KEOKUK, Iowa. An aversion to grade school is typical of a young boy’s psychological make-up, but in the case of sixth-grader Timmy Nash, the extreme loathing with which he faced each day at Hayden Fry Middle School far exceeded the norm. “Timmy has a severe case of Osgood Schlatter’s Disease,” says his mother June, as she glances out her kitchen window, avoiding this reporter’s gaze. “The kids used to tease him unmercifully, although now that I mention it, I’ve never heard of anyone being teased mercifully.”
Proper application of “noogie” to sixth-grader’s head.
It took an uploaded video to bring the young boy’s plight to the attention of someone outside his family, who as devoted Presbyterians are forbidden to complain about anything other than the personal faults of spouses. “He took my cellphone when I went into the grocery store for a moment, and just cried his little heart out,” June Nash says, fighting back tears. “Then he posted it on the internet, and thank God a violent motorcycle gang saw it.”
It was the Satan’s Disciples of Oskaloosa, Iowa, who encountered the tape of the young boy bawling into his mother’s phone about the mistreatment he faced every day. “It literally broke my heart,” says gang member Ron “Pig Pen” Dormetzger. “Here I am innocently scrolling for porn sites and I come across this cute little kid who just wants to be left alone.”
So the gang fired up their Harley-Davidson motorcycles and set out on the two-hour drive to Keokuk, with their mufflers removed and “headers open,” producing a roar that could be heard miles in advance of their convoy. “We like to give people plenty of warning,” says Duane “Mad Dog” Quinn, recording secretary of the group who keeps the minutes of their beer-fueled meetings. “It gives innocent townfolk the opportunity to hide their daughters,” he adds with a leer. “It’s a public service we provide, to help preserve Iowa’s virgins, an increasingly endangered species.”
“You got 2 choices: give Timmy back his crayons or I make a shop class ashtray out of your head.”
Using a GPS device the gang found the bullied young boy on the playground, where a group of sadistic eighth graders was in the process of dismantling a six-foot snowman that he and other sixth graders had carefully constructed over the past week. “Whassup?” Dormetzger said menacingly as he approached the older boys, carrying a heavy log chain in his hands.
“Uh, nothin’,” says Tommy Weisdorph, a handsome blonde-headed boy who is captain of the school’s basketball team.
“Doesn’t look like nothin’,” says Quinn, his eyes narrowed to grim little slits. “Looks like somethin’–somethin’ that’s no good.”
“Honest, mister,” says Mark DeLoy, eighth-grade class president who intervenes in the hope of heading off trouble. “We were just having fun and . . .”
Dormetzger gets up in DeLoy’s face and says “Well, what’s fun for you may not be fun for the kids who built it, see?” he says as he hefts the chain in his hand and gives it a few preparatory swings in the air. “So . . . why don’t you guys have some fun putting Mr. Snowman back together.”
“But the snow’s scattered all over the playground now,” DeLoy begins, “and recess ends in five . . .”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you have to go to the North Pole to get snow,” Quinn says, his breath hot and unpleasant from the stub of a cigar he’s been smoking, and the fact that his flossing habits are considered sub-standard by the American Association of Dental Hygienists.
“We ain’t leavin’ until you fix that bleepin’ snowman, punk!”
“Okay, sure,” says Weisdorph, as he and the other bigger boys get to work scooping up snow with their hands and applying it to the nearly-demolished snowman with little efficiency and less art.
“Is there a Valentine’s Day Dance coming up at your school?” Quinn asks Nash.
“Yes,” Timmy replies in a disconsolate tone.
“You got a date?”
“No.”
“Well, who’s the prettiest girl in the school?” Dormetzger asks.
“His girlfriend,” the young boy says, pointing at Weisdorph. “Alison McKechnie.”
“Izzat so?” Quinn says, as he puffs on his cigar.
“Well I’m sure he wouldn’t care if you took her instead–would you?” Dormetzger says as he bumps the basketball captain with his ample beer belly.
“Uh, I guess not,” Weisdorph says, as he looks up from scraping snow from the ground, then returns to his task with hurried, slapdash movements, hoping to avoid a pummeling.
“Good, good–now we’re getting somewhere,” Dormetzger says.
“Well, I guess our work here is done,” Quinn says. “Anything else we can do for you?” he asks Nash.
The boy shuffles his feet, then begins to speak hesitantly. “Could I maybe have one of your cigars?”
The two gang members laugh at their precocious young friend, and Quinn reaches in his colorfully-decorated blue jean jacket. “Sure kid, knock yourself out,” he says as he hands him a stubby cigarillo-style Jamaican smoke. “Anything else?”
“Well, just one other thing.”
“What?” Quinn asks.
“Can I have a condom?”
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