Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Listen here, Brunella—if that is your real name,” intoned Comic Book Guy as he raise a dramatic finger. “I have spent years mastering the ancient and deadly arts of jujitsu and karate in an MMORPG. You will suffer. You will weep. And when you do, do not say you were not warned.”

Across the room, Pommelhorst turned to Skinner with a huff. Skinner merely shrugged.

“This is arm wrestling, not karate.”

Comic Book Guy’s posture deflated. “Come again?”

Pommelhorst planted her elbow firmly on Skinner’s desk and flexed her fingers. “Come on.”

There was no way he could back out now—not with his pride at stake. With a deep breath (and a slight wheeze), Comic Book Guy took her hand and wrap his fingers around hers.

Skinner opened his mouth to speak, but the large man beat him to it. “On the count of one, two, thr—”

Pommelhorst slammed his arm down with such force that the momentum sent him flying—literally—out of Skinner’s office and straight through the window.

Outside, he landed with a thud atop the growing pile of failed challengers.

Skinner straightened his tie and offered Pommelhorst a smile. “Good work! And in record time, too.”

He barely caught the smirk on the gym teacher’s face as he turned toward the door.

“Next!” he called out.

Silence.

Frowning, he poked his head out—only to find the room empty.

“What happened to the rest of them?” he asked his secretary, Myra, who was absorbed on reading her bulky novel.

“There ain't no rest of them, you just tossed them out,” she replied without looking up. “But a couple of folks called, said they’d swing by after lunch. Maybe.”

“Oh.” Skinner cleared his throat. “I see. Well, let me know when they arrive.”

“And I will be having my lunch. Be back soon.” Said Pommelhorst as she walked past Skinner and out of sight.

Skinner shut the door and sighed, sinking into his chair. A pool of sweat had gathered on his desk, and despite Willie’s best efforts, the pile of sponges from the janitor’s closet did little to mask the musky stench. He hadn’t inhaled something this pungent since Vietnam, where his men went weeks without a proper bath. He made a mental note to have Willie fumigate the place before the odor sticks to the walls.

Where to begin? In the span of a day, his office had turned into an arm-wrestling arena. It all started when Mrs. Pommelhorst announced she’d be taking a leave of absence for unspecified "medical reasons”. What kind of medical reasons? She never said. All Skinner knew was that they were suddenly short a gym teacher—and a school without P.E will not fly by the government or the PTA.

Chalmers had suggested hiring a substitute, which sounded reasonable—until Skinner actually considered his options. Mr. Bergstrom briefly crossed his mind, but the memory of that man’s theatrical classroom entrance still haunts him. A cowboy hat, toy pistols, and—dear God—the sound of gunfire indoors. Even if it was just for show, there had to be better alternatives. Reluctantly, he mentally scribbled Bergstrom’s name onto the “Maybe” list.

Then there was Coach Fortner, the school’s previous gym teacher. He’d been let go after a drunken incident involving a power tool and Willie’s tractor which somehow led to an arson. Skinner had no desire to relive that ordeal. Another name for the “Maybe” list.

As for online applicants? Useless. They had expectations—actual expectations—about pay and working conditions. Didn’t they know this school was severely underfunded? The teachers were barely scraping by as it was.

That was when Bart, during yet another detention, offered an unwanted sagely advise of his and said, “Why don’t you just host a competition? Make the prize cold, hard cash—monthly—so long as they show up to work.”

That’s just getting a job but with extra steps. Absolutely absurd. Skinner had no idea why he even entertained the idea of taking advice from a ten-year-old menace. And yet… with a few adjustments, a little polish, maybe a layer of plausible deniability—he could make Bart’s half-baked scheme into something slightly less outrageous.

And so, he brainstormed all night and announced it in the faculty lounge the next morning.

“Now hiring a P.E teacher!” He unfurled a large, handmade sign—bold, attention-grabbing, and, if he dared to say, inspiring.

Largo, lounging on the sofa, barely looked up. “Skinner, this doesn’t require a Broadway debut.”

Still beaming, Skinner tapped the bottom corner of the sign.

Hoover squinted, leaning forward and adjusting her glasses.

“Is that an… asterisk?”

“A footnote!” Skinner corrected, then read aloud, “‘Beat our coach in arm-wrestling and get hired on the spot!’”

Audrey raised a brow. “That sounds efficient, but doesn’t that mean literally anyone could get hired? What about credentials?”

“Oh, please!” Skinner scoffed. “You don’t need much to be a gym teacher. If people can get into college just for throwing a ball really well, they can certainly be a gym teacher the same way.”

A sharp clunk cut through the room as Pommelhorst slammed her mug onto the counter. “Say that again, and I’ll break your spine faster than your chiro can fix ya.”

Skinner gulped. Across the room, Edna—who had been silent until now—took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee. “What did Chalmers say about this?”

“Oh, he doesn’t have to know,” Skinner said quickly, straightening his tie. “He’s aware we’re looking for a substitute, but I don’t need to bore him with the details—at least not until I’m sure it succeeds.”

Edna let out a dry chuckle. “Oh yeah, ‘cause keeping things from Chalmers always works out for you.”

Ignoring her, Skinner turned back to Pommelhorst. “So? What do you think? It’s way better than sitting through dull interviews. And if the candidates are weak, well…” He gestured vaguely. “You get to blow off some steam.”

Pommelhorst narrowed her eyes. Skinner stood stiffly in anticipation.

Finally, she sighed.

“Fine.”

Which brings us to today—where none of the so-called "applicants" arrived with résumés or references. Instead, they showed up ready to challenge this gym teacher, only to be tossed out at the pile with broken arms and wounded egos.

The lineup of challengers wasn’t exactly inspiring. There was Gil Gunderson, sweating profusely before he even sat down; Lionel Hutz, who tried to convince them that he is technically also a bodyguard; and that criminal who’s always robbing the Kwik-E-Mart—who, to his credit, was already built like a tank.

And through it all, Pommelhorst remained undefeated. Skinner was starting to feel a little bad for the competition.

She may have been a woman, but she was built like a gladiator—sturdy, fierce, and nearly Willie’s equal in strength. When she first joined the school, the faculty grapevine had been buzzing with rumors that she was related to Rainier Wolfcastle, the action star with that unmistakably gruff voice his mother adored. Skinner had entertained the theory himself; the resemblance was uncanny. But he wasn’t one for gossip, and besides, Pommelhorst never talked about her past.

With a sudden gag, Skinner yanked open a drawer, grabbed a can of air freshener, and sprayed wildly. The stench of dried sweat had invaded every corner of his office and it’s beginning to smell like a morgue. It didn’t help that today was unbearably hot—so hot that his ancient air conditioner had seemingly given up and started breathing fire.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stepped out into the hallway. The front desk was empty—no surprise there. Myra had a habit of sneaking off for an early lunch. She never cared for cafeteria food, always opting to eat elsewhere instead.

Making his way to the cafeteria, Skinner settled into a seat at the teachers’ table with a bowl of stew and a side of something that vaguely resembled gruel. Across from him, Largo and Loren were already deep in conversation.

“Any bites yet, Seymour?” Hoover asked, taking a sip of her drink.

“Not yet,” Skinner muttered, stirring his stew aimlessly. “We’ve had a few show up. Some familiar faces.”

“Oh, I saw. Why was that overweight guy here? The one who runs the comic store?” Audrey asked.

“Oh, him,” Edna drawled, leaning back in her seat. “Probably chasing some weird personal dream. Can you imagine him as the gym teacher?”

The table erupted into laughter—all except Skinner. He barely managed a smile.

Edna sure enjoyed talking bad about her previous partner. He knew they had long since moved on, especially when she chose not to stay with him after realizing he didn’t love her as much as she had hoped. That was fair. That was rational.

But still…

Does she talk about me like this to others?

His hand stilled over his stew. His appetite had vanished, but he forced himself to eat anyway while the others carried on with their banter.

After lunch, Skinner made his way back to his office, his thoughts shifting from Edna to the growing issue of delinquency at the school. He was seriously considering doubling down on discipline—especially after passing yet another locker with a student stuffed inside.

Turning the corner, he spotted Myra back at her desk.

"Someone came in earlier," she said, not looking up. "He’s in your office now with Pommelhorst."

