Math was her favorite class, but not because she particularly enjoyed math or the teacher. Rather, it was the only class where regular desks had been replaced by tables, and Joel was assigned to the chair to her right. Joel was both her reason for living and the bane of her existence. He noticed her all right, but in the way that you notice a younger sister or a clever pet. Definitely not in the way that he noticed Jennifer. But some days he would flash her a smile and a joke, and if she were really lucky she’d feel his leg brush hers under the table.

And so it was one of those days she was hoping for. She had worn her new shirt, her best jeans that she’d washed the night before, and she'd put up her hair the way that Jennifer sometimes did. She quickly and densely filled in the heart with Joel's name in it as he came into the classroom and slumped into his chair, dumping his books on the table. He stretched his legs out, his foot shoved against hers, and asked her what she thought about the History exam they’d just taken.

It was just then, in that moment, when she was flushed both from the thought of his foot touching hers and the frustration of the History exam that she knew she hadn't studied enough for, that she felt something strange at the back of her pant leg. She reached her hand to the back of her knee. It felt soft and lumpy. Realizing that it must be a sock that had worked its way into her jeans in the wash, she leaned down and reached her hand up her pant leg to pull it out.

And that was how it happened to be that as Joel was asking her about Benjamin Franklin's work in Paris, she pulled a pair of panties out of her jeans. "Oh my God, NOT a sock!" she thought as she quickly tried to dispose of them, somewhere, anywhere. They wouldn't go back up her pant leg. She didn't have her book bag. She had worn those too-tight jeans that took serious effort to put anything in the pockets. Horrified, she sat there; pink Tuesday panties bunched in her hand, hoping he wouldn't notice. But it was too late.

"Whatcha got?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she cried, her face burning.

He snatched the panties out of her hand, whooped with laughter, and showed them to Matt, who grabbed them and tossed them over to Nick. It wasn't long before the teacher had the room back under control with threats of detentions, but her panties had disappeared.

She never found out what happened to her panties, and she flinched for the next four years whenever someone shouted "Hey Tuesday!" down the hall.

Freshman always get picked on, this is true no matter where you live. The rest of the school gets the permission and the duty to harass, embarrass, and in any way scandalize the poor kids who are expected to cry in the bathrooms instead of growing a backbone. I was a freshman, and I had just moved to the city. I figured it was a new beginning. Upon entering through the doors, the inspections, and metal detectors, I decided I wasn’t going to let anyone have their way with me. I was going to grow a backbone. I was ready. My bag was checked and I proceeded to wait in line for the metal detector.

My thoughts drifted, and my eyes wandered to a girl in a miniskirt standing in front of me. She was holding a little bag that looked more like a purse that was slung over one shoulder, and struck a pose with her other resting on her jutting hip. I advanced slowly with the line and I began to realize that my backbone which had been carefully crafted in my consciousness was beginning to melt. We both advanced through the security gates and I began to follow her down the hallway. She stopped at a locker, and I wiped the sweat from my brow as I advanced. I cleared my throat and rested my hand on the locker in front of hers. As if in slow motion she flipped her golden hair to the side and began to turn her delicate head towards me. My first glimpse was not towards her eyes but towards her chest, which to my surprise was flat. I started to look up and noticed that her neck slightly muscular. I looked up further to see her face, a face with a stubble beard and a thin moustache, the face of a MAN! My face contorted, my stomach twisted, and I cried out with disgust.

I rushed into the nearest men’s bathroom; my cheeks bulged, my eyes watering. I burst into the nearest stall and began to vomit before the door was fully open. To my continued horror I found the stall occupied by a burly looking upperclassman that immediately began to curse. It was too late; my momentum carried me fully on top of him, still heaving all over the stall, and mainly on him. From his sitting position he threw me against the door, which slammed shut behind me. He stood up and pulled his pants up with one fluent motion and took the one step to close his distance from the toilet to myself. Just then, as I wiped my mouth and came to my senses I took a blow to the jaw. Rightfully deserved in any respect, freshman or not. I became dizzy and promptly fell to the floor in a puddle of vomit and foul water. I thought my life was going to end right then and there, but I blacked out.

