Detention of Doom: Mitchell’s Mathematical Mayhem

The fluorescent lights of detention flickered like Mitchell’s last remaining brain cell. His caretaker bro slumped in a chair nearby, resignation etched deeper than the wrinkles in Mitchell’s overstuffed pamper.

“How’d you even get detention?” his bro muttered, more statement than question.

Mitchell just grunted. The truth was irrelevant. Detention was happening, and he was going to make it an experience.

His buddies outside the classroom window pressed their calculators against the glass, solving complex equations while Mitchell solved the complex mathematics of how much destruction one oversized toddler could cause in a single room.

Midway through the hour, Mitchell’s caretaker bro started doing push-ups. Because why not? Detention was a prison of boredom, and movement was sanity.

One. Two. Three push-ups.

Mitchell watched, a predatory gleam in his eye.

PFFFFFFTTTTT!

A nuclear-grade fart erupted from Mitchell’s pamper, a sonic boom of pure toddler terror. His bro, mid-push-up, caught the full brunt of the assault directly to the face.

The smell was a war crime.

Mitchell grunted. Satisfaction achieved.

His bro continued push-ups, now solving calculus problems between breaths, while Mitchell loaded up his pamper with the precision of a tactical waste deployment.

Detention: Dominated.