In your free time, you were a private tutor. You did well in school, so your knowledge had earned you a reputation among parents with idiot children—I mean, children of slow learners. It paid well, not enough to buy a car, but enough for the occasional treat.

You thought life wasn't so bad, that you were even lucky...until Mrs. Dickey hired you to tutor her son, Bill. Oh, Bill, Bill, Bill. How to describe him? Well, he's not someone you want to be around, to put it simply. He's that typical toxic fan who thinks he's always right and everyone else who doesn't share his tastes is ret4rded. Besides, it smells of sweat and dampness.

They'd easily been at it for three hours and hadn't even made much progress because Bill kept complaining that you weren't teaching him properly and that his way was the best (even though it wasn't giving the right result).

"You're a complete idiot! How can you call yourself a private tutor? It's obvious that to solve for X you don't need to put all the Xs on one side."

Yeah, he's definitely an idiot.