This story is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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I threw the punch—

but the one lying on the floor was me.

Flat on my back on the music-room floor, I shouted:


“You gotta be kidding me! I’m the king! The absolute king!”


Staring down at me through her shiny silver-rimmed glasses was the most stuck-up girl in class, Lib Holstein. Skinny as a twig—just like her “rib” of a name—and with a voice that somehow always found my ears.


“Even if the world turns upside down and you become President of the United States someday, I’ll never bow to you. Got it, Donut Trumpet?”


$ $ $ 

1957 — Queens, New York.


“One hundred Big Packs!”


At the counter of the local burger joint, Pakdonald’s, I barked my order.


The red-haired, mop-headed manager, Pakdonald himself, looked at me—still fuming—and grinned like some kind of clown.


“Donut, kid, what’s wrong? Heartbreak? Or just stress-eatin’ again?”


“There’s this rotten girl at school. Pretends she’s justice itself and tells me what to do. But I don’t buy it. I’m the king of Key Foresta Elementary!”


“A king, huh? Sounds like a fancy-pants school for rich brats.”


“Everybody calls me King Donut!”


“Yeah, I heard. Heard they call you that because you punch anyone who doesn’t.”


“They still call me that!”


“Even so, no matter how royal you are, kid—no grade-schooler’s ever eaten a hundred Big Packs.”


“You got any idea who you’re talkin’ to? My dad’s the King of Queens!”


“Well, King or not, impossible’s impossible. Only guy who ever did that was the pro-wrestler Big Bite Carbonara.”


“Fine! I’ll go get more cash from Mom right now—”


But as I spun around, I slammed into some middle-aged guy carrying a tray.

His paper cup flew, and cold cola splashed all over my white shirt.


“Hey! Watch it!”


I was about to yell at him—but he took one look at me and bolted out the door.

On the back of his crumpled shirt, a giant squid pattern flared like a tropical flower.


“Say you’re sorry! And what the heck’s with that squid shirt? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen!”


Then—THUNK.


A heavy stack of bills hit the counter, and a deep, steady voice rumbled:


“One hundred and one.”