The story so far:
"Ooh, la--la, mon bimboette," Mr. Fench says, lifting his hair challenged head from the couch in the teachers' lounge.
"Exqueeze me?" I reply.
He pulls something from his pocket and points and clicks. The door locks behind me.
"Ah, me little femousta," he lisps. "Vinally, ve ur aloon!"
He gets up, or, rather, falls off the couch, and starts to slither towards me.
I'm, like, twisting the doornob. Pulling it and shaking the door.
"Ah, me little bimboquette, let's have a look at those thighs!"
I'm banging on the door at this point, and have ripped the paper off the window. Students walking by give strange looks, but don't stop.
Now I hear somebody in the closet rattling the door.
"Is somebody there? Help!"
Mr. French, the lunatic, hesitates slightly. "Wait up me sweet. You are next. I'll do you next. First, let me taste this cactus flower."
"Help!" I'm yelling at this point. I feel him grab my ankle, just kind of massaging it, then running his hands up my legs. he's lying on his back now.
"Mr. French, really. The kids-- they might look in."
"The hell with those bastards. The girls won't even touch me--even after I've molested them and their mothers."
The person in the closet is banging on the door. "Let me out of here. I've got a cell phone! I'll call security!"
"Ah-ha-ha!" French said. "Due to tax cuts--I am security!"
Still, he is running his hands up my legs--now he's at my thighs. He's having trouble reaching that high. I decide to step on his chest.
"Ooh. Pain. Yes, I like that," he says. "A little rough, mon petite bon chance!"
The bell rings. He stands up, brushes his clothes off and says,"Same time tomorrow?"