Unconventional

See, now this is what Fanboys wanted to be...as unappealing as a book filled with drunk, naked nerds might seem, Springer makes it work, thanks to his effortlessly conversational writing and a plot that actually has less to do with Star Wars and Lord of the Rings than it lets on...Matt Springer is an author who deserves to be read.

–Jeff Giles, Popdose

This novella has its heart in the right place. Since I am a major fan of bromance, dude-centric stories, I loved it. If Alert Nerd keeps publishing novels like that, I predict I will read every single one of them.

–Ana, The Book Smugglers

Unconventional

By Matt Springer

Published By Alert Nerd Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Matt Springer

Front Matter:

This is is a work of fiction! Come on. Lighten up! Anyway, names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All names, quotations, and properties copyright their respective owners. No infringement is intended.

Cover art © 2003 Da Be Yo Design

Cover design by David Gonzalez

Visit Alert Nerd at http://www.alertnerd.com/

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Are you really reading this? Why?! Get to the book already! Geez.

For my family—Mom, Dad, Sarah, Emily, and Megan—with inexpressible gratitude for their love and support.

And for Ginna, my darling—we will live long and prosper!

I love you.

Prologue

November 1984

Luke Skywalker was just about to take a tumble into Jabba the Hutt’s Rancor pit when Theo got kicked in the balls.

DORK! Tommy Livingston screamed as his foot made contact with Theo’s groin. Tears welled in Theo’s eyes and he dropped to his knees, his hands immediately traveling downward to his crotch. He bent his head and fell onto his side.

Tommy was the top dog in fourth grade—not necessarily the most popular kid, and certainly nowhere near the smartest, but definitely the most feared. The lame, the dorky and the weak cowered in his presence—the mere whispered mention of his name was enough to send Danny Mandernach, the sickly albino kid whose mom walked him to school, into bawling hysterics.

Decades later, all who were tortured by Tommy Livingston would be advised by their therapists that his bullying tactics were little more than an unfortunate response to his premature physical development—in other words, Tommy was shopping in the big boys’ section at J.C. Penney well before his contemporaries had left their Osh Kosh outfits behind. And running into him working the counter at the local Wendy’s was some consolation once they had overcome the psychic scars brought on by his reign of terror.

But in 1984, the kid was just plain scary. Theo felt the full brunt of his fearful power as Tommy stood over his agonized form, grinning his half-toothless grin. Behind him, an ogling crew of his top cronies in the playground Gestapo snickered like cartoon vultures. One of them had planted his boot on top of Theo’s copy of the Return of the Jedi novelization.

You are a DORK, Tommy screamed again mercilessly. The cronies renewed their giggles.

Way to state the obvious, Tommy, Theo muttered under his breath as he rolled in agony on the parking lot pavement.

What did you say, dork? Tommy was in Theo’s face now, leaning over him, all four feet of his hulking frame towering over Theo’s inert form.

Nothing, Theo muttered, rolling away from Tommy. Tommy stared for a moment, chuckled to himself, and then stepped away. The Gestapo followed a few feet behind, their hands fumbling over each other to eagerly slap Tommy’s ample back, each occasionally pausing to gawk back at their lead henchman’s handiwork.

Aside from the fact that he’d been kicked in the groin—a stripe of blow so vicious that even Tommy Livingston’s near-boundless cruelty could only summon the hate necessary to deliver it on rare occasions—this particular day represented an average one for Theodore Makrakis. He’d be minding his own business in the corner during recess at St. Anne’s Elementary School in Chicago’s south suburbs, perhaps reading a Choose Your Own Adventure (he had them all) or studying his Star Trek Compendium for episode details he may have missed. Occasionally he’d glance up over his reading, watching not just for Tommy but for any other classmate who might have singled him out on that particular day for a pantsing or verbal taunting. When you were at the bottom of the grade school food chain, everyone wanted their shot, and everyone took it.

