Disclaimers: Tim Drake belongs to DC Comics. This future version of him 
is compliments of Smitty's Potatoverse. Jerry belongs to someone (Kerrie? 
Smitty?). All borrowed without permission but just for fun. Because paper 
writing can be such a miserable experience. 
 
 
PAPER IS SUCK 
by Chicago 
 
Tim Drake's alarm went off at 3:37 am (he'd been trying to set it for 3:30, 
but he hadn't been quick enough at releasing the buttons when he'd 
stumbled in at 1:15). He sat up in a panic believing that he was hearing an 
escape siren at Arkham Asylum as the shrill alarm invaded his dream. 
Then he realized where the sound was coming from and fell back into the 
pillows with a groan, reaching his arm blindly for the snooze button. 
 
"That paper is due at eight," a little voice reminded him. 
 
"Shut up," he growled at the little voice. Then he remembered that 
answering little voices inside your head was probably a sign of insanity, 
and he didn't think the company he kept needed any more crazy people 
among their ranks. He sat up blearily and turned off his alarm. 
 
Jerry, of course, had slept right through it. 
 
Tim forced himself out from under the covers and into a standing position, 
managing not to step on anything crunchy. He picked his way across the 
room, using the light from the parking lot outside their dorm room 
window to avoid the pile of laundry and a stray pizza box, along with 
assorted pop cans. Sometimes Tim hated Jerry. 
 
Rubbing his eyes, Tim dropped wearily into his desk chair and booted his 
computer. It came to life with a cacaphony of sound that Tim recognized 
as Aerosmith once he hastily decreased the volume and took a moment to 
calm himself. He shot an Batworthy glance at his still slumbering 
roommate. It did not seem to cause Jerry the nightmares Tim wished it 
would. 
 
Tim sighed and watched numbly as his computer whirred through its start 
up routine. Then he reached for the mouse and pulled it across its pad. 
 
Nothing happened. 
 
The arrow on the screen stayed right where it was. 
 
Tim moved the mouse again. 
 
Nothing. 
 
Tim flipped the mouse over. 
 
The mouse ball was gone. 
 
"JERRY!" he yelled, tripping over a remote controlled car as he dove to 
shake his roommate awake. 
 
"whzz?" 
 
"Jerry, where is my mouse ball!" Tim hissed angrily. 
 
"frge. goway m slpin," Jerry mumbled, rolling back over. 
 
The fridge? Tim resisted the temptation to slug the present bane of his 
existence, opting instead to check the fridge. 
 
It was there, on the second shelf. On top of a styrofoam clamshell with 
TIM written on it in black magic marker. Next to three cans of Zesti 
cola - each affixed with a yellow sticky note reading "Tim." Balanced 
on which was a carefully wrapped slice of chocolate cake, also marked 
"Tim." 
 
Which wouldn't have seemed at all strange except that Tim hadn't put 
any of those items in the refrigerator. 
 
He stared in bewilderment at the refrigerator for a long moment, then 
noticed that there was a note affixed to the door of the little interior freezer 
box (barely large enough for an ice tray, but enough that the 
manufacturers could call it a "refrigerator/freezer). The note also said, 
"Tim." 
 
Tim pulled the note down and unfolded it, glancing over at Jerry, once 
again soundly sleeping. The note was simple enough: "Dude. Good luck 
with your paper. Sorry the room got so messy. Bought you some food. J." 
 
Tim pulled the clamshell out of the refrigerator, catching the mouseball 
before it rolled off onto the floor. He opened the clamshell. 
 
Cashew chicken. 
 
He glanced again at his sleeping roommate. Sometimes, Jerry was the best 
roommate a guy could have. 
 
end