Class of Nuke 'Em High 2: Subhumanoid Meltdown

Tromaville, New Jersey, 1986.

Whilst the carcinogous clouds of Chernobyl

wreaked havoc over Eastern Europe,

something even more funky was festering.

A careless leak of toxic liquids

escaped from the Tromaville nuclear power facility--

Not another leak.

And seeped into the water

supply of nearby Tromaville High School.

Ptooey.

These horrible, unmentionable fluids

caused the student body to mutate and transmogrify.

And worse, it caused them to dance badly

when The Smithereens showed up.

Some thought they were OK, but no one

was safe from the rabid radiation

and its strange hormone reversing

side effects, not even virgins.

Some of the students gained superhuman

strength, while others simply spewed

up mangly, mutant monsters.

Hm.

What the?

Tromaville High became Nuke 'Em High,

and there was only one way for the class of Nuke

'Em High to stop the mutant monster force.

They had to destroy their school.

But that was then, and this is a sequel.

Today, through the generosity of the great, ever

altruistic, multinational Nukamama Corporation,

the Tromaville nuclear power facility

has been rebuilt. Even more altruistic,

the Nukamama Corporation graciously volunteered

to construct a beautiful junior college, the Tromaville

Institute of Technology, on the premises

and inside of the twin-towered nuclear facility.

The fact that this was the only way

to get clearance for the construction

of the nuclear power plant from the government

nuclear regulatory agencies had nothing

to do with this generous contribution

to America's educational system.

Today, Tromaville Tech is a beautiful, serene campus

where young, inquisitive minds can

gain a firsthand dose of the wonders of the Nuclear Age.

Even a fine academic institution, such as Tromaville

Tech, has its little day to day idiosyncrasies,

such as daily malathion sprayings.

Spray those luscious

melons for fruit flies.

Hold still.

Ow.

Limited locker space, causing students

to wear limited clothing, an occasional foreign exchange

student that just doesn't fit it,

and every once in a while, a messy, but perfectly harmless,

spill of toxic, radioactive waste materials.

For the most part, however, campus life at Tromaville Tech

was perfectly normal.

Well, almost normal.

Help me!

We're all going to hell.

Help!

Oh!

Help me!

Get out my way, chief.

This girl isn't exactly a feather, you know.

What's wrong with your girl?

She looks a little pasty.

Look, we'll have coffee later and talk about it, all right?

Right now, get out of my way.

And get a hold of yourself. -Me?

I'm fine.

You're fat.

Hang on, Victoria.

Don't die.

Please don't die.

Diane, this is Troma Tech Times ace reporter, Roger Smith,

dictating what may well be my goodbye byline.

Yipes!

Whoa!

Wait for me, girls.

Wait for me.

I think I'm too fat.

Ow!

Whoa!

I'm reporting to you live, but not for long,

from the scene of the destruction of Tromaville

as we know it.

If anyone survives this disaster and finds this tape,

I hope I win a posthumous Pulitzer.

Or at least I hope you sell the story as a movie of the week.

Oh, it's the most horrible thing I've ever seen,

worse than the Geraldo Show.

Why does this world have to be filled with so much greed, so

much mistrust, so much hatred?

Caused by human beings with absolutely

no respect for human emotions.

All they care about is making money.

I know I should be reporting objectively,

but I can't anymore.

This time it's gotten too personal.

I'm about to lose the only person, the only being

that I've ever truly loved.

All because of them.

Please God.

Please don't take this one life from me.

Show me a way to save her life.

You know, like the mother who saved her kid

from underneath the Volkswagen by picking

it up in the parking lot.

Well, maybe not that miraculous, but something, God.

Please.

I promise to study harder, not to abuse

any type of recreational drugs, no more beer

drinking, no more Troma movies.

Anything you want, God.

Just please, give me the know-how.

Show me the light.

Light the way.

Guide me on the right path.

Show me the right road.

Take me by the hand.

Sing me a song.

Cry me a river.

Um, I mean, I mean I don't know what I mean anymore, Lord.

Whoever finds this tape, if you can't get my article printed,

please at least find a way to save my dearest love, Victoria.

Damn.

Who would've thought college would

have turned out like this?

ROGER (VOICEOVER): And to think, just

a few short weeks ago, everything on campus

was perfectly normal.

Yes, Tromaville Institute of Technology

was indeed the finest academic community

on the face of the globe.

Students came from all four corners of the world

to tour this state of the art campus.

Ouch, Grandma.

Pay attention, and move it, shithead.

It's your fucking future.

OK.

Let's move.

ROGER (VOICEOVER): We were proudest

of the nuclear reactor, which was

operated entirely by students.

Thanks to the hands-on experience

working with everything from isotope cores to uranium rods,

our brains were growing, and our bodies were glowing.

Other fine campus features included the newly relocated

Richard Milhous Nixon Library, CPR classes, and, of course,

wonderful teacher to student ratios.

A proper diet was extremely important to everyone,

but for some strange reason, the cafeteria only served plastic

and rubber novelty toys.

At Tromaville Tech, they stressed

a sound mind and sound body, in a sound gas mask, of course.

Water sports were especially popular

among the carcinogenic crowd.

Now how's that for a chest, huh?

ROGER (VOICEOVER): And they got extra credit too.

In the unlikely event that a student fell ill,

he received the finest of medical treatment.

Chopsticks.

Is there supposed to be that much blood?

ROGER (VOICEOVER): Tromaville Tech was fair to all

its students, poor or rich.

Those who were not endowed, and those who were well-endowed.

ROGER (VOICEOVER): But all communities

have their dirty rodents, and the Tromaville Institute

of Technology was no exception.

It had a gang of naughty boys and girls called The Squirrels.