Locker Hero Quotes

Marco faced her and rested a shoulder against the locker. “It doesn’t take much, does it? To make you happy.” He reached out, as if to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, but pulled back. “It never did.

Privilege exists not to be stored in a locker.

My life was awful. When I was a kid, I was fat, pretty ugly and had awful hair. I used to get teased every fucking day, slammed up against lockers, punched in the face - you name it. Hell, I had to go to prom with one of my female friends because I couldn’t even get a proper date. I can’t even look back at those photos because I look so bad. I transferred schools, but the teasing just got worse. After an, let’s say, ‘incident’ I had with the school play the bullying just got worse. But I made it through high school, only to find out that real life was pretty much the same. I just stayed in my dark room all day and didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t go outside. I just stayed inside and drew. I’d draw vampires, mummies, heroes, villains. Anything to help me escape all the bad in the world. I went to art school and didn’t really belong. All I could draw was comic book characters. I tried to put my only good talent to use by drawing a cartoon and pitching it - only to have it turned down. Life to me was just pointless. I started drinking, doing drugs and just generally wasting my life drawing.
Then one day, I saw bodies falling from the sky. I witnessed people dying. And that’s when I decided to turn my life around. I called up anyone I knew who had an instrument and we formed a band. Being on tour for the first few years was bad. All we’d do is get drunk and do drugs, but I loved it. Because I was doing something I loved with people I loved. And a few years ago I met the most perfect woman ever. It’s like we share a wave-link or something. She just knows me without even knowing me, if you understand. And now, 2011, I have a beautiful baby girl, a caring wife and I get to perform for my adoring fans everyday. I am living proof that no matter how bad it gets, it gets better. I am Gerard Way, and I survived.

I just came from Bunker Hill,’ I told Sam. ‘Hel offered me a reunion with my mother.’ I managed to tell her the story. Samirah reached out as if to touch my arm, then apparently changed her mind. ‘I’m so sorry, Magnus. But Hel lies. You can’t trust her. She’s just like my father, only colder. You made the right choice.’ ‘Yeah … still. You ever do the right thing, and you know it’s the right thing, but it leaves you feeling horrible?’ ‘You’ve just described most days of my life.’ Sam pulled up her hood. ‘When I became a Valkyrie … I’m still not sure why I fought that frost giant. The kids at Malcolm X were terrible to me. The usual garbage: they asked me if I was a terrorist. They yanked off my hijab. They slipped disgusting notes and pictures into my locker. When that giant attacked … I could’ve pretended to be just another mortal and got myself to safety. But I didn’t even think about running away. Why did I risk my life for those kids?’ I smiled. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Somebody once told me that a hero’s bravery has to be unplanned – a genuine response to a crisis. It has to come from the heart, without any thought of reward.’ Sam huffed. ‘That somebody sounds pretty smug.’ ‘Maybe you didn’t need to come here,’ I decided. ‘Maybe I did. To understand why we’re a good team.

Hero WODs are meant to take an athlete outside himself. They’re supposed to put you in the Hurt Locker. They put you on the ground. You feel like you’re about to die. Then you get up, and remember some incredibly strong, brave young guy who didn’t.

So don’t be skurd. Don’t tremble and shake. Yes, I eat human flesh like it’s birthday cake. My eyes are sunken. My heart is like stone. But I ONLY commit MURDER on the microphone! My swagger is huge! My ego is chunky! And my rotting smell? No joke, it’s funky! But

Listen up! If you seek, then you will find YOU possess power that’ll BLOW your mind! Be true to YOURSELF when life gets INSANE! I didn’t get this smart from just eating brains! I’m Zombie Max! My words cut like a knife. I’ll SLAY you first! Then I’ll give you LIFE!

the girls still love me! They scream and cry, “OMG! It’s a zombie! I’m too CUTE to DIE!” Flies buzz all around me, and I’m dribbling drool. But believing in myself is what makes ME cool! Fitting in with the crowd was my only crave in the life that I had before my cold, dark grave.

But that was where his excitement began to melt into cold anxiety. His dad had been the Gryffindor Seeker, the youngest one in Hogwarts history. The best he, James, could hope for was to match that record. That’s what everyone would expect of him, the first-born son of the famous hero. He remembered the story, told to him dozens of times (although never by his own dad) of how the young Harry Potter had won his first Golden Snitch by virtually jumping off his broom, catching the golden ball in his mouth and nearly swallowing it. The tellers of the tale would always laugh uproariously, delightedly, and if Dad was there, he’d smile sheepishly as they clapped him on the back. When James was four, he found that famed Snitch in a shoe box in the bottom of the dining room hutch. His mum told him it’d been a gift to Dad from the old school headmaster. The tiny wings no longer worked, and the golden ball had a thin coat of dust and tarnish on it, but James was mesmerized by it. It was the first Snitch he had ever seen close up. It seemed both smaller and larger than he’d imagined, and the weight of it in his small hand was surprising. This is the famous Snitch, James thought reverently, the one from the story, the one caught by my dad. He asked his dad if he could keep it, stored in the shoebox when he wasn’t playing with it, in his room. His dad agreed easily, happily, and James moved the shoebox from the bottom of the hutch to a spot under the head of his bed, next to his toy broom. He pretended the dark corner under his headboard was his Quidditch locker. He spent many an hour pretending to zoom and bank over the Quidditch green, chasing the fabled Snitch, in the end, always catching it in a fantastic diving crash, jumping up, producing his dad’s tarnished Snitch for the approval of roaring imaginary crowds.

shimmery baby-blue

JUST

PANTYHOSE!!