When I came to, my vision was blurry, and my hands were tied. I shook my head, and stared straight ahead until my vision cleared enough to recognize the cross dresser and the toilet guy standing opposite one another, both talking. I let a slight agonizing moan escape my wet face. My shirt smelt like rotten chowder, and I turned my head enough to see my hands tied securely to a bathroom door. They advanced on me, I gave the best groan I could muster, and then the punches came. Girly slaps to the face, and rib breaking punches and kicks to the stomach. I began to ignore the pain; I was past feeling the pain. I deserved it, I’m positive of that, but it began to seem so funny all of a sudden. I started laughing uncontrollably, so loud, and so disturbing that my two new friends got scared and hurried out of the bathroom and along with their lives. They thought enough to remove the ropes that bound me before they left, and when at last a teacher found me, I was still laughing hysterically on the ground, bloody and bruised.

They brought me to a hospital. They treated me for my injuries, and asked what had happened, but I couldn’t bring myself to explain what had happened. All I could do was laugh. They said that school wasn’t the right place for me. They put me in a white room with tables and chairs attached to the ground. I giggled and shook my head as other people were brought into the room in straight jackets. My shirt had been replaced; it no longer smelt like rotting chowder, it was like everyone else’s. Was this the worst day of my life? Or was I finally where I belonged?

Hee, Hee, Hee!

My name is Brian Benjamin. Last year I was a freshman at Calvin Coolidge High School. This year I'll be a s0ph0m0re. Yeah, I passed.

My tale of blues starts with one Bud Masters, star center of our football team. He's six feet tall and 300 lbs--all bulk no brain.

Bud's pet name for me is Zit-Face. Last year, whenever he'd catch me in the halls, he'd slam me up against the lockers, stick his face a couple of inches away from mine and shout, "Hey Zit-face, they gonna blow today?" Then he'd laugh like the deranged psycho he is and slam me a few more times--not verbally-- I'm talkin' into the lockers. You know what I'm sayin'.

As I'm sure you've already figured out, I've had some problems with acne. I'm really not sure which was worse; the acne or getting slammed and humilated by Bud. I'd had enough of both. And then I made my plan.

My plan started with one small pimple on my forehead--my weapon of, perhaps not choice, but of availability. It would do quite nicely as it turned out.

I never washed the pimple. I allowed my dog to lick it. And, I did other things to help it ripen into a full-blown zit that I won't mention here. Everyday it got bigger. Redder. So swollen, I was afraid it would pop on its own. It held its contents and the plan went forward.

That (infamous?) day in school, I didn't hide out from Bud. But, when I saw him lumbering down the hall, I walked right toward him. As I had predicted, he called out, "Hey Zit-Face!" and slammed me into the lockers. He stuck his face a couple of inches away from mine and asked the question I knew he'd ask, "Hey Zit-Face, they gonna blow today?"

"Yes," I answered. I quickly brought my hand up to my forehead and pressed hard. The zit blew like a mini Mt. Vesuvius. A stream of pus, oil, and blood shot into Bud's eye, across his cheek, and into his mouth.

Bud's reaction was immediate. He swore epithets I'd never heard before. He crouched down like he'd been hit in his huge gut, swiped at his face and spit on the floor. He was making sounds like some sort of wild animal--which, in my opinion, is what he is. The other students stood in wide-eyed amazement. All they knew was that Bud was doing his usual slamming on me, and then he went balistic.

Mr. Neely, the Vice Principal, came running out of his office to see what all the noise was about. Later, I heard he had thought a wild boar was in the halls. He wasn't far off. What he did see was Bud cursing, screaming, and spitting on the floor. He also saw me, hunched up against the lockers with a trickle of blood coming down my forehead.

Bud got expelled for the rest of the year. There was only half a semester left, anyway. He did have to go to summer school, though.

You might think I triumphed from this tale. There's only a couple problems with that.
One is Bud will be back this year.
Two is my acne has cleared up.

I'm out of ammo.

[ed. note: The filter would not let me spell s*o*p*h*o*m*o*re for some unknown reason. That is why I used the 0's.]

It happened on a Friday. Not 13th, but it might as well have. I’m an engineer, and all throughout my years in the university I always said that mine was the best career of them all. Maybe I meant it, or maybe I said it to convince myself that it was too late to change careers. And I needed to finish what I started.

But enough about that.

Let’s talk about what happened to me that Friday I was telling you about.

