Novel maybe?

I'm thinking about writing a novel and have come up with about two pages of a quick intro, but I need good opinions on what I ought to change about my writing style and diction to make it...well, better. I asked my better half what she thought of it (She being an extremely amazing writer.) but all I got was a really biased and patronizing answer. Keep in mind I'm only 16, but never-the-less be honest.


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I am the corrector. I am the righteous. I am the decider, and I am the hope for the people in this city. I am all seeing and all knowing and I wish to extend my knowledge to those who seek it. The sac shook violently and a muffled yelp filtered through its tiny woven fibers. A crisp crackling noise made me shiver. The flames rose. I smiled.
"Why are we doing this again?" A bored vacant voice asked from outside my little world. I came to after a few seconds of hesitation.
"We are making things right, my friend. We are the correctors, well... mostly ?'I'm' the correc'tor', but I'll be sure to mention you when I reach salvation." As I said the last bit I extended my arms out, opened my palms, and looked up to the sky, as if presenting my sacrifice to the silver eyed one himself.
"Right... you know, Julius sometimes you really freak me out, they ought to put you in the ol' loony house." He half-smiled after saying this, to gesture an apology for any unintentional insult (He being Johnny).
"They can try, johnny my friend, but I'll give ?'em hell if they do. No way your gonna find Julius Xavier in one of those joints."
"Yeah, they're probably afraid you'll set it on fire." He mumbled to his cigarette, then, with a flick of his finger, shot it into the air.
A sudden dissonance scratched the inside of my ear drums. It was the dog. Screeching its last breath into the air. "Ah! **** Jules, God damn!" Johnny quickly covered his ears with his hands.
"Hmm, I didn't know it would make such a fuss." I mumbled as I walked toward the dog, then with a swift and deft movement, I stomped what seemed to be it's head, putting the thing out of its misery. The screech ended in a quick yelp, the movement limped to a halt, and the only thing filling the air was smoke and the crackling noise of the dying flames.
"Who's dog was that again?" Johnny said with a gulp and a sickness in his voice.
"It's a stray bitch. Come on, we're gonna be late for dinner." I began to leave the vacant lot knowing Johnny was right behind me.
"You know, you're really a sick bastard, Julius. How can you talk about eating after that?" Another gulp and Johnny's giant drooping adam's apple wiggled like a cocoon ready to rip open. I smiled. Johnny was a funny looking fellow, and his personality drew out his attributes in a comical way. He's a tall clumsy looking kid, with a dark complexion, and shaggy hair. His eyes seemed to always be sucked into his head and What was so funny about him was that he looked like a cross between an insomniac, a heroine addict, and a book worm. He was two of the three.
"A good day's work of fixing this broken city. Don't you think we at least deserve a good meal?" Johnny fused a sigh and a scoff together and smiled at my statement. We made our way to the side walk and slowly strolled down the lane, our stomachs grumbling and our pockets empty. Night began to creep over the city; a cloak of shadows spread neatly and rather quickly over the buildings and streets. Everything changed when night came. Night was the truth. Night showed the city naked and defenseless. Night exposed all weak points and amplified our senses. At night I truly see. Soon, night will be day and day will be night, all will be right, and everyone will see truth. It is my job to enlighten those fooled by the deceptive day's veil. We walked up to the old metal fence and the rusted gate swung open for us, welcoming the two young heroes of the city. An old dusty welcome mat lay on the porch: "Home" it said in fancy curved letters. I chuckled as I stepped on it decisively and without hesitation and swung the wooden door open. After the door was a hallway with a multitude of openings on both the left and right, which branched of into more hallways. The corridor was narrow and with every step the wooden floor moaned an aged moan. The house was a living creature that seemed to stir and breath as the humidity and temperature caused the walls and floorboards to expand and contract. "First, second, third opening on the right." I thought to myself, reassuring my automatic movements and reiterating that ?'This' was the right way to the kitchen.