Oh my lord. It can’t be. But it most certainly was. What in the heck is he doing here? Why in the hell was the star wide receiver of the Georgia Bulldogs at his mother’s funeral? The man that made history by coming out and telling the world he was bisexual two years ago. He was a hero, and he looked the part. He stood tall, at least 6’2”, or 6’3”. His wavy, dirty blond hair was longer on top than the cropped hair on the sides. Dark shades covered what he knew were magnetic, emerald-green eyes. His broad shoulders made his suit hang beautifully on his large body. Curtis’ mouth watered at the thought of all those muscles. He’d gotten glimpses of the man’s chest and biceps when the reporters and cameramen of ESPN would go in the locker room to listen to the coach congratulate his team on a win. There he was right there, just twenty feet away from him. 

Nearly every morning of his life, Mister Rogers has gone swimming, and now, here he is, standing in a locker room, seventy years old and as white as the Easter Bunny, rimed with frost wherever he has hair, gnawed pink in the spots where his dry skin has gone to flaking, slightly wattled at the neck, slightly stooped at the shoulder, slightly sunken in the chest, slightly curvy at the hips, slightly pigeoned at the toes, slightly aswing at the fine bobbing nest of himself… and yet when he speaks, it is in that voice, his voice, the famous one, the unmistakable one, the televised one, the voice dressed in sweater and sneakers, the soft one, the reassuring one, the curious and expository one, the sly voice that sounds adult to the ears of children and childish to the ears of adults, and what he says, in the midst of all his bobbing nudity, is as understated as it is obvious: "Well, Tom, I guess you've already gotten a deeper glimpse into my daily routine than most people have.

The heady dreams and promises of youth in postindustrial America have shattered. The mantra, preached by the coach, of hard work, teamwork, a positive attitude, success, and the mythical values of America has been exposed as a fraud. The coach’s heroes—Senator Joe McCarthy and the right-wing demagogue Father Charles Coughlin—are discredited relics of anticommunism. The world has not turned out to be the one painted for the young men in the coach’s locker room in 1952.

As Krona and Anston collected themselves and walked toward the locker rooms, black and red cheerleaders poured from a side door, and I knew who sent them the moment I saw them. They were carrying pom poms that looked to be made out of actual fire but didn’t burn them. Each wore the burning fist symbol of my father on their chests, and they danced out to form up in front of the stands reserved for him. “I-N-F-E-R-N-O, he’s our lord, our H-E-R-O!” they cheered. “Blessed be his name, blessed be, blessed be, Innnnferno!” “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.” I buried my head in my hands and muttered, “He brought the Infernets. Of course.” Eric was absolutely enthralled. “The what now?” He eyed the cheerleaders like anyone would, admiring their high-cut skirts and the bizarre fiery pom poms they wielded. My father was clapping along to their chant in the front row like a toddler being shown an especially catchy song. He bounced in his seat and whistled enthusiastically. “The Infernettes,” I explained as I resisted the urge to groan. “He has his own cheerleading squad.

ME, AS A ZOMBIE, HAVING LUNCH IN THE SCHOOL CAFETERIA I’ve seen the ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE movies 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7.

ME, TRAPPED LIKE A SARDINE INSIDE MY LOCKER!

THE HAWK AND THE VULTURE BATTLING IN THE DESERT!!

MESSAGE FROM A MIDDLE SCHOOL ZOMBIE

I’m a zombie rapper, as you can see, cursed to rock the mic for all eternity. Although I’m undead, my rhymes are hot, because unlike my corpse, my skills don’t rot.

So, YES! I agreed to sleep over and babysit a mentally disturbed dog with a nasty habit of scooting his butt on the carpet when he thinks no one is looking. Which meant I’d mostly be eating, sleeping, watching TV, and playing video games for three whole days and actually getting PAID for it! SWEET!! I bet you’re probably thinking my grandma will just call my parents when I don’t show up at her house. Then my parents will call the police to report their darling child missing. Then I’ll be tracked down at my school and rescued all easy-peasy like!

So don’t be skurd. Don’t tremble and shake. Yes, I eat human flesh like it’s birthday cake. My eyes are sunken. My heart is like stone. But I ONLY commit MURDER on the microphone! My swagger is huge! My ego is chunky! And my rotting smell? No joke, it’s funky!

RECYCLED ELVIS SUPERHERO COSTUME, POWER ROCKING WITH MY MIGHTY MICROPHONE OF DOOM!!

Pets-N-Stuff,

Max Crumbly