The Dudley Diaries

Chapter One: Dudley's Revelation

"Dudley Dursley! Headmaster's office, now." Professor Lilliwig's eyebrows furrowed far down her forehead, very nearly meeting at the base of her long, pointed nose. An equally elongated finger pointed rigidly at the closed door of her classroom. She bored into the oafish, fat boy stuffed into a rickety desk in the front row with her black, beady eyes. She had a small, spare frame but was an intimidating presence nonetheless; her palpable anger washed over her students in waves, stirring them into silence.

Dudley had a difficult time maneuvering his weight out of the desk. Sullenly, he bent over to pick up his satchel of books on the floor. He felt a draft 'round his bottom and quickly pulled up his pants in the back. He heard the voice of a former friend make a very choice remark at his unintential mooning of the class. Several snickers alighted the electric air. He grimaced but did not turn around.

Professor Lilliwig failed to notice anything amiss. With a stern swish, she tossed a crisp tissue at Dudley's red face. "And wipe that drool off your chin."

Dudley held a steady pace as he made his way out of the classroom, but slowed down to a trudge as he made his way down the hall. This was a well-known route of his, as he seemed to spend most of his days heading to the Headmaster's office. He was always getting into trouble. Damn Lilliwig, and all the other teachers in this stupid Smelly Smeltings. He tried to keep his mind from anxiously considering what his classmates must be thinking ("Did I snore?") and then damning them for thinking so at the same time ("Doesn't everyone snore? Bloody hell!").

The secretary, Ms. Ascott, was typing away at her antiquated typewriter when Dudley entered the main office. Continuing to type with one hand, she raised the other and pointed to a row of menacingly plain wooden chairs. "Over there, Dudley." She did not even look up.

Dudley sat down in the chair at the end of the row, farthest from the door that led to the Headmaster's inner office. After fifteen minutes, a large man rushed out, trying to shut a briefcase jam-packed with papers and folders before him. Ms. Ascott chirped in his general direction. "Dudley Dursley is waiting to see you, Sir."

The Headmaster barely acknowledged Dudley's presence. "Who was it this time?"

"Galinda Lilliwig."

The man finally turned a tired eye toward Dudley. "Go wait in my office, will you, boy? I'll deal with you later. But right now I have a meeting to attend and I'm already ten minutes late. Ms. Ascott, have you seen my..." She lifted a transparent packet of papers to his face. "Ah, yes, thanks so much, m'dear." He picked his hat off the coat rack by the door and strode out.

Dudley was slow to respond. "Yes, Headmaster Pickle."

Ms. Ascott had already returned to her typing. "He's already left. You're to wait in his office."

Dudley wanted to yell at her that he wasn't deaf, but he didn't need any more trouble. He picked up his gear and went inside.

The first thing he noticed was that Headmaster Pickle's tiny, 13 inch telly was on. Dudley had always wanted to turn it on the many previous times he'd sat in the office, but he'd resisted the urge to avoid getting into trouble. But this time around, the telly was already on, and no one would notice him there, scanning stations. Quietly, Dudley shut the door behind him.

The telly blared a golf game in progress. Already feeling bored, Dudley pressed the "Up" button beneath the screen. A western, with a man in a cowboy hat shooting from the hip: "Bang bang!" Click. "Now you add just a sprig of oregano for that crisp..." Click. "And you know, Bob, you can now have the cleaning power of Orange Glo when you go on vacation because it comes in travel size!" Click. "In other news, the Streaker Parade made its way through Liverpool this afternoon, jogging in time to the tune of 'Eleanor Rig--" Click. "I had no life until I bought 'Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow'. A woman with a beard and chest hair just isn't natural, you know. But now, I'm the life of..." Click. "Yo, wassup Carson."

Dudley stopped in mid-click, transfixed by the sight of a black man in shades, wearing a white sweatsuit and a fur coat, all three times his size, and more gold jewelry than was socially acceptable in any circle. He also donned a white fedora with a peacock feather sticking out of the silk band. He was talking in a slow drawl about his latest album amid the screams of cheering girls in the studio. Dudley scanned the screen for some indication of the channel, the show. The white man referred to as Carson was asking the black man questions.

"So what do you prefer to be called? Puff Daddy? Sean Combs? Sean "Puffy" Combs? Or, based on your, let's just say, interesting outfit, Pimp Daddy?"

The man in gaudy white and gold gave a wide grin. "Yeah, I'm the pimp a'ight. But ya'll can call me Puffy."

Dudley sat, his head cocked at an odd angle to the screen. He mouthed the word, "Puffy", over and over again. Carson continued his barrage. "So, Puffy, do you have a particular lady in your life right now? The girls in our studio audience are just dying to know." A crescendo of shrieks permeated the room, and Dudley backed into a chair, his eyes still riveted to the telly.

Puffy gave a self-assured chuckle. "Yeah, let's just say I've got my eye on the prize."

"And what is this video you are introducing today on TRL?"

"It's from my new album, 'Platinum', and..."

"Dude! You're album's gone platinum already?!"

"Chill, man! It hasn't even been released yet! The name of the album is 'Platinum'."