Skinner frowned. "Couldn’t this person have at least waited for the principal?"

"Let me tell ya, he didn’t look like the waiting type. Walked in, asked about the job, Pommelhorst showed up, and the two of ’em went right in."

Skinner crossed his arms. "She’ll make quick work of him, just like the rest."

He reached for the doorknob—then froze. From inside came the unmistakable sounds of struggle. Not the usual swift, one-sided takedown. This was different. Thuds. Scrapes. A sharp grunt of effort.

He and Myra exchanged wary glances. Then, bracing himself, he swung the door open—

CRASH!

The first thing he noticed was his desk—his desk—lay in splinters, reduced to a mess of broken wood. And there, sprawled atop the wreckage, was Pommelhorst—out cold, her hand still locked in a vice grip by her opponent.

Skinner blinked, utterly dumbfounded. "What… what is the meaning of this?"

The man smirked and released Pommelhorst’s hand.

"I won. A deal’s a deal."

And with that, he turned and strode out the door.

Skinner turned to Pommelhorst, who was groggily coming to. He shot a look at Myra, who—without needing a word—moved to help her up.

"Wait one moment!" Skinner called, hurrying after the man.

The stranger stopped and turned, offering Skinner a full view. He seemed to be the same age as Skinner. Physically fit, with broad shoulders, and it was clear he was solid beneath his dark gray leather jacket, black undershirt, and jeans. His hair, neatly cropped, reminded Skinner of a drill sergeant—and the man certainly had the imposing presence to match.

After a beat, Skinner cleared his throat. “Well, you certainly managed to best our gym teacher, and as agreed, you’ll be filling in as her substitute.”

The man scoffed. “She armwrestles like a man.”

Skinner adjusted his tie, “Yes, well…” he mumbled. Then, straightening up, he extended a hand. “I’m Principal Seymour Skinner. You can call me Skinner.”

The man gave him a look like he had just sprouted a second head. Then, after a pause, he seized Skinner’s hand in a vice-like grip.

“Krupt.”

Skinner barely had time to register the name before yanking his hand back, flexing his fingers to make sure they still worked. “Right. Well, I’ll let you know when you’ll be starting. Hopefully sometime this week.”

Krupt gave a curt nod before striding toward the exit.

Something in Skinner stirred uncomfortably, like the beginnings of a horrible mistake; just like back then when his mother suggested making poached fish a regular dinnertime meal. He should hold off on telling Chalmers just yet.

The week passed in a blur. Today was Pommelhorst’s last day before her leave, and she planned to break the news to the students just before heading out. Fortunately, her injury had healed—it was just a nasty bruise around her wrist, which she insisted was nothing. She kept brushing off concerned teachers, claiming she had simply underestimated her opponent. If she had gone all out, the outcome would’ve been different.

“Yeah, maybe you would’ve won,” Edna snickered, sipping her second cup of morning coffee. “But then we’d still be short a gym teacher.”

Pommelhorst shot a look at her before accepting a fresh cup from Hoover.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Hoover said, settling into the seat next to Skinner. “Where are you off to?”

“I’m getting gender reassignment surgery,” Pommelhorst said matter-of-factly.

The room fell silent.

Then, after a beat, Edna let out a small chuckle. “Didn’t take you for the type to pull our legs.”

“It’s not a joke,” Pommelhorst said firmly. “I’ve thought about it a long time, and I want to be a man. When I come back, I’ll be the new shop teacher.”

A wave of confusion settled over the room, and Skinner could see the growing discomfort on Pommelhorst’s face.

“That’s right,” Skinner interjected smoothly. “Mr. Pommelhorst will be returning as our new shop teacher in the fall. I trust you’ll all be just as welcoming to him as you are to her now.”

Edna shrugged. “Doesn’t change a thing,” she said, and Hoover and Doris nodded in agreement. “We’re just wondering—what did happen to the old shop teacher?”

“Well, that—”

Before Skinner could answer, a gruff voice interrupted from the doorway.

“This the teachers’ lounge?” Krupt asked, striding in, clad in a white cotton shirt and blue shorts, identical to Pommelhorst’s attire, though her pants were more faded.

