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`The searing California sun bore down on the whole playing field. Tommy caught John's bomb from across the grass, an end zone to end zone flick that soared over every head of the opposing team before he snatched the frisbee and landed for the third consecutive touchdown.
"Yeah, buddy!" Tommy exclaimed. Grass blades flew off him as he rose from the ground and ran to high five the rest of the team. "Sorry, Mr. Kingwe just had to fly it over your old bag! Just kidding, teach!"

"Yeah, I bet, you little scum bag," whispered the eighth-grade Language Arts teacher at Park View Intermediate. Tommy was one for biting humor and was very vocal about his dislike for his English teacher. Friends often wondered aloud why Tommy insisted on playing the frisbee football games. Many think he played to show up the older teacher. Mr. King waved Tommy off and jogged over to his backpack. Reaching inside for the water bottle, he spied the new frisbee disc. Its edges gleamed unnaturally. Carefully grasping the outer edge was hard to do. The shiny new blades of twenty generic razors mercilessly sliced even the inventor if he grabbed it too hasty.
"Hey, Tommy!" called Mr. King. He smiled slightly. "Let's try my new disc!" Deftly, he grabbed a four-inch razorless gap, the spot specially made for this moment. Mr. King had been quite patient enough with whom he so eagerly wished to teach a lesson. "Catch this!"
"Why? It's our turn to throw; we got the score-"
Tommy's gaping mouth instantly filled with three flying bugs. The sun shone brightly in the eighth grader's eyes. They were not bugs; they were his fingers. Three of them from his throwing hand had bounced into his mouth. His index finger and part of his thumb dangled from the bloody stumps. He couldn't speak. Not now. No more undaunted verbal shots at the teacher; no more bragging about the score.
Tommy Hildre could only stare as his body fell in a heap next to his severed head.
Every student/player froze. The teacher stood. He admired his toss. Boys scattered screaming, Mr. King smiled. He walked past the 13 year old's twitching, decapitated body and retrieved the new frisbee. Fresh blood dripped from all twenty blades. Mr. King nodded his head as if admiring his new toy.
The silent, once-screaming little shits stopped and huddled together at the drinking fountain, where the grass stops and the basketballs bounce on asphalt. Every other middle school student on campus saw nothing out of the ordinary and so continued with whatever they

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