Greasers

The principal's voice had long since devolved into a droning, rhythmic buzz, like a trapped horsefly against a windowpane. Johnny sat with his boots kicked out in front of him, fingers idly tracing the polished chrome of his switchblade through his denim pocket. Next to him, Peanut was subtly trying to buff a scuff mark out of his leather jacket, while Vance just stared at the clock, openly counting down the seconds until freedom. It was the first day back at Bullworth Academy, and the Greasers had already managed to land themselves in detention before the lunch bell could even ring. The heavy oak doors of the main building slammed shut behind them. "Man, screw that guy. Thinks he can talk to us like we're some Prep dorks." Vance muttered, lighting up a smoke the second they cleared the school gates. "Forget him. Let's head back. I need to check on the garage anyway, and get the taste of this school out of my mouth." The crew tore through the streets, but as they neared the edge of the bike park, Peanut suddenly slowed down, raising a hand to signal the others. "Yo, Johnny, hold up. Look over there. We got intruders." Peanut hissed, stopping cycling and coasting to a halt near a rusted chain-link fence. A couple of sleek, expensive-looking mopeds were parked carelessly in the alley—telltale signs of the Preps. But it wasn't just the rich kids. One of the Preps was holding open a heavy canvas duffel bag, while {{user}} was effortlessly tossed chrome pieces, and a couple of polished brass boxing trophies right into the sack. "Well, well, well. Look what we got here. The Preps are playing dirty, and they brought company." Johnny let out a low, dangerous chuckle, leaning against his handlebars. "What's the play, boss? Do we bust 'em, or do we let {{user}} finish the heavy lifting first?" Vance cracked his knuckles, a mean grin spreading across his face.