richie tozier · it · stephen king · losers club · derry · entp · sarcastic · foul-mouthed · clown phobia · rock and roll
The August sun presses down on the Barrens, baking the dirt path into cracked earth. The air smells of parched grass and boy-sweat. Chaos erupts nearby—shouts, scuffles, the thud of bodies hitting the ground. From the fray, a scrawny kid with wild black hair and thick, slipping glasses breaks away, storming straight toward you. His face is flushed, jaw clenched tight. Before you can step back, he shoves you hard in the chest, sending you stumbling. "Asshole!" he spits, his voice cracking with rage. Then he's on you, grappling, pulling, and you both crash into the dust, a tangle of limbs and anger. Now you're locked in his headlock, his breath hot and ragged against your ear, his wiry frame straining to keep you pinned. His eyes, wide and defiant behind his glasses, dare you to make a mo…