"Well well, look who's here. ?'Bout time you two showed up." A middle-aged, fairly robust woman turned from what seemed to be a horde of children tugging at her white and black dress, and stared at Johnny and I, sternly, but with a trusting and almost humorous complexion.
"I know, I know, We were at the library and I kept telling myself, ?'One more page, one more page and I'll head home.'" Deceiving people like old Mrs. Johnson was too easy. I'm lucky I had the privilege of coming home to her, the other matrons wouldn't believe me for a second.
"Oh, and what were you reading?" She said it with an intrigued tone rather than a sarcastic one, which, comforted me and I'm sure Johnny as well.
"Nicholas Nickleby! It's truly a magnificent book, Charles Dickens is a literary genius." I said with an obsessive enthusiasm.
"Oh! I couldn't agree more! You know, Johnny you ought to try reading some of Julius' books, I'm certain it's better than those despicable pop-culture magazines you're always reading." I saw Johnny, in my peripheral vision, lower his head and mutter: "Yes ma'am."
"So, Mrs. Johnson, what's for dinner? I'm starving." I rubbed my aching stomach as I spoke.
"Soup, like always, and get in line, you're not the only one who's hungry around here, you little hooligan." I lifted my head, taking my eyes of my stomach, and fixed them on old Mrs. Rascoon, "The Beast" as we called her. The Beast had old disgusting gray hair with a multitude of tiny black strands running through it, her face was wrinkled and worn with age, and her skin had a leathery texture. She was about 5 feet and 4 inches tall. Her dark penetrating scowl overcompensated for her lack of height.
"Yes ma'am." I said involuntarily.
"Don't give me none of that ?'yes ma'am' ****, I know you're just as bad as the rest of them trouble makers, hell, if not you're probably the worst, 5 times this year, charged with arson, I tell ya' Mrs. Johnson don't let this one fool you, he's a menace to society and that's all he'll ever be." Her voice trailed off as she began to inspect the food boiling on the stove.
"''Don't' give me ?'none' of that' is a double negative, ma'am." I smirked, then, before Mrs. Johnson could look at me, wiped it off and threw on one of the most innocent looks anyone ever did see. The Beast turned and quickly said,
"You wanna eat tonight? Cause I'll be happy to send you to your room hungry!" She was used to my smart-ass comebacks. I then walked to the back of a long disorganized line, Johnny still right behind me. We grabbed our food (Mrs. Johnson was big on literature and things of that nature, so, if anything, the little verbal stunt I pulled off earlier got me quite a bit more trust, and earned me a smile and a wink when she handed me my bowl of supper.) and walked over to the rec-room where we sat on the couch and watched two kids play chess while we ate. The rec-room was an old dingy creaking mess, which was, incidentally, a perfect place to relax and unwind. The wall paper was a gross yellow-tan colour which seemed to eccentuate the unappetizing aura that emitted from the room. There was an old broken television set, a pool table with 5 balls and a cue-stick that was snapped in half, a couch with so much fluff beaten out of it, sitting in it was the equivalent of sitting in a wooden chair, and a chess board on a small night stand with a foldable chair on each side. I looked at the bowl of soup, sitting in my lap, which, to my dismay, looked more like gruel. It was basically chicken flavoured water. I moved my spoon in the unviscous ichor and watched as the yellow-green flavouring, still mostly in powdered form, diffused throughout the rest of the liquid. It was probably the room. I swallowed my chicken soup wondering what chicken really tasted like. I probably haven't had real chicken in more than two years. I felt "chicken" was a salesman's word, used to make something you haven't tried and normally wouldn't try, seem like something you've had before.
"Would you like to try our new product?"
"I'm not sure, what is it?"
"Well, what it ?'is' (He'd have to use air quotes for ?'is') is sulfuric acid, but it tastes just like chicken!"
"Oh, hey! Chicken is something I've had ?'and' enjoyed on a multitude of occasions, I'll take some." I began to make hypothetical scenarios in my head, each one more ridiculously hilarious than the last.
"Hello, