Virgil hissed and twisted wildly in an attempt to escape the armored hand fisted in his hair. His knees were scraped, his eyes were watering, and his humerus felt like it was on the verge of divorcing his shoulder girdle. Ironically, all of these things were his own doing. Jorge had done little more than grab him, and, when he had started calling names, hold him down.

"You fucking faggot," Virgil yelled, squirming back. This only ground his face into the dirt more. "You think this is funny?" The insults continued pouring out of him until Jorge gave his face a little shove. He braced for the end but instead listened to Jorge's heavy, retreating footsteps.

"You're not so tough," Virgil informed him as he dusted himself off. He patted the dirt off of his suit and paused when his hand came away wet. "YOU CAME ON MY ASS? YOU FUCKING FAGGOT."