Must have been the winter of '68-69. The principal's voice at my dodgy school burst from the brown speaker box every class had above and behind the teacher. "There will be no further sword fights with icicles permitted on the school grounds. Will the boys responsible for today's icicle incident please report immediately to the office."
All the boys sat there in their wasn't me faces. Alice Cooper would not turn himself in. Alice Cooper would have killed the little motherfucker, wrote a song about it and made a million.
A boy from another class, who thought he was Zorro, had been stabbed by a dogpile-sized gang of school boys armed with icicles as long as three feet. The ice had glinted in the sun like a switchblade in a moonlit alley as the swords found their mark. When the school boys were done Zorro was left lying in the snow with about 200 painful bruises.
One boy hollered,"Better luck next time Zorro!" as the gang disappeared into the riot of other school children enjoying their lunch break and viciously attacking one another.
Wasn't me.
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