He’d be standing there, keeping his eagle-eyed watch, and still Tommy would somehow manage to surprise him—every single time. Then came the pain. If it wasn’t a sharp knuckle punch on the upper arm, it was a kick to the shin. If it wasn’t a kick to the shin, it was a punch in the gut. If it wasn’t a punch in the gut, it was a knee to the crotch. It was as ritualistic as the sacrifice of the rebels to the Sarlacc pit, and no more enjoyable either. Sometimes he felt like he, too, was learning a new definition of pain and suffering as he was slowly digested over a thousand years.

Still, as his grandmother was so fond of saying, it could be worse. Theo was never sure how, but he was certain there was some way.

Theo crouched cautiously on one knee, eyes saucer-wide, scanning the area for further threats. Fortunately, he was alone again in his corner of the playground. He dusted off his jeans and reached over for his novelization, only to find it missing. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he groaned. First, the daily Tommy assault; now a surprise book heist. It was shaping up to be a super day.

Hey, a voice shouted from a few feet away. Ron Davies, a kid he recognized from his math class, stood there holding the novelization. He had it opened up to a particular passage and kept glancing down at it, a stunned expression on his face. Next to him, that chubby new kid Marty McAfee was balancing carefully on his tippy-toes and reading over Ron’s shoulder.

That’s mine, Theo said, striding over to the pair. This couldn’t be good. The other kids only talked to him if they wanted the cheap, sadistic thrills of mocking him or the answers to a pop quiz.

Have you read this? Ron asked as Marty kept reading, every so often losing his balance and falling back onto his heels.

Yeah, Theo replied. Just give it back. Please.

No, this part right here. Ron pushed the book into Theo’s face. Obi-Wan doesn’t say this in the movie.

Theo had read the Return of the Jedi novelization sixty-seven times since he’d begged his mom to pick it up in the checkout line at Venture last May. He would have squeezed in twice as many readings, but his dad kept hiding it around the house to prevent him from disappearing into it too often. Theo knew the section of which Ron spoke especially well—in the passage detailing Luke’s chat with his mentor Obi-Wan Kenobi on Dagobah after Yoda’s death, Obi-Wan delivered a speech about hurling his former pupil Anakin Skywalker into a pit of lava. Of course Obi-Wan didn’t say that in the movie.

Of course Obi-Wan didn’t say that in the movie, Theo said.

Well, that’s weird, Marty retorted, standing normally again and pushing his sliding glasses back up his nose with a sniffle. Why not?

George Lucas just decided to change it or something, Ron said. Maybe he changed his mind.

I don’t think George Lucas would change his mind!

Theo snorted with disgust at their insinuation that George Lucas could ever be wrong about anything. And with that snort, a glob of early winter snot flew from out his nose and straight onto the open page of his book. The three boys stared at the snot for a second, and then Ron stuck out his hand.

I’m Ron. This is Marty. And that was so cool.

August 23, 2001

(Thursday)

Man, I told you, Marty said, dropping the Return of the Jedi novelization with disgust. There is still snot on this book.

No way! Ron lunged over the poker table to grab the novel. He flipped quickly toward the offending page, and there it was—a tiny speck of green, 17-year-old booger. Beneath it, Yoda’s moniker had been shortened by the aged projectile to simply Yo. It is still there! Take it away. It sickens me. He grasped the book delicately between his thumb and index finger, dangling it with disgust an arm’s length from his body, treating it as though it were a noxious biohazard.

What can I say? Theo replied, shuffling a deck of cards. It’s true vintage.

That’s a real classy collectible right there, Ham, Marty said. They’d stopped calling Theo by his real name in fifth grade, when he’d confessed that of all the known characters in the Star Wars universe, his favorite was Hammerhead, a skinny brown creature in a blue tank top who had all of five seconds of screen time in the films. Since this admission, he was addressed as Ham, or Hammy, or occasionally Head.

The trio was gathered in the basement of Ham’s mother’s home, where Ham still lived. It had been the site of many a battle between the action figure forces of the Rebellion and the Empire throughout their childhoods, as well as one memorable sleepover where Marty unleashed a fart that, Ham claimed, made a small section of wallpaper start to peel. It was also the annual location of their Thursday night poker game before the UnConvention, Schaumburg, Illinois’ largest yearly science fiction convention, a game which was about