Story #104: Smarty-Pants to Farty-Pants (Part 2)

(The rest of the story from part 1) When I'd gone down there, I'd been surprised to see how unsupervised it often became. The staffing was clearly inadequate, with the primary teacher being personally unfit to do what they were doing. I didn't have evidence, but I'd suspected that their degree was from the back of a cereal box. I was allowed to give my sanctimonious speech, though most of the kids didn't seem to care about what I was saying. The ones who understood me were annoyed by my condescension, and the ones that couldn't, were more preoccupied with sucking their thumbs or picking their noses. This was where I learned that this speech idea hadn't been something the teacher had come up with. Dylan had been the one to request that someone come and do it; he was being 'proactive' with his education, which itself was a laughable idea. After my speech had ended, the teacher had gotten a phone call and had left the room. The teacher even had the gall to ask if I could watch over the class for 'like ten minutes'. Aside from this being unprofessional (and definitely illegal), I actually didn't mind. It was power and it was recognition of my capabilities! Apparently these phone calls were something that happened often, and around the same time every day too. Dylan hadn't just known this, he had planned everything around it. His entire scheme had hinged on his teacher being poorly qualified and getting a phone call that would take them out of the room. That's when Dylan finally confronted me about the 'r-word'. I hardly knew what he meant, until he repeated back to me the exact diatribe I'd gone on about over him. I really thought I was about to get beat up. Dylan had a solid four or five inches on me, and he was certainly more well-built, but that's not what he wanted to do to me. His plans were much bigger than a black eye or some bruises. I can't remember what I said to him at that point, but I at least remember that it wasn't anything resembling an apology. More likely, it was me venting my frustrations about how I hated when he left this class to come back to the normal one, because he disrupted things and because he was too far behind for there to be a point to it. Dylan did punch me, but not in the face. He hit me in the gut and I went down faster than a five-foot Jenga tower. He'd rolled me over onto my back, while I groaned about the pain he'd inflicted, and then he'd gestured to one of his 'classmates' to come over. Willard Wampum. I knew his name because he was now *my* classmate. He was the biggest, dumbest kid in the special ed class, and he *hated* the 'r-word' being said about him or his fellow students. He was hardly older than Dylan or me, but he was easily a hundred pounds heavier, and his girth meant that he'd already spent most of his preteen years in adult sized diapers. Willard would become Dylan's tool of destruction in that moment. The blubbery boy had stripped off his pants and gotten down to just his soggy diaper. The garment seemed massive, even if it did appear a little tight on the tubby tard. That diaper would be the last thing I saw with my normal intellect. Wampum had first hovered his padded butt right above my face and let a few toots sputter out, as if to tease me with what would be coming next. Dylan reiterated that I'd said 'retard' about him, and that I needed to learn a lesson that I'd never forget, for thinking that I was so much better and smarter than everyone else. At first, I'd thought that only meant the disgust of having a diaper get filled right above me, but that wasn't the torment that Dylan had in mind. Willard sat on my face. Not with his full weight at first, thankfully. With my nose forced to nuzzle into the diaper, the moron began to openly rip farts with all the force he could muster. The rumbling and the thunder was humiliating, but the way that the diaper got warm was worse; then the gas became merely a byproduct of the real effort being made. Willard was filling his big dopey diaper with poop. Log after log got strained out into the back, and I had to smell each and every deposit that got made. At some point, during his ceaseless defecation, the chunky dolt stopped holding back the brunt of his weight; his padded butt, which was now warm and smelly from the multiple pounds of droppings inside, came down fully on his face. This was what Dylan had really wanted. He hadn't simply wanted to humiliate me with degenerate bullying; he wanted me to become the very thing that I'd carelessly accused him of being. He knew how long the teacher would be out, and he knew that Willard would be the perfect pawn in his plan. After a minute of the full weight being on me, I'd started to freak out and frantically move around underneath the hefty boy. Things had gotten dark for me. Things had gotten foggy. The only constant was the smell of poop and the crackling sound of more being pushed out into the diaper on top of me. I'd blacked out. It had been a morbid plan, from a morbid kid, with a morbid result. My oxygen had been replaced by dirty diaper fumes for far too long, as I laid underneath the filling seat, and in basic terms, that oxygen deprivation had given me brain damage. The first time it had happened had been bad enough to get me temporarily transferred into special ed; nobody knew what had happened to me, and I'd hardly been able to remember myself, since I'd just woken up on the floor of the class with soaked pants and a dump in my briefs. My cognition had definitely taken a hit though, and so the plan would be for me to stay in SPED while things got sorted out. But then it happened again, and again, and again. Each session underneath the weight of Willard's loaded diaper was making the damage worse and worse. A couple of weeks of that and the brain damage was severe enough for Dylan to finally stop. His depraved little scheme had been a success; after being forced to huff enough Huggies, I had become mentally retarded for real. That brought things to today. Dylan had been pleading a case for me to have the same opportunity for 'mixed lessons' as him. He wanted me to come 'socialize' with my previous peers, at least for a little time each day, because he claimed it might help me out. The real reason was because he wanted to make me the very thing I'd complained about; he wanted *me* to be the disrupter, to be the anchor that kept everyone from going at a developmentally appropriate pace. That was certainly the case right now. In a twisted parallel, the teacher from this class had to temporarily leave the room to deal with an emergency, and that's when Dylan had taken my pants away from me. He'd left me in the onesie and he'd been telling everyone how pitiful I was in the special ed class. My misfortune had been to prove him right too, since I'd helplessly begun to soil myself in front of the class. "P-POOPIE! LOOKAT POOPIE!" I announced, or rather, I demanded. My face turned as red as a fire engine and fittingly I began to blast the backside of my dirty diaper with mush that had the force of a powerful fire hose. Snot bubbles formed and popped in my nose and my eyes drifted off in different directions; any semblance of intellect that my former classmates might have considered me to still have...That was fading fast. The boiling muck splattered and squelched as it flooded the diaper; each trumpet note brought more filth to pinch off, and once I'd turned my diaper into a bog of 'squishies', it was time for the grand finale. An extremely large log started to push itself out; so firm and solid that the back of my onesie grew a knobby tenting bulge that got larger and larger until-- --**POP!** There went the buttons on the onesie. My stinky diaper sagged fully out, no longer constricted by the taut garment. With that, I could also feel that this was how things would now always be. A smarty-pants made into a farty-pants.