Characters: Sue, Will, the usual suspects (Gen, Humor)
Summary: Another day, another would-be victim trying to throw herself under a bus…
Author's Notes: A late birthday treat for wrldpossibility, who wanted some Sue Sylvester. And who doesn't?
Also for writers_choice, this is "School."
The only thing worse than lacking the stones to do a job was standing around and arguing about how someone who had them ought to be handling the situation.
Will Schuester didn't have the stones, but he could talk an idea to death. He and that bug-eyed clean-freak were probably off in some corner spinning their wheels over who was going to coax that glue-sniffing Jane Austen groupie off the ledge.
It wasn't like Sue had anything better to do, except polish her trophies and oh yeah—spend six hours rehearsing the routine that would bump up her winning streak at Nationals to a record five-time run. The only thing standing in the way was that hair-challenged harpie of an English teacher wailing Sylvia Plath poems from the termite-ridden rafters of Sue's gym.
Sue waded through the doorway crowd, bullhorn in hand. "Give it a rest, Tori Amos—you're peeling paint off the walls."
The noise from above stopped abruptly, followed by tentative scuffling as Mary Ellen or whoever the hell she was looked down. The room fell silent.
That's right, get her talking. "I heard your boyfriend left you for a better man."
Everyone gasped. Some people thought this kind of situation called for delicacy, but those people weren't Sue Sylvester.
"That's not true! Where did you hear that?"
Keep your opponent on the defensive. "So what was it, then?"
The teacher smoothed down her hair and straightened her blouse. "A misunderstanding."
"Really. A misunderstanding." Sue waved the bullhorn at the ceiling. "And just like that, you're itching for a closed-casket funeral…"
"No!" the teacher said. "I just… needed someplace to think, away from pressure." She seemed to suddenly notice the crowd below, witnessing her self-created crisis. "But I'm finished now." She began inching her way across the rafters toward the ladder she'd kicked to the floor. The Ken-doll quarterback rushed over to be a hero, meeting her with it halfway.
Sue watched the woman scurry down the ladder—those granny panties obviously weren't going to help her problems with men—and then added the kicker:
"I heard the math department was already fighting over dibs on your parking space."
The woman gasped and fled through the door, denim skirt flapping as she stumbled over her clogs on the way out.
Sue turned to the crowd at large, watching them blink like moles in the sunlight—Figgins and Schuester, that sweaty-sausage gym teacher, and some hygiene-nightmare of a guy she could swear the School Board fired last week.
They were useless, all of them, with no more sense than a baby behind the wheel of a bulldozer. Pathetic.
She waved them on, out of the doorway, out of the gym where there was work to be done.
They didn't even look back, shuffling away like the mindless sheep they were.
"You're welcome," she barked through the bullhorn, before locking the doors behind them.
Time to start getting this year's award-winning cheer routine off the ground...
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