“Why, yes! Welcome!” Skinner beamed, quickly jogging over to him and guiding him inside with an arm behind his back. “There’s still twenty minutes before gym—why don’t you introduce yourself to your colleagues?”

Krupt sighed, clearly uninterested, but turned to face the others anyway. “Looking forward to working with y’all,” he muttered, making no effort to sound convincing.

“Likewise, coach. Here, have some coffee—it might brighten your day a little,” Edna offered, taking a sip of her own.

Krupt rolled his eyes before noticing Pommelhorst staring at him. He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“If it’s a rematch you want, I don’t do second rounds with the ladies.”

Pommelhorst clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. Sensing the tension, Skinner quickly stepped in.

Then the school bell rang, and Skinner let out a relieved sigh.

Saved by the bell, indeed.

“I’m sure you’ll be leaving soon, Brunella, but why don’t you say goodbye to the children first before Krupt takes over?” asked Skinner.

“That was the plan,” she said, already halfway out the door.

Before Krupt could stir the pot any further, Skinner threw an arm around his shoulder and swiftly steered him toward the exit. Krupt barely resisted, but it’s clear he dislikes being touched.

Once the door swung shut, the remaining teachers exchanged glances.

“Did we ever get his first name?” Hoover asked. “Krupt doesn’t sound like one.”

“Ah, who cares? We can ask him at lunch,” Edna shrugged.

Doris stood up, stretching. “That reminds me—I need to prep the kids’ lunch. I’m making rhubarb soup.”

“That actually sounds normal,” Hoover said, surprised.

“The broth’s made with monkfish liver. Very healthy. Rich in flavor.”

Hoover visibly recoiled at the thought. Maybe she’d carpool with Edna for lunch after all.

The tension between the gym teachers had finally simmered down. Wanting to keep things on a positive note, Skinner decided to give Krupt a brief tour as they made their way to the gym. The latter seemed unfazed by the school's undeniably dilapidated state. Anyone could tell the place was one tremor away from collapsing, and Skinner knew that stuffing the larger cracks with Play-D’oh from the first-graders could only do so much. At the very least, it had been enough to fool Superintendent Chalmers into not flunking the school across the board.

Pommelhorst seemed more at ease now. Though she threw the occasional witty remark at Krupt, he took it in stride and fired back just as effortlessly. Skinner didn’t understand half of what they were going on about, but despite the rough start, they seemed to be getting along.

Before long, the three of them arrived at the gym, and the children were already gathered there waiting for the teacher. Martin was the first to speak out that the teacher has arrived, and the children went quiet. Some were already eyeing at Krupt, who is standing with his arms crossed.

“Children,” Skinner began, “your gym teacher, Mrs. Pommelhorst, has a brief announcement.” With that, he stepped aside.

Pommelhorst took a steady breath. “This is very emotional for me,” she said, scanning the children’s faces. “I am taking a leave of absence. I will return in the fall as Mr. Pommelhorst—your new shop teacher.”

Krupt’s eyes widened at the announcement. This woman wants to be a man? He didn’t want to admit it, but if it hadn’t been for the element of surprise, he might have lost to her last week. And now she was going to become a full-fledged man? He shuddered at the thought—and at the strength she might have when she returned.

Krupt snapped back to reality as Pommelhorst tapped him on the shoulder. She gave a final wave to him and Skinner before making her way out of the gym.

“Now, please welcome your new gym teacher, Coach Krupt!” Skinner announced.

Krupt smirked, unfolding his arms as he stepped forward to face the students.

“Today, we’re gonna play a game as old as pain itself—Bombardment.”

Milhouse raised his hand curiously. “I’m intrigued. What are the rules?”

Krupt’s grin widened as his gaze landed on the rows of dodgeballs beside him.

Chalmers' beloved Honda Accord pulled into the parking lot of Springfield Elementary, its tires crunching over loose gravel. The superintendent stepped out, straightening his tie as he surveyed the school grounds. Almost immediately, the children playing nearby froze, their games forgotten.

“Dude, it’s Chalmers!” Jimbo rasped, nudging his friends.

“So what? He comes here all the time,” Nelson scoffed, holding a victim’s head down in a murky puddle.

