This is story about poor little James Randall, an old classmate of mine who ended up getting viciously murdered at a New York Pizzeria. Now people I know say this was entirely an accident, but they are wrong. I knew what happened to the unfortunate bastard, and it was murder. Callous, ruthless murder. He did not trip into an oversized pizza oven and have it wedged shut on accident, because accidents like that just don't happen. The police reports circulated; he had a concussion on the back of his head at the time of his pitiable demise in that pizzeria oven. One blow; just one. James did not repeatedly ram his head into the oven door to get out, and the people who drew this conclusion are in denial. They are in denial because they couldn't comprehend why anyone would do such a thing to sweet James Randall, the young little boy who died in the New York Pizzeria.
James Randall was a High School freshman at the time of my Sophomore year. He was a tiny little boy even in comparison to the other High School freshman, standing at an intimidating four-feet seven inches. Well, nobody but him thought it was intimidating. James had a Napoleon complex. You know those people, right? Those people who are exceptionally small, and thus have an urge to over-assert themselves around everybody to compensate for the fact that they're probably not going to get laid in High School. Well he doesn't, because he ends up getting murdered in a New York Pizzeria. Which is a shame, because aside from him trying to act tough, James was also a remarkably sweet young boy. At least that's what he convinced people he was, mainly because he's small and tiny and had that boyish charm that would make an all-female Catholic High School locker room a bit more humid. Take that as you will.
That's what he would've wanted anyway; he certainly exerted himself a lot to convince people how sweet and earnest he was. But as I mentioned, he often abused this to his advantage to hide the fact that he was far more conniving than we would expect from a little man with such a little head. And who could blame him? When one is an androgynous four-and-a-half foot freshman in High School, what wouldn't they do to get by? He certainly had better options than I: short but not short enough to take advantage of it, malnourished and incredibly underweight, and right in the middle of pubescence and with enough acne to get pity from burn victims. Not from him, though. When he becomes a burn victim he'll be dead. But on that note, how I ended up with a girlfriend for the better of of year is beyond me.
Speaking of which, poor little James Randall made that one mistake against me and my girlfriend. I was a sophomore now, immediately out of that status quo everyone would make an effort to torture. He was in it now, and I was not. The unspoken rule is that you don't fuck with a sophomore, and in this case, sweet tiny James was attempting to do it in both a metaphorical and literal sense. My girlfriend was an incredibly short girl, even as a sophomore. Standing at a whopping four-foot nine inches, she was what one would call "fun-sized". But she was on the opposite end of the spectrum of that particular complex; she was an extremely quiet and shy girl, which again is all the more baffling considering how loud and obnoxious your humble narrator could be. But she looked just young enough to lure this panting slobbering freshman over. His charm did not work on her. She was taller than he was, which I found extremely depressing, and I made this point very clear to my girlfriend. I certainly couldn't blame him, because despite how "homely" she dressed she was extremely attractive. "Why is she with that ugly kid" kind of attractive.
But I did not approve, and neither did she. She told him no, yet he persisted. He said she was as cute as a doll--which was true--but she was my doll. As her boyfriend, I felt a need to step in after the third week this was going on. Why three weeks? Because she was teasing me for having a stalker and this was my way of enacting revenge on her. And I had to. It got to the point where she slapped him. This infuriated me because he would force her to do that, but largely because she only slapped me at this point and thus felt like I was cheated on. That beautiful ivory palm was supposed to only propel itself into MY face. He got ready to pin her against the locker, but again being smaller than she was, did not work out as planned. Especially after I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off. I threw him off and he slammed his head against the corner of a stone planter. This was not the aforementioned concussion to the back of the head he took when he was trapped in that New York Pizzeria oven and burned to death. But this got his ire and said it would be the death of me and my girlfriend. Apparently his father had some mob connections. He didn't look Italian, though. James Randall wasn't even an Italian name. But he made a threat on my life, and as soon as the teacher showed up he started crying and saying I gave him a concussion. This particular teacher knew the history of violence I had, and thus wouldn't listen to my rationalizations of the story despite telling the entirety of the truth this time. He was still suspicious of how a former student with Aspergers died from having his eyes gouged out in a local hospital about a year ago, and considered me the primary suspect. I was suspended for the rest of the day.
This upset me a great deal, so I went to the New York Pizzeria in town to mope. I had an hour to kill, so I drank and I ate and I ate and I drank until I was completely nauseated. My girlfriend was meeting me there after school, and I would guess that sweet little James Randall would be following her. And all be it, he was. He saw me in there and grimaced.
"What a dingy little Pizza place. I should get father to buy me it."
I said nothing.
"The pizza probably tastes like shit though. If I fired the management, I could make this place great."
I started grinding my teeth.
"And it would be a great place to burn the bodies father deals with. You wouldn't believe the people father deals with."
I smirked in agreement.
"And I would probably have that sweet little girl Amelia to myself."
My girlfriend gagged.
"You don't have long, you know. You shouldn't fuck with me."
He said this while peering around the ovens. Everyone was in the stockroom while little James Randall looked at the authentic New York Pizzeria ovens. I grabbed my beer bottle and struck him in the back of the head with as much force as possible. This was that one blow to the head he took. My girlfriend sighed but didn't seem to care. I hoisted his worming body up into the oven and slammed the door shut. These were big ovens meant to house a lot of pizzas with them, but they were also just big enough to house sweet James in there as well. I grabbed an iron rod and wedged it into the door handle. When he regained consciousness, he noticed me cranking on the oven to max heat. He started screaming and yelling at me, but I couldn't hear a damn thing he was saying, and neither could the owners in the backroom. They were soundproof, and being from New York I wouldn't doubt if they were used to burn bodies at some point. I didn't stick around to see what happened. Apparently the iron rod felt out at one point and his charred shrieking body slumped out onto the door. Before I saw that, I told my girlfriend that my mom isn't home and we should go play some Melee until my brother gets home. He won't be ordering pizza tonight, at least not from the New York Pizzeria.
By the way, fantastic pizzeria. If you're in Manteca by any chance, I would wholeheartedly recommend stopping by there. Tell Frank I said hello.
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