Physics final exam. Three words that could make any student cringe and make them start moving on their chairs trying to find a more comfortable posture, although the goose bumps and chills down their spines remained.

Anyway, I was prepared. The day had come and I felt good. Coffee, good. Chocolate, good. Both indispensable things for me before any exam. I had studied, too. I mean a lot, I really studied a lot. And I felt I knew things. I remembered formulas, how to solve problems, the forces, the directions, the things. All the things. So the professor hands over the exams. I turn it over and start writing. But I can’t write, there’s no ink in my pen. Why would I write with ink instead of pencil? Because the professor was a maniac, that’s why. We had to use pens because if we erased, then that meant that we didn’t dominate the subject. Pen, on the other hands, shows that you actually know how to do everything, because you can’t fix your mistakes. But my pen had no ink. It didn’t write, and it was killing me.

Twenty minutes had passed, and I still hadn’t done a thing. I kept making big circles in the back of the paper to see if any trace of ink came out… but nothing. That feeling of desperation, along with the feeling that I seemed to be forgetting all what I had studied, was starting to consume me.

So I had to resolve with extreme measures. I took out my compass and pinched my finger. A tiny drop of blood instantly popped out. Another one. And another one. I managed to pile up some drops in a corner of my desk, without making a mess. As if I were in the 15th century, I used the inkless pen to write…with blood.

It was extenuating. It felt awful. By the time I had solved the first two questions, I was beginning to get dizzy. I felt like I had taken out a gallon of blood out of my fingers. Good thing I had a tetanus shot when I was a kid. And good thing I had eaten a bar of chocolate before the exam. But I was feeling sick. Nauseating. Bizarre. And I still had four more questions to go. It seemed like forever.

Have you ever written with your own blood? Not a pleasant thing to do. Much more less if it’s in an exam. I drew the diagrams, the force directions, the formulas, everything with the tip of my pen dipped in my own blood. The buttons of my calculator were all covered in blood. I had blood all over my shirt, my glasses and all over the desk. I wondered if anyone had noticed the stench, or even the disgusting image that I felt I was projecting.

By the time I had one question left I fell off the chair, with the whole room spinning around me.

Next thing I knew I was waking up in the hospital. The nurse told me I fainted in the classroom and they had to call an ambulance to get me to the hospital. I had lost one and a half gallons of blood. How in Heavens I had used that immense amount of blood to fill roughly four pages I still can’t understand.

The story quickly spread throughout the campus, about that guy that used his own blood to solve the physics exam. Maybe he was crazy, maybe he was just plain stupid. Maybe he was a genius, or maybe he was too slow to borrow a pen from another person. But he was the word of the month.

Couple of weeks later the results were posted in the school board.

I flunked. But at least I became a legend.

So, I thought that the worst day of school I ever had was the day I walked into class, and farted –oh, how shall I say it- with zest, and proceeded to be labeled “the one that stinks from on high”. Oh, woe is me.
However, several weeks later, it was time for our sex ed. classes. And of course, we got the weird teacher. Oh yeah. You know what I’m talking about. So,
Mr. I-Have-Issues assigns this project to make a model of our ‘favorite thing’ that we learned about. Now, of course, I simply HAD to do a good job on this project. I couldn’t just bring in a banana and call it a you-know-what like everybody else was sure to do. So, I go into exquisite detail on my enlarged version of a condom, and even prepare a nice little speech to go along with it. (I figured that the little extra effort would score me a nice A...). But, nothing ever really works out the way we want it to, does it? Sure enough, as I walk up to the front of the class carrying my lovely little project (amidst giggles and small scale explosions of laughter, mind you), I trip on the class bully’s foot, which had been quite strategically placed in my path. My head goes flying into my project, and actually was a very snug fit. To top it all of, I let loose another nice, long toot from my rear. I would probably have suffocated there, had not Mr. I-Have-Issues recovered from his spasms of laughter and jerked my head out. From then on, I became known as “d**k-head, the stinker from on high”.
Unfortunately, my parents would not let me change schools after this incident, and I was forced to return to class after a few days off. On the bus, as I sat in mortal fear of what hellish events would happen the next day, a random shoe comes flying from somewhere in the front of the bus and hits the side of my head, leaving a few nasty bruises (the shoe being a cleat and all, of course). In my rage, I flung it back toward the front and, not knowing my own strength, knocked the bus-driver unconscious. The bus swerved back and forth until it finally smashed into a large gas-station. Several pumps exploded, spewing gasoline all about. As soon as I had raced off the bus, and was about to relax, I fell over and the lighter in my back pocket sparked at just the moment when I hit the ground and simultaneously farted a mighty fart, the greatest fart I had ever farted. A flame swirled forth from my bottom, igniting the bus as well as half the gas station.
3 died, and 14 were injured. From then on, I was know as “Doomsday Devil d**k head, the stinker from on high”.
This, my friend, was the worst day of school I have ever had. I have gone on to graduate from college and I have joined Mr. I-have-Issues at my old high-school as a teacher for sex ed.

