smart, surrounded by lesser skanks.
Nigel: Ah, racial supremacy.
Ja'mie: I am not a racist!
Nigel: You're a better racist than you are a teenage girl.
Ja'mie: Shut up! I'm internationally famous, and what are you?
Nigel: I'm surprised you don't know me off television.
Ja'mie: I was too busy being on television myself, you dickhead.
Nigel: Yeah, I saw that. I loved the last episode.
Nigel: The one where you lost. In front of millions. Classic. It's the only reason I bought the DVD, to watch your stupid and yet strangely masculine face fall as reality knocked politely on the door and kicked you up your transsexual arse.
Ja'mie: I don't have to put up with this!
Nigel: Sadly, the rest of us do.
[Ja'mie turns and runs down some stairs. Nigel keeps up.]
Nigel: I'm trying to be nice, Ja'mie...
Ja'mie: JAMIE! [twigs] Oh, wait, shit!
Nigel: Hah! Oh, you wouldn't be an intellectual threat to a dead cockroach, would you? Seriously though, Jamie, we have to talk about what an atrocious and callous bitch you are because you're too narcissistic to talk about anything else.
Ja'mie: Bullshit! I can talk about all sorts of stuff!
Nigel: Yeah, course you can. I'm being sarcastic, and I'm telling you I'm being sarcastic because I honestly don't think you're clever enough to realize it on your own.
Ja'mie: Hey, I was dux at Hilford Girls' Grammar School!
Nigel: Like that's anything to be proud of.
Ja'mie: Proud? You fugly dipshit, I sponsor 85 Sudanese children for Global Vision.
Nigel: But only the cute ones. You let ugly children starve to death. I'd say "how caring", but, seriously you don't get sarcasm, do you?
Ja'mie: Hey, I keep the cute ones alive. Or they'd be dead too! I've got the National Record, and Global Vision made me their poster-child.
Nigel: Yeah, part of their "spot the trannie" competition, I bet.
Ja'mie: I do the 40 Hour Famine once a week!
Nigel: And what do you do the other 128 hours? Apart from being a bitch with an eating dissorder?
Ja'mie: Hey, that eating dissorder cost me my breasts!
Nigel: Along with most of your brain. Maybe if you ate properly you wouldn't be a non-functional drag-act with smaller pectorals than the children you CLAIM to sponsor.
Ja'mie: You know, normally I act fake-nice to people...
Nigel: ...well, you're shithouse at acting as much as everything else.
Ja'mie: [ignoring him] ...but I like, totally hate you right now.
Nigel: Remind me why I should care? You hate everyone else at this school.
Ja'mie: Of course I do, they're all stupid povo redneck skank sluts with huge tits, skin problems and no sense of humor!
Nigel: [shrugs] You're the one who can't take a joke.
[They both stop.]
Ja'mie: ...seriously? Is this all a joke?
Nigel: No, I hate your guts. Your lack of humor is entirely incidental.
Ja'mie: Shut up, you ugly abbo bastard!
[Nigel holds up his mobile phone.]
Nigel: Oh, THIS is going to be so good on youtube!
Ja'mie: What? You filmed me?
Nigel: Yeah, I thought you'd have been used to it by now. Actually, I'm amazed the lens didn't crack at your ugliness, but that's Asian technology for you. Wonder why Seth Efrica never made such amazing leaps in technology... still, give them their dues, they're still recovering from the fact you were born there. Assuming, of course, you were born and not summoned by some drunk witch-doctors.
Ja'mie: You can't put that online!
Nigel: Can't I? Don't you want more media exposure? See ya in the headlines, McCrimmon.
[Nigel wanders off.]
Ja'mie: THIS IS LIKE SO TOTALLY UNFAIR! I AM GOING TO SELF-HARM, I REALLY AM!
Nigel: Yeah, that's really going to upset me. Oh, I am so upset.
Ja'mie: STOP BEING SARCASTIC!
Nigel: And she learned something! Public schools DO work!
[Ja'mie headbuts the wall. The wig falls off.]
[Meanwhile, Dave Restal is sitting beside the drama room, eating his lunch. Mr. G approaches with his wheelchair-bound dog, Celine.]
Mr. G: Excuse me, you're blocking the way.
Dave: So I am.
Mr. G: And what are you doing here?
Dave: It's lunchtime. I'm eating lunch.
Mr. G: Do you know who I am?
Dave: Does it matter?
Mr. G: Of course it matters! I am Mr. G!
Dave: Oh yeah. Knew THAT.
Mr. G: Your attitude is frankly appalling. What's your name?
Mr. G: Well, David, you're not going to have a nice time at this school if you don't learn how to respect others...
Dave: Come on, sir, if I want advice on relating to people, I'm not going to ask the teacher who is always arguing with the principal and shouting at all the special ed kids for being freaks.
Mr. G: That is a gross exaggeration, David.
Dave: No, it isn't.
Mr. G: Look, disabled students would damage the quality of my musical material.
Dave: Can't be that good then, can it? You ever hear about that guy Carl Unthen?
Mr. G: [uncomfortable] Yes I have and...
Dave: He was born without any arms, but he became a concert violinist at sixteen - and everyone thought his music was brilliant.
Mr. G: That's as maybe...
Dave: One time, his violin string snapped live on stage, so he replaced it in front of everyone. Only using his feet. I think I'm right in saying it was the E string, but...
Mr. G: Yes, David, but the point you're missing is...
Dave: And he could do card tricks.
Mr. G: YES, BUT 19TH CENTURY PRUSSIANS KNEW NOTHING ABOUT MUSIC!!
[Dave stares at him, startled at the outburst.]
Dave: ...Johan Strauss thought he was pretty good.
Mr. G: Oh, but Strauss doesn't attend this school, does he? He's dead. And music has moved on. And if he was impressed by some cripple, then my musicals would astound him!
Dave: What, like your one about the tsunami?
Mr. G: Exactly!
Dave: The one you just used Bananarama songs with the words changed.
Mr. G: I didn't hide that. It was called "Tsunamarama". The clue was in the name.
Dave: You only changed "Robert de Niro" to "Mr. G". Or what about when you ripped off Aviril Lavigne? And as for "IKEA: The Musical". Weird Al Yankovic does more original material than you, sir.
Mr. G: Yes. Well. Your opinion, David, is in the minority.
Dave: How do you know?
Mr. G: What?
Dave: How do you know? When was the last time you ASKED students what they thought instead of telling them what you wanted to do? I mean, if you're so incredibly talented and well-liked, how come when you quit in that hissy-fit no one said goodbye to you. So you had to unquit because no one cared...
Mr. G: That is a total lie and you know it. It would be a betrayal of the intense passion my students have for drama and performance.
Dave: You didn't ask them what they thought, though? Toby told me you did everything you could to stop him getting in that musical, even though all the kids thought he was brilliant. Even when you let him in, you dubbed over his voice. And the whole play was about you being worshipped by students, and you wanted to play yourself. I mean, seriously, I used to think that I was pathetic...
Mr. G: It just shows how much you know, doesn't it? I had to rewrite that play top to bottom, just because the Dicksons complained about their daughter's death being made the subject of a musical!
Dave: Yeah, Mr. G tries to help girl with drug habit. Nice work of fiction, dude, you don't try to help any students, do you?
Mr. G: I can either focus on constructing a lavish performing arts centre that would dwarf this school or I can fuss about the day-to-day problems of a bunch of ungrateful students...
Dave: The "Mr. G" performance arts centre, where productions of "Mr. G: The Musical" are performed, written and starring Mr. G as... Mr. G.
[Dave grins at him and finishes his lunch.]
Dave: You don't have much of an imagination do you?
Mr. G: I am a modern day Leonardo da Vinci.
Dave: Cowabunga. I bet he could have designed a performing arts centre that fitted dramatic sciences in it, especially if it was so big it blotted out the sun.
Mr. G: [sniffs] Have you been smoking? Drinking?
Dave: Nope. Stone cold sober. Terrifying, isn't it?
Mr. G: I don't have to put up with abuse. I am a highly respected teacher and if I recommend to the principal that you're expelled...
Dave: You don't even know who I am.
Mr. G: You're David... something.
Dave: Mmmm. Mr. G's incredible intellect strikes again. What does Mr. G stand for, anyway?
Mr. G: Gregson. But my friends call me Greg.
Dave: Why don't they call you by your first name?
Mr. G: Because I don't want them to!
Dave: Just curious, sir. Sounds like you're deeply ashamed of your real name.
Mr. G: You can think what you like, David...
Dave: Not that Mr. G is interested in what students think.
Mr. G: Fine, it's Hellen, right!
Mr. G: HELLEN! Too Ls!
[sudden understanding] Oh. Right. Sorry.
Mr. G: What?
Dave: I get it, sorry for the fuss.
Mr. G: Get what?
Dave: You like being called "MR. G", don't you? Don't like having a girl's name? Wanting to divert attention away from it all the time? Hatred for disabled, the idea of being stuck in a less-than-perfect body, the fact Mr. Parsons has the hots for you...
Mr. G: What are you implying?
Dave: Transsexuality is nothing to be ashamed of, I saw that Money or the Gun special way back. You want to be a man, go for it, girl.
Mr. G: I am not a girl.
Dave: No, course not. You've had the operation, I bet. Pity you can't find someone tolerant to share your life. There'll never be a Mrs. G...
Mr. G: THAT DOES IT! You're EXPELLED!
[Dave gets to his feet.]
Dave: You can't expell me, sir.
Mr. G: And why not?
Dave: I'm don't even go to school here! You're the only teacher to think I was!
[Chuckling, Dave wanders away. Mr. G watches him go, then kicks Celine furiously.]
[In another part of the school, a sign in an office window says "ANDREW BEEBLEBROX - ACTING COUNSELLOR AND CASUAL KEBAB MAKING WHILE-U-WAIT". Inside, Andrew sits behind a desk, making a kebab and talking animatedly.]
