You walk around the corner, and run straight into your class bully, Bobby Simmons, and his group of hangers-on. "Give me your money kid," he screams at you with his stupid face. You think about his proposition. He's trying to take your milk money. That's right. He's trying to take from you the sweet, sweet taste of room-temperature, partially soured, taken-on-the-taste-of-the-carton-it-has-been-in-for-the-past-2&1/2-years milk. Can you stand to take this? What will you drink with your sloppy joes today if you do give him the money? Then again, what will he do to you if you don't? Bobby stares at you menacingly with one hand balled into a fist, patting his open palm.