Rob Stanmore was lying in misery on the floor of the boy's changing room. Green paper towels muffled the sound of his groaning and his wrists were tightly bound by his own school tie. His Ralph Lauren school shirt had been torn to pieces and flushed down the toilet, and on his bare chest the word "WHORE" had been carefully spelled out in pink lipstick. The fact that he was still wearing his trousers would have provided him a last vestige of dignity, had they not been soaked, drenched, dripping in four kinds of nerd piss.
This kind of ritualised humiliation was not something Stanmore was at all used to. No, for while he may have been of a slight build (that is to say, he was short) there was no doubt that he was officially one of the Popular Kids. He was good at football. His trousers fit. His brown hair was cut short and gelled into the regulation style. And he wasn't afraid to talk tough in a group situation. Being one of the popular kids gave him a sense of invincibility. He could dish it out but he didn't have to take it. There was always some tough dufus or other to stand up for him if anyone tried to answer back.
But there was one thing Stanmore hadn't taken into account. A crack team of disaffected youth; the rejects, the unwanted, the strange. NERD SQUADRON. Their glasses were thick, and their trousers without exception were either too short, too grey, too rough, or too badly repaired by Mum's crude patchwork with loose threads and a bad colour match.
The trouble had started earlier that day during double maths. While it was Chris Atkinson's favourite lesson of the week, it had in recent times been ruined by the incessant guffawing of one Robert Stanmore and his oafish friends. He had remarked this in a quiet aside to Peter Mayhew, computer whizz and all round social retard. A critical mass of nose mucus had accumulated in the internal passageways of Mayhew's poorly functioning respiratory system, and the humour of Atkinson's aside ("I wish that short bastard would shut up") caused an exceptionally violent snort, sending a yellow-green semi-liquid projectile to fly out of Mayhew and up into the air of the bustling classroom. One can only speculate on whether Fate had a certain target in mind for this projectile. Whatever the case, it landed with some force between eyeball and eyelid of our friend Robert Stanmore, and the ensuing commotion resulted in his ejection from the classroom. Stanmore had looked directly at Mayhew before leaving, mouthing the phrase "You're dead mate" and miming throat cutting with a single outstretched forefinger. Mayhew, quiet and of a tender nature, had found this to be incredibly distressing. He did his best to stay out of trouble, and besides, the whole incident could hardly be said to be his fault. Schoolpals Chris Atkinson and Iain Strang offered words of strength and condolence. This was exactly the kind of situation they had formed Nerd Squadron for.
It was agreed over lunch break that some kind of pre-emptive strike was in order. Nerd Squadron was now in session, sitting at their usual picnic table with lunchboxes open. The fourth member of the group, David Bryant, was now also present, sitting on the very end of the bench and noisily sucking the last few drops out of a pouch of Capri-Sun. Bryant was the weirdest member of the team. He didn't say much, and when he did it was usually about cars. He liked cars. The sleeves of his school jacket bore the logos of several brands of engine oil.
"The Stan-meister isn't gonna forget about the snotstrike," Atkinson pointed out. Strang sniggered, gurning slightly. "We have to do something or else Pete's gonna get it." Mayhew supressed the tears and nodded seriously. Atkinson cracked a devilish smile and pulled a tube of lipstick out of his shirt pocket. "So I reckon we need a plan."
Bryant rocked backwards and forwards. Strang sniggered. Mayhew breathed heavily. Atkinson whispered a silent prayer and lay a hand face down in the middle of the table. One, two, three, four; they piled up their hands, and cheered, cheered...
"NERD SQUADRON! NOTHING CAN DEFEAT US!"