My name is Bob. I am 9. My teacher is in jail. I like cars, red ones with bling-blingin' rims (I said bling bling.) I did not steal my teacher's car. I have one brother. He is in first grade. His name is Tim. The doctor says he will be OK and can come home soon. My teacher is not coming home soon. Once when I was really little and Tim was in my mommy's tummy we almost got in a wreck and my dad said a bad word. He was sorry. I am sorry my teacher said bad words when the policeman gave him his car back in that box. My dad says my teacher is has anger-mango problems. I like mangoes, but I really like orange lifesavers better. My teacher's car has shiny side mirrors -- they were in the box with his keys and his little pieces of headlight, but I took one and put it in my backpack when he picked Tim up and hung him from the coat rack by the lunch box closet. I wish he hadn't done that -- Tim has a disease that makes him stop paying attention to my mom, and he flipped around on the hook like a worm when you pinch it's little ends real hard. I don't like worms. Tim tried to eat a worm when we were rolling down the hill in my teacher's car. I think he had it in his pocket. Not the car, though. You can't put cars in your pockets. 'Cept now my teacher can mostly fit his in a Wal-Mart bag. My dad says I still have to do homework, even though my teacher is in Carserated. I've been to Colorado before. Me and Tim wanted to take my teacher's car to the fair down on that street by the gas station with the Icee machine, but when we hit the post office they made us go back. I don't think that's right. Who needs that old post office anyway? We mail our mail at the mail box with that little red flag and then the mail man comes and my mom goes out to thank him with a kiss. But my teacher must like the post office a lot, cause when the policeman took us back to school and I told him about the mail man he got really mad. He didn't even know about his car yet. He called my mom. My dad was the only one home though. He didn't even yell at us. But my teacher did. And that's why my teacher is in jail.

“Dude… this is it.”

I looked on in disbelief as my world crumbled before my eyes. Things had been going so well. I was probably the best known person in the school. I had enough girls after me to choke a camel, but was still dating the love of my life.

“This is not it. Just because everything went wrong at the last second does not mean it’s over Dummy,” said I.

“No, its over. You remember the plan, right?” asked my best friend, and co-conspirator Jim.

“Duh.”

“Has anything gone right?”

“Um… we just need to adjust a little…”

“A little? You’re out of your mind.”

I let the comment be. I had planned this senior prank ever since I was a freshman. I had pulled off lesser pranks, but this was to be my crowning achievement. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

“Ok… we’re still getting caught,” remarked Jim woefully, “but we might still be able to pull this off if lady luck is on our side”

“Crap… she always screws me.”

After a quiet chuckle, Jim summed things up. “We’re dead either way, but you can go down as a failure, or as a martyr and legend.”

I evaluated my options. Become a super-senior with pride… or a college freshman best known for bailing out. I went for it.

“Ok… we have one shot at this, and we have four items to do between the two of us, and only one run to do it…” I said before trailing off into whispers, while Jim was nodding the whole time.

We set our watches and agreed to strike in exactly five minutes, giving us enough time to set up. We each had to accomplish two things, in one minute each. If at any point these failed to be executed, it was over. Five… Four… Three… Two… One. I jolted up and ran. First, I had to get the vents open from the outside, while Jim got them closed inside. Second, the water needed to start running. This was easy enough, but I stalled to give Jim as much time as possible to get his end ready. We wouldn’t want to flood the wrong vents. After thirty seconds or so, I went to start the water. I barely got it going before I found myself circled by security guards.

