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The teacher slammed her fists on the desk.
''Plagiarism is a punishable offence you know. Technically, I could fail you.''
''I suppose ... ,'' John said, preparing for the hurricane that would follow, ''... you wouldn't be prepared to believe that Aristotle plagiarised this work off me?''
''No, John. I would not,'' she said, looking as if she was going to snap the desk in two.
''However, I would be prepared to believe that some time in detention would do you good. Now out!''
Never had John been more willing to follow an order.
He marched to the door, determined not to mess things up more than he already had, which is why he then said: ''All I did was take advantage of my natural resources, my resources being other people's work.''
John had never run faster.
It seemed to him slightly unfair that this whole business had occurred in the first place. Whoever heard of a teacher reading?
His parents wouldn't be happy, though.
When he got home, he'd get the whole ''You're not stupid, John - you just need more help'' lecture he always got.
John kicked a stone.
''Why me? Why always me?'' he screamed to the heavens, though the heavens seemed content not screaming back.
Being an upper middle-class white kid sucked.
There was no justice in the world for someone born to one of the most privileged nations ever to exist.
At least they hadn't noticed he had stolen his biology report from Darwin.
John hurried down the street, determined to at least not be late delivering the news to his parents, wondering if arson and murder were punishable offences for minors.
Yeah, they probably are, he thought, but still ...
The school itself was organised into a hierarchy unusual for a high school.
Essentially, it was divided into people who hated John and people who really hated John.
To John, pyrotechnics seemed the logical way of ridding the world of both groups simultaneously.
He sighed. This was ridiculous; he couldn't get them all into the school at once.
His mind began to drift to his current dilemma, how he was going to deal with his parents back at home, which actually reminded him of an extended part of the hierarchy - his family.
John was certain his family wanted nothing more than to tear apart every bit of his joy and throw it into the wind.
It was not his fault the teachers actually checked the work they were supposed to be marking.
John arrived at home and took in a breath of air and entered the house.
''Anyone home?'' he called.
''Just me, sweetie. Your father is away at work; he's not here at the moment.''
Another epic case for Sherlock Holmes - lord, his parents reeked of stupidity.
''So how was your day, love?''He told her.
''Dearest, you really are going to have to try harder,'' his mum said.
John, deep down, did love his parents, but at the moment he believed he was in the moral right, hoping that they would have a brain aneurysm.
However, instead of saying this, he excused himself and left before she could say anything else.
His basement was a dark, musty place covered with cobwebs, significant for one reason only - it housed the greatest creation of all time.
It bothered John, though, that despite his attempt to explain the ramifications of his creation to his parents and teachers, they still dismissed his talks as ''cute'' or, in his teacher's case, with ''detention'', but that didn't matter, he supposed.
So with those parting thoughts, he hopped into the slightly rusty time machine.
He and Aristotle were going to have words.
• By Nathaniel Brown, Year 11, Kaikorai Valley College