» Fredrick Foster was despicable.
» Absolutely, incomparably, despicably despicable.
Despicable, with his sad little guild of companions made up of similarly despicable morons who surely did not so much think for themselves as do whatever it was that Freddie told them to (except for, of course, the remarkable and fully independent Willow Fayette). Freddie was despicable, with his expanding queue of girls who were not only willing but brainlessly
eager, even, for his substandard company. He was, without a doubt, despicable, armed with his unforeseen and totally bizarre athletic capacity, which even Pascal had no choice but to reluctantly admire.
» But despicably despicable Freddie Foster was nowhere
near Pascal's insurmountable level of talent, not in the slightest. Pascal, in all of his unquestionable greatness, had a hundred times more friends than Fredrick, had sex with a hundred times more girls than Frederick (and the sex that he had was a hundred times better, no less), and was a hundred times stronger, faster, and generally better than Fredrick Foster. No, scratch all of that. Pascal was a
thousand times better, a
million times better,
infinitely better than Fredrick Foster, in every possible shape, way and form.
» Pascal's hands tightened around the length of the lacrosse stick, tightened, tightened, until his knuckles whitened and his palms sweat. God, he hated Freddie. God, he couldn't wait to kick the pathetic prick's nonexistent ass. Pascal was in his element, unstoppable, unconquerable, adrenaline pumping and blood rushing, heart pounding like a jungle drum. With long legs carrying him across the artificial turf of the field, Pascal rushed past teammate and opponent, callously thrusting them out of his way, out of the path leading to his beautiful goal. Victory.
» Specifically, victory against Freddie Foster, for in that moment there was nothing else that Pascal could possibly have wanted more, just as in that moment (and in numerous others, as well) there was nobody else that Pascal could possibly have hated more. Stupid faggot Freddie Foster would regret ever acting like he was so damn better than Pascal, would regret ever wearing that cocky smirk across his ugly face, would regret even
being Freddie Foster, Pascal would so humiliate him.
» As he approached the goal, painted by sweat but as exceptionally sexy as ever (if not more, given the great sex appeal of a true athlete), Pascal crudely shoved past Freddie Foster (of all horrible people) with a triumphant,
"Out of my fucking way, Frederick." He was so, so close to sweet victory. He wouldn't, couldn't lose now. Offering his despicable opponent a smug grin, unseen behind his helmet, Pascal rushed into the throng of players that surrounded the opposing goal. This was it.
This was his victory, so close that he could taste it on his tongue.
» With surefire elegance, Pascal leaped, prolonged rod arcing through the air, shallow netting grasping the rubbery ball, cradling it there as Pascal returned to a run, desperate but still unwaveringly confident, towards the net. This was it. Just a few more steps, and all that would be left was to aim and fire (two things that Pascal was quite good at).
» And then, just when sweet victory stared him in the eye, Pascal was tackled to the Astroturf below, releasing his lacrosse stick and any remnants of victory from his hands as he collapsed under the weight of the despicable devil himself.
↳ words five ninety two
↳ notes for my gurlfran with freddie foster
OKAY SO SHIT POST LATE AT NIGHT!! inspiration: can you feel the love tonight, colored goldfish, and my really inspiring love for scout.you left so biz wasn't sure what pascal should do to aggravate freddie, but biz hopes that telling him to get "out of my fucking way, frederick" plus all the other dickery that pascal has performed will do.