Later that night we were dragged to the same prom we were supposed to ruin. The vents had been stopped up… I felt horrible because Jim had done his part. And they caught me. How could this get any worse?
Life is a funny thing. Either that or something up there is having way too much fun messing with our minds. My question of how could things get worse was answered very harshly. The reason we were brought to the prom was to be “executed” in front of the crowd. The faculty thought I should be displayed and my punishment announced in front of the whole school to stop behavior like mine. I’m sure this was very logical on their side, but from mine… it was basically the end of my life.

You might not believe it, but I prayed for deliverance in some way or another. Anything to get me out of my position. It appeared that Providence was having fun watching my downfall though. Jim and I were led onto the stage by a few security guards with the principal at the head. The microphone was handed to the principal, who issued forth my sentence.

“Students of Chugiak High! I am pleased to present to you…” he paused to almost showcase us to the students with a dramatic wave of his hand, and then he shouted Jim’s name and mine as if we were up for an award. The crowd actually cheered for us, still unaware of our predicament.

The principal waited for the cheering to stop and went on, “It gives me the greatest of satisfaction to announce that these two students will be here for another year!”

The crowd started to applaud expecting something exciting, but then stopped dead in its tracks. I spotted Jessica out in front. She looked up at me in disbelief. Her normally pleasurable countenance was soured when she saw me looking at her, and she glared at me before stomping away. Crap… now my relationship was over too.

The speech to demean us went on, but I blocked it out. I came to the sad realization that there is no lowest possible point to life. I failed at the most important time of my life, I failed Jim, I failed to live up to the students, and I failed Jessica. As things were wrapping up and my failure very well known to everyone, I had but one word on my mind… fiddlesticks.

I tossed my English books into my backpack and without closing the bag I shuffled awkwardly down the hall to Ms. Jackson’s class. I began imagining how this English class would shape up. Half the girls in the class would share how A Day No Pigs Would Die made them tear up. Oh brother…the irony…it sickens me how these girls get overemotional about a fictional pig but couldn’t care less about a young thirteen year old boy struggling each day to wake up and face a day of cruel middle school torment.

Speak of the devil! As I draw closer to the end of the hall, I saw the one girl who taught me how to hate. Patricia was chatting with one of her 9th grade friends who also happened to move up to this town from the city. I looked back and saw that the section of the hallway most congested with students between classes was nearly deserted. This meant two things – class was starting soon and there would be no escape.

Patricia’s eyes glazed on me and she swooped in for the kill. My heart began pumping harder and I was feeling flushed but I didn’t notice them. These were sensations I’ve grown uncomfortably used to. Patricia flashed me a wicked smile and told me in an overly sarcastic voice, “Hey sexy baby…” I never believed her for a second. Patricia played these evil mind games on me, the unfortunate loser, and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to stand up and tell her what she was, how loathsome of a person she was, and how much I hated her but I couldn’t. I was shy and lacked the part of me that would have stood up to this girl. My friends were no hope – standing up for your buddy was not something practiced very often in middle school. All I could do was stand there and endure the sarcastic sexual passes.

What was it? 90210? Was that where Patricia got the cruel idea that this was ok? Did those over-glamorized characters pick on some Urkelesque characters on the show with this sexual innuendo? Did those exaggerated losers believe that the 90210 characters were sincere? I wasn’t sure about the roots of such adolescent cruelty but the world around me was turning ugly.

I eventually slithered my way past Patricia and into the classroom. Sure enough, the girls in the class shared their sob stories about the pig’s death. Ms. Jackson led a discussion that I sifted into and out of.

After thirty-five minutes, she gave up and considered the task of maintaining an 8th grade attention “good enough.” The class was given time to do their own work (a euphemism for opening the gates of hell). I sat in the back and sketched some pictures. I had no artistic talent but I still drew since it helped me escape reality. All of a sudden, I felt something cold slither down my pants. The girls sitting next to me slipped a pencil down my butt crack and were laughing hysterically. The bell rang and the class shuffled out while I was left standing there with my shame. Ms. Jackson approached me and with some anger and pity, asked me what happened. I wanted to tell her everything but I was too ashamed. All I could say was, “I was embarrassed.” After a moment, Ms. Jackson realized it was too embarrassing for me to talk about and let me move on to math class.

