Sharkman Read Online Free

lab to increase their resistance to certain pesticides. Monsanto has used GMOs to monopolize the agriculture industry, creating seeds that are resistant to their own pesticide—Roundup. Back in India, our farmers were forced to buy GMO seeds from Monsanto. These seeds produced one crop and died, as opposed to healthy seeds which produced crops with seeds that could be harvested again and again. Monsanto genetically modified their seeds to be sterile and resist their own brand of pesticide, which gets into the food supply we consume on a daily basis, causing an increase in cancer and other diseases. Farmers have fallen into debt from trying to make a living growing Monsanto’s genetically engineered Bt cotton. Over a quarter-million Indian farmers have committed suicide.”
    Beautiful and brilliant. And me? I was the human equivalent of Monsanto’s GMO—a crop with a barren seed. And yet so smitten was I that I found myself raising my hand like a desperate frog hoping to plant a mental kiss on his princess.
    “Anya’s right. Roundup is a herbicide that contains glyphosates. Glyphosates have been shown to cause birth defects among animals and humans. Glyphosates are also responsible for wiping out bee colonies. Bees are important because they pollinate plants. Lose the bees and we’re screwed.”
    I felt the class staring at me. They probably weren’t expecting the gimp to have a brain.
    The tall guy seated behind me to my left stood, pointing at my legs. “Look! He’s peeing in his pants!”
    I looked down. Sure enough, urine was flooding the front of my jeans, dripping onto the floor.
    As a rule, I insert my catheter once every four hours. It had only been two and a half hours since I had woken up, but stress causes one to pee more frequently—and I was clearly stressed.
    And helpless.
    And humiliated.
    And suddenly desperate to get out of there—the cell phones already starting to appear, their video apps threatening to turn one bad moment into a lifetime of grief.
    I charged the exit, thankful the door opened outward. Ramming it open, I wheeled like a madman down the corridor—bypassing the elevator, hell-bent on flinging myself down the concrete stairwell and ending the torture.
    Principal Lockhart appeared out of nowhere to block my attempt. “Whoa now, easy son! You’re going way too fast—we have a speed limit, you know.”
    I was too angry to form words, so I just grunted, tears of frustration flowing past my cheeks.
    He saw the tears; then he saw the front of my pants. “It’s okay, I can fix this. There are laundry machines in the stadium. It’ll be quicker if I push you.”
    Simple, quick, and logical.
    Accepting his solution, I slumped in the chair and let him take over. We rode the elevator down one floor; then he pushed me across campus to the football stadium while he called a custodian on his walkie-talkie to let us into the equipment room.
    There were two industrial-size washers and dryers that were used to wash the athletic teams’ uniforms, along with open cardboard boxes stacked with clean towels. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I stripped off my soiled jeans and boxers and handed them to the principal, who hand-washed them in a sink while I wrapped myself in a clean towel.
    The seat cushion of my wheelchair is vinyl and easy to wipe clean—provided I’m not sitting in it. In order to vacate the chair I had to wrap my arms around Dr. Lockhart’s neck and allow him to lift me up and place me in another chair—that was awkward. He wiped down the vinyl with a disinfectant, and then we waited while my clothing spun around in an industrial dryer.
    “Heck of a first day,” he finally said, flashing a disarming smile.
    I nodded, feeling embarrassed about my behavior earlier in his office. “I’m sorry I disrespected you, Dr. Lockhart. The whole GPA thing . . . I’ve seen some schools fight over their top students just to keep federal funds.”
    “I’m sure that happens. At Seacrest,