Andrew: You see, I'm sure it's all connected. Being the youngest of five children, raised by your father, forced to emigrate from Tonga at such a young age, followed only four years later by the death of your mother... how could all these factors NOT lead to defiance, to a hatred of order, and society? Your life has been chaotic, why should anyone else get it easy? Your pyromania, serious academic struggles, your inability to breakdance DESPITE the sheer amount of effort you put into it, all of these make sense to me. They're irritating, pointless and easily-avoidable, showing you to be a fundamentally stupid and selfish bastard who hasn't even the wit to realize the only reason the Year 7s are out to get you is because you've bullied them relentlessly since they arrived. But I UNDERSTAND.
[Sitting before him is Jonah Takalua, bored.]
Andrew: What puzzles me is this obsession with your tag. "Dicktation". Rather funny use of picture-writing the first time, but the 783rd time? I mean, can't you come up with something different? Original? Do you honestly think people look at it and go "Gee, I'm glad that Polynesian kid who looks like a white guy in his late 30s wearing shoe polish defaced our property!"? No one likes it. They'll just paint over it or wash it off and this tiny mark you've made on the world is erased. All you've done is waste paint and made everyone think the worse of you. I understand coming up with new tags is difficult for someone so totally illiterate and who only wants to read Harry Potter to see if Hermione gives Ron blow-jobs in between classes, but come on! You can draw, you understand the concepts of symbols and perceptions, you can do more than a very crude and anatomically-incorrect depiction of your own genitalia! It doesn't have to be great art, but just something DIFFERENT! You've been flogging this crap for years without variation or thought. You're better than this, surely? Or are you some kind of rubber stamp, unable to do anything but the same sodding trick that wasn't funny the first time? Is that what you want? To have no future destiny beyond your substandard present?
[Jonah yawns. Andrew finishes the kebab and starts to eat it.]
Andrew: Or am I wrong? Your penis obsession, Jonah, could be more significant than a crude attempt to shock people and get them talking about sex. Some might assume you were working out your homoerotic frustration, unable to admit you're gay since while all your friends and family are male but unerringly straight. Some might assume you simply felt inadequate and drew these phalluses to compensate. Me? I'm convinced that your tagging can mean only one thing.
[He finishes the kebab.]
Andrew: You're actually a boy trapped in a girl's body. Why else would you be at a school packed to the gills with such obvious transsexuals?
Jonah: Puck you, man.
Andrew: No, no, Jonah. Feel free to swear. It's not like anyone cares what you say or think any more, is it? Now, one last question - and I want you to be absolutely honest here - why DID you falsely accuse your father of sexually abusing you, risking putting him in jail as a sex offender for the rest of his life? What was so terrible and horrific that mercilessly destroying your own dad's life was better?
Jonah: I didn't want to do my assignment for English.
Andrew: Yes, very amusing. What was the real reason?
Jonah: That's it.
Andrew: So you thought, "Oh well, my dad's going to get dubbed a sex offender and none of the family will ever see him again because he's stuck in a jail cell somewhere getting beaten up for being a nonce." You thought "Oh well, the family's going to be split up and everyone will think I'm traumatized to the point of insanity because my father abused me." You thought, "but, on the bright side, I won't have to do one particular bit of homework for a few days. That's a good idea."
Andrew: And you did it anyway?
Andrew: Do you feel ashamed?
[Andrew gets up from the desk and collects a cricket bat from the hatstand by the door. He stands behind Jonah now.]
Andrew: I see. You know, Jonah, I think you need to be a bit more Bhuddist about life.
Jonah: Watcha mean, bro?
Andrew: Well. The Bhudda said that life is suffering. And you need to live a little.
[Andrew smashes the cricket bat over Jonah's head, slamming him to the floor. He slams the bat down on Jonah's ribs again and again and again, then smacks him in the face and starts kicking his head in repeatedly.]
Andrew: Sorry, Jonah, but even I have my limits.
[He grabs Jonah's bleeding, bruised head and then slams it against the corner of the desk a record twenty-two times. Then he lifts his leg, places his sandaled foot against Jonah's spine, and slams down until there is a hideous splintering sound. Jonah gurgles, screams and goes limp. Andrew jumps up and down on him for a few minutes, each time with a hideous crack.]
Andrew: Oh yeah, by the way, you know that locker you set fire to?
[Andrew empties a miniature tank of petrol over Jonah.]
Andrew: It wasn't mine. But I thought I'd do this anyway.
[He lights a match against the blood-spattered Jonah, who immediately is engulfed in flames. He moans and twitches, but cannot move. Andrew warms his hands as he burns.]
Andrew: Let's be honest here, Takalua, no one's gonna miss you.
[Jonah starts to scream.]
Andrew: Sad but true.
[Jonah's screams stop. Andrew picks up a fire extinguisher and douses the flames.]
Andrew: I'd say "see you in hell", but even Satan has some standards.
[Andrew turns and breaks the fourth wall completely.]
Andrew: Message recieved and understood, Mr. Lilley?
[Whistling, he turns and leaves. Jonah's corpse smolders on the floor.]
Andrew: [sings] She's a naughty girl with a, a bad habit, a bad habit for drugs...