"So what's the name of the video?"

"I was gettin' to that."

"Oh. Okay."

"Awright."

"All right, man."

"Ya'll ready for this or what?"

"We're ready, man! We're ready!"

"A'ight. It's cool man, we tight." He casually slapped Carson's microphone hand, and the clash of one of his gold rings against the plastic of the microphone caused a ringing sensation to emit from the microphone, giving everyone in the studio temporary deafness.

Carson continued undeterred in a vain attempt to maintain professionalism. "Okay, that sucked. But we've got Puffy's new video, premiering worldwide for the first time ever on MTV or, like, anywhere, today on TRL!"

Puffy was blinking his eyes rapidly, shaking his head out of the deaf stupor of the microphone incident. "Man, this is totally whack!"

"Yeah, you whacked the microphone, all right."

"Man, wassup wit' you, man?" Puffy looked pissed. "Play the goddamn video already!"

Carson started to look distressed. He had a look of either extreme concentration or constipation, apparently trying to listen to whatever the stagehand was yelling at him to say through his earpiece. He turned to Puffy, almost accidentally, and said, "Yeah, and the video is?"

"'It's All About the Bling Blings'."

"Now is really not the time for fashion advice, man. I just want the name of the video!"

"That is the name of the video." Puffy rolled his eyes. Dudley stifled a laugh.

"Oh." Carson scratched his head, then said, "Okay, everyone, enjoy the 'Blong' song!"

The camera cut away from Carson as Puffy grabbed his shirt collar to yell, "What the hell is a blong?!"

The video featured Puffy in a rolling Mercedes Benz with five of his friends and dozens upon dozens of scantily clad, well-toned and generously oiled females. He waxed philosophical with his litany of fast rhyming raps about how the world just looks a lot better from the top and everyone treats you better when they know you're rolling in the dough, so the best advice he could give to aspiring rap acts worldwide, with special kudos to his brothers in Harlem, was to talk big and look bigger. He flashed the camera several times with his numerous items of jewelry laying flat against his chiseled chest. "It's all about the Bling Blings" was the background chorus of a soulful choir, and Puffy chimed, "And you can never have too much."

A light came on in Dudley's normally dim head. "Bling blings." He muttered. "That's it. That's the answer to everything." He suddenly noticed heavy, sliding footsteps against the tiled floor of the outer office and knew with uncanny certainty that that was Headmaster Pickle returning from his meeting. He turned with wonder and awe toward the telly. In shock, he realized that he'd never noticed such subtle things in the past--it was only now, after the revelation that was Puffy, that he was beginning to view things with such clarity. He couldn't explain it, but somehow it made sense. It truly is all about the bling blings, Dudley realized. Without even thinking twice, he pressed the 'Down' button on the telly multiple times til it was back on the golf channel.

Just then, Headmaster Pickle entered his office. He looked resigned, and when he finally addressed Dudley, his voice sounded worse. "What now, Dudley, what now?"

"Sir, if I may."

Pickle plopped into his plush chair and leaned far back into it. "Go on, Dudley. I relish hearing your explanation for this incident. And it had better cut the mustard, or you'll find yourself out of this school faster than you can say 'ham and cheese sandwich.' Or perhaps eat one."

Dudley raised his eyebrows to these comments. "Perhaps I should call my Father and tell him what you just told me, word for word."

"And perhaps," Headmaster Pickle stood impressively behind his long mahagony desk and bellowed, "Perhaps I should call your father and inform him that you have been sleeping in class, picking fights in the dorms and the cafeteria, destroying school property and mooning entire classrooms, such as you did this afternoon!" Dudley was about to speak, but Pickle silenced him with a look. "You have been a thorn in my side since you got here, Dudley. You have a patent inability to work with others, a severe stubbornness when it comes to schoolwork and physical education, and a spoiled attitude and flaring temper when you don't get your way. Well this isn't your house and I am not your father. Your usual pathetic whimpering will fall on deaf ears from now on, boy, so you'd better check yourself if you want to retain your stature as a student of Smeltings."

Dudley bit his lip.

"Have I made myself clear, Mister Dursley?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then remove yourself from my presence at once and get back to class."

"Yes, Sir." And so he did. But he did not return to Lilliwig's classroom. He weaved his way through the empty school halls toward his dormitory, and then his empty room. He threw his bag onto the empty bed in the corner and plopped down heavily onto his own bed. With a heavy sigh, he scanned his room--he'd had a roommate, Piers Polkiss, at the beginning of the school year, but Piers and his family moved to the States mid-semester and with them went Dudley's social life. Piers had been his only friend. He'd never really noticed this; in fact, he thought he'd had a very wide circle of friends. But he soon found out that the boys who visited his room in the past were really only friendly to him because they were friends with Piers, and only Piers. He quickly discovered where he stood on the social ladder when Piers left, leaving him at the bottom rung, very desolate and very alone.

Nevertheless: he hadn't cried about it before and he wasn't about to now. Instead, he turned on the telly and scanned the channels for MTV. And he continued to watch the station well into the night, skipping dinner and his studies. And a plan formulated in his mind. It was all about the bling blings, and Puffy would lead the way.