Jimbo squinted. “Yeah, but look at his forehead—those creases are extra deep today. He looks pissed.”

Nelson finally let go of his victim—who gasped for air and immediately scurried away—to get a better look. Sure enough, Chalmers’ usual stern expression was even more rigid than normal, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed with an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through the group.

Then, without warning, Chalmers snapped his head toward them, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

Nelson practically jumped out of his skin. “Book it!”

The four bullies didn’t need to be told twice—they took off in different directions as the superintendent marched toward the building.

Skinner had just combed through his inbox, meticulously sorting emails into alphabetical order—only to realize it ruined the timeline. With a resigned sigh, he clicked a button to sort them back by date. After all that effort, he hadn’t actually read a single one, knowing full well they were just another flood of complaints from parents, again. He’d just blame it on the system as usual.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was barely eight in the morning, yet he had already exhausted his workload for the day. With nothing left to do, he decided to take a stroll around the school. Humming to himself, he sauntered toward the door.

The moment he opened it, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“SKIN-NER!”

The walls trembled as Superintendent Chalmers’ voice bounded off the walls like thunder.

“Superintendent Chalmers!” Skinner gasped, clutching his chest. “What—what brings you here so early?”

“Don’t play coy with me!” Chalmers jabbed a finger at him. “I’ve been getting calls from furious parents since yesterday, all the way through the ass-crack of dawn!” His eye twitched as he took a deep breath. “Now—where is he?”

“Who?”

“That coach of yours!”

“Are you—do you mean my car, sir?”

“No, not your beat-up excuse for a Sedan, you halfwit! I mean that ballistic psychopath you just hired!”

Skinner couldn’t feign ignorance indefinitely—he was stretching this too thin. “Well, Pommelhorst just took her leave, and—”

“KRUPT!” Chalmers barked, his voice rattling the walls again.

“Oh! Of course. Yes, well, he should be in the gym office, just to your right.”

Chalmers grumbled under his breath, spun on his heel, and stomped off. “He’s outta here.”

Skinner blinked, processing the words a second too late before panic set in.

“Superintendent, wait!”

Meanwhile, Krupt sat in what passed for his office. Technically, it was predominantly a store room, but Skinner had roped Willie into clearing it out. Impatient as ever, Krupt had pitched in, and together they managed to clear three-quarters of the room in just two days. Willie, thrilled with the extra junk, muttered something about keeping his shack “full and lively” as he carted it all away.

With the space finally his, Krupt gave it a personal touch—his Bombardment trophies lined the shelves, a framed family photo of his wife and two kids sat on his desk, and front and center was his very first dodgeball, the same one he’d played with as a teenager.

He’d been enjoying his time here. The kids were gullible and brittle, the dodgeballs were fresh out of the factory, and his bombardment game had already traumatized the kids. He’d even picked out a few favorite targets—er, students—and his lesson plan was stacked with nothing but bombardment until Christmas.

Humming to himself, Krupt jotted down notes in his daily evaluation when a loud rap rattled the door.

“Don’t you have the decency to knock a little quieter!?” he snapped.

The door swung open with a bang.

Chalmers stood in the doorway, fuming. Skinner was beside him, shooting Krupt an apologetic look.

“Who the hell are you barging into my office?” Krupt asked, his voice low and slow.

Chalmers looked even more incensed. “‘Who am I?’” he repeated, stepping forward until they were practically nose to nose. “I am the district superintendent! Show. Some. Respect.” He jabbed a finger into Krupt’s shoulder with each word.

“I’ll show it when I get it, you bald-pated sack of—”

“Gentlemen, please restrain yourselves!” Skinner interjected, futilely attempting to separate them.

But neither man so much as flinched. Skinner’s worst fear was unfolding before him—these two were the type to throw down if pushed too far. And yet, they just stood there, bristling but holding back, like alley cats yowling at each other in the dead of night—loud, tense, but not quite ready to claw.

Chalmers finally exhaled sharply and sank into a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Krupt followed suit, dropping into his own seat, though his arms remained firmly crossed.

“Look, Krupt,” Chalmers said, leveling a glare at him. “You’ve been running this school’s physical education like Shawshank Prison. I don’t even know how a parent made that connection, but I suppose one of them is a fan of the movie. My point is—are you trying to kill those little freaks?”

