noah krugston

Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.

“No problem hon,” Her dad called after her, happy to see that both of their moods had improved this weekend, while being none the wiser on why that was the case.

As for Galvin, we’re lucky that regeneration serum managed to fix his injuries. Even with the Wassengel, no one would support a blind, dickless eunuch for a king. But no serum could fix his shattered mind.” She looked down at the manacle on her arm, similar in design to the one Galvin used to control the Wassengel, and with a similar purpose. “Still, perhaps it wasn’t without its silver lining. My son was supposed to be my key to the throne, but the little cretin failed me at every turn. Now he’s finally useful to me, and all I had to do was take away his free will and turn him into a good little puppet. This was simply the excuse to do what had to be done. I can feel him fighting for control, feel his resentment, but it’s no matter. He will serve the purpose for his birth whether he likes it or not.”