As I grabbed my backpack, I thought about building a bomb. A bomb set to go off during a school assembly would take many of us out. Sadly, I could never do that. Sunday school’s moral lessons taught me the value of human lives. Still, I found it cruel how that succubus Patricia could torment me anyway imaginable but if I were to take action against her, it would be illegal. I considered suicide but once again, I would be the one who suffers while Patricia and the others get away clean-as-a-whistle. How fair was that!? There was no escape. I knew that I could not win this battle and my only option was to hold on and try to survive emotionally.

I awoke with a shudder, and all of a sudden, I was consumed by a sense of panic and grief stricken terror. It was that feeling you get way down in the pit of your stomach, when you wake up and you just know what has happened. I was late for class. I looked over at the clock, hoping, praying that by some miracle, for some brief moment that the clock was wrong or that time would just stop. However, as I was not comforted by some sort of supreme divine intervention in my struggle with time and I became later with each passing tick of the second hand.

To make matters worse, not only was I late, but I was late on the most crucial day of the school year, exam day. I knew if I waited any longer the doors would be locked and I would miss the exam. I sprang from my bed, put on the closet pair of pants and ran to the building where the test was being administered.

The building was the oldest on campus, and it gave way to a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. The monster of a building loomed there ominously, with its gothic archways and gargoyles piercing my flesh to the very bone. It took every ounce of strength I possessed to enter that building, but I knew I had to, I had to take the exam and I was already late. I meandered my way through the dank hallways of the old building, until I came to the door of the classroom.

I then took a deep breath and began to open the door. It would not budge. I tried again and again, tugging and pulling with all of the might I could muster, however, it was not enough. I was too late, the doors were locked. Then I began to beat the doors violently and screamed out at the top of my lungs, hoping that the professor, out of sympathy or just the sheer fact he did not want to hear it anymore, would hear my impassioned cries and take pity on me, and let me in to take the test. However, all my effort was for naught; my cries fell on deaf ears.

So, I turned and walked out of this demonic structure with the knowledge that I would probably fail that course. Downtrodden, I traipsed heavily back to my dorm room and fell face first on my bed. I had failed. I was a failure. Later that night, under the dark, starry sky, I cried myself to sleep, knowing that my potential had gone unfulfilled and my educational career was quite possibly ruined. I learned a lot that day, even though I learned nothing. That, by far, was the worst school day ever.

WAKE UP!!! WAKE UP!!!! Aaron get up, you are thirty minutes late for school already. The dog is crapping on your homework and your father ate your Foods final for breakfast, I think you should get up.

This is how the worst day of my life started. After hearing my mother screaming in my ear for what seemed like an eternity, I got up, rushed to put on some clothes, and ran out the door. This day already started off like it was gonna be a keeper. I ran to my car and got settled in as I turned the key in the ignition. Sure enough the car wouldn’t start. I ran back into the house and told mom about my disaster and she threw me some keys….to the 1974 Ford Pinto which dad bought to enter in the demolition derby. Great, now everyone is going to think I am a bigger loser than I already am. As I sped down the highway trying to somehow make it to school in a reasonable amount of time Mr. Cop decides to get on his high horse and pull me over. The officer comes up to the car and gives me my ticket, 189 Dollars!? My day is never gonna get any better. As I finally approach the school a sigh of relief comes over me as I finally feel the day might be looking up, to only find out my lucky parking spot is taken. So I make my way around the parking lot and get the farthest spot possible away from the school. I jet out of my car and start to barrel towards the school. I slam through the front doors and BAM! I nail the principal head on, he picks me up, gets out a sheet of paper and assigns me two after-school detentions, great one more and I get suspended. As I get to my locker I feel a slow but loud rumble in my stomach. Oh god, please tell me I am not getting a case of the squirts. I quickly make my way to the bathroom when all of the stalls are taken up…

RIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGG!!!! What the?

I am awoken by the sound of the class bell ringing. Ah thank god it was only a dream. As I get up to leave the room my stomach rumbles and SPLAT! I mess myself right there with everyone watching as I sit there in horror. I decide to run out of the room and out of school. I got in my car which had three Mexican mafia members sleeping in the back seat. As I opened the door they awaken and take me hostage. They kidnapped me and took me for ransom. My parents refused to pay the money since I didn’t clean my room, and the Mexican’s married me of to Pedro “The love rocket” for six pesos.

The end.