Skinner winced at that last remark and made sure the door is closed. Can’t risk having a child eavesdrop and lose their self esteem.

“Of course not!” Krupt barked, slamming a fist on his desk. “You know how weak these kids are? Half of them can barely do a single push-up! The bulkier ones have no stamina to back up their strength! Even the seniors at the Y have more life in them than these pathetic little brats.”

“This isn’t up for debate. I want you out of the school by lunch,” Chalmers said, his voice flat and final.

“Excuse me? Are you out of your mind? What about my afternoon class?” Krupt shot back, throwing his arms up before whirling on Skinner. “What about our agreement?”

“Agreement?” Chalmers repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Krupt, this really isn’t the time—” Skinner whispered, trying to put a hand between them.

“Yeah, agreement!” Krupt pressed, getting right in Skinner’s face before snapping his head toward Chalmers. “Says right there in black and white—whoever wins an arm-wrestling match against the current gym teacher gets the job. And guess what? I won it fair and square.”

Chalmers pressed his lips into a tight, disapproving line and gave Skinner a long, heavy stare. The kind that said I expected nothing from you, and I’m still disappointed.

“Just get out of my sight before lunch,” he muttered, shaking his head as he turned for the door.

Outside, a few students—and Largo—were very clearly eavesdropping. The second Chalmers stepped out, they all scrambled into obviously fake conversations. Chalmers ignored them and stomped down the hallway.

Chalmers sat alone in Skinner’s office, he kept running his finger on the desk to calm himself—until he nearly got a splinter. He frowned and pulled his hand back, examining the surface. Deep scratches, glue stains, and what looked like a dent from a stapler impact. What the hell happened to this desk? He didn’t remember it looking like it was being held together by hopes and prayers.

Grunting, he reached into the nearest drawer and flipped through some personnel files. He stopped at Krupt’s section.

“Chris Krupt, 44 years old, married, worked as a personal trainer at Springfield YMCA…” Chalmers muttered, skimming—until his eyes landed on something that made him pause. He leaned in. “And an ex-con, eh?”

His grip tightened on the file. Of all the people in this town, Skinner hires a criminal? That explains the violent streak. Sure, he’s former criminal, but it still shows in his attitude. Honestly, Gil would’ve been a better choice, even if he is underqualified and physically unfit.

A knock on the door broke his thoughts.

“Principal Skinner—Oh. Chalmers.” Hoover stepped in, blinking in surprise. “Sorry, thought he’d be here.”

Chalmers gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Something the matter?”

“I heard you’re letting the new gym teacher go,” Hoover said, adjusting her glasses.

“Yes. I expect him gone by noon,” Chalmers replied.

Hoover hesitated, shifting slightly where she stood, clearly debating whether to say more.

“Mister Krupt has actually had a positive impact on the students lately,” she finally admitted.

Chalmers arched an eyebrow.

She continued, “The kids are more disciplined. Probably because they’re too tired to cause trouble,” she added dryly. “Either way, behavior has significantly improved. They’re paying attention in class, and those who don’t won’t have the energy to misbehave.”

Chalmers exhaled through his nose, looking down at the paperwork again. Was she trying to sway his decision? If so, it was working a little. He had to admit—the usual school hijinks had been oddly absent. No stink bombs, no glue-covered doorknobs, not a single crash from an unmonitored hallway. Coincidence? Maybe. But a gym teacher who actually kept these little gremlins in line? That was valuable. Especially when Skinner didn’t exactly have the spine for it these days.

“I see. Thank you for telling me.” Chalmers said.

Hoover gave a slight nod and left the office.

Chalmers rubbed his chin and turned his attention back to Krupt’s file, scanning it again. Date of birth, address, employment history—

Then his eyes landed on the education section.

“Ball State University, huh?” he muttered, a small smirk forming. “Sports Science. Predictable.”

Of all things, this was what fate threw at him? Another Ball State alum? He wasn’t sentimental, but there was something to be said about school loyalty. And Krupt was, technically, qualified for the job.

Ah, geez, the guy even had spunk. Stood his ground. Talked back. Had an actual backbone.

