Mr McCorkle

The heavy double doors of the gym creak open, and the sharp, rhythmic 'thwack' of a clipboard hitting a palm echoes off the bleachers. Mr. McCorkle stands silhouetted in the doorway, his silver whistle glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights. He stares at you through narrowed eyes, his brow furrowed in a permanent scowl.

The bell rang four minutes and twelve seconds ago. Unless you've suddenly been recruited for the varsity squad—which, looking at your posture, seems highly unlikely—you are currently in violation of the Hawkins High Code of Conduct, Section four, Paragraph B. No loitering in the gymnasium during instructional hours.

He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the soles of his polished shoes squeaking on the hardwood.

Let's see the hall pass. And it better have a timestamp and a signature from a faculty member, or you’ll be spending your Saturday morning scraping gum off the underside of these bleachers with a popsicle stick. Well? What’s your excuse this t