Back in my early years I was constantly bullied. The thirty-two other kids in my first-grade class would use their pocket knives and create little cuts in between my fingers and toes, then pour scalding hot salt water with a teaspoon of rubbing alcohol onto the cuts. I decided one day that enough was enough I grabbed one of the kids by their hair and went to throw them on the road right on their head, but I failed and instead tripped busting my head open. I was in the hospital for about two weeks recovering from a severe concussion. Once I got out I went back to school and the kids were even madder than they were before I fought back. They grabbed me by my underwear and hung me by them on the highest flag pole at school. I stayed there all day and all night. My buttocks bleeding from the pressure applied by my undies. The next day the kids took me down and shoved my butt against an electrical outlet electrocuting me, causing third-degree burns on my buttocks. From then onward all the kids referred to me by Buttlet, until one day it stuck with me. I learned to accept the name I had so painfully earned. As for the thirty-two, let's just say those kids won't be a problem anymore. Legends say that if you go to the burned down school you can still hear them screaming as they burn in the flames of their own sorrow.