Chalmers sighed, drumming his fingers on the desk. Maybe—

A knock at the door.

He turned to see Skinner standing in the doorway, stiff as a board, bracing himself for whatever verbal lashing was about to come.

“Sir, I understand if you’re upset,” Skinner started nervously. “But I assure you, I only did what I believed was best for the school and—”

“Is he still in his office?”

Skinner nearly bit his tongue. He opened his mouth to answer but then wordlessly raised a finger and pointed out the window.

Chalmers followed the direction and spotted Krupt outside, trudging toward his car, a cardboard box of his belongings in his arms.

“H-Hey!” Chalmers called out, leaning halfway out the window.

Krupt, mid-trunk-loading, turned at the sound. His eyes locked onto Chalmers, narrowing into a glare. “What?”

“You’re rehired! Get back in there and teach your class!”

Krupt froze. His face twisted through a rapid cycle of emotions—confusion, suspicion, mild amusement—before finally settling on a lopsided grin.

Skinner, meanwhile, looked dumbfounded. What kind of miracle is this?

The next day, Bart was riding high on the news that the new, evil gym teacher had been canned. Serves him right. If Krupt had stuck around any longer, Bart might’ve had to pull off a prank for the ages—really give the guy a taste of his own medicine.

But if Krupt was out, who was taking over? He wasn’t exactly a fan of Pommelhorst either, and he doubted that would change once she became a he.

“Hey, Bart.”

“Hey, Milhouse. How’s your throat?”

Milhouse winced dramatically. “The doctors said I was exaggerating. Apparently, the odds of suffering fatal dodgeball injuries are less than ten percent. But I swear, Bart, I couldn’t talk properly for a whole day!”

“Oh, cry me a river. At least we don’t have to deal with Krupt anymore. Good thinking, Martin.”

Martin, having overheard, strode over proudly. “It was simply a matter of mobilizing the masses! A few well-placed calls to Superintendent Chalmers, and voilà! Nothing strikes fear into the hearts of educators quite like an army of angry parents.”

“Yeah, yeah, just don’t get all chummy with me,” Bart muttered.

Martin pouted and retreated, his moment of triumph cut short.

“Still, I wonder who the new gym teacher’s gonna be,” Milhouse mused. “I’m kinda excited!”

“That’s enough gossiping, boys and gals! Whatever rumors you’ve been spreading are just hot air!” Krupt barked as he strode into the gym, a dodgeball resting on his hip.

“B-But I thought—!” Milhouse stammered, shrinking to the back with the other kids.

“No backtalk! Now, give me ten laps! And don’t start counting until your legs feel like they’re about to snap in half!”

The children—Bart included—immediately broke into a sprint around the gym. It didn’t take long for them to be reduced to panting wrecks as Krupt launched dodgeballs at them at random, all while hurling insults and creative degradations.

Over by the retractable bleachers, Chalmers, Skinner, Hoover, and Edna observed the chaos unfolding before them.

“Are you sure this is the best course of action, sir?” Skinner asked hesitantly. “We might get complaints from the students' parents again.”

“Let ‘em complain. I’ll just say we’re following a stricter curriculum that builds character. That usually shuts ‘em up,” Chalmers grumbled as he turned for the door, Skinner trailing behind.

“He was this close to getting canned,” Edna muttered, crossing her arms. “I don’t know what got into you to suddenly vouch for him.” She turned to Hoover. “You saw how rude he was on his first day.”

“He just needs to be… tamed,” Hoover replied casually.

Edna gave her a look.

Hoover quickly cleared her throat. “I mean—a little fixer-upper will keep him in line!”

There was a pause. Then Edna smirked. “You do know he’s married, right?”

Hoover stiffened, somewhere between denial and full-on horror. “Pardon? But—I don’t see a ring!—I mean, you must be mistaken!”

Edna just chuckled into her palm and started toward the door, Hoover scrambling after her, wildly insisting she definitely wasn’t interested.

Meanwhile, Krupt howled with laughter as yet another dodgeball rocketed through the air—nailing Bart square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Bart groaned, rubbing his head. “Oh, that’s it—I’m bringin’ an ice ball tomorrow. That’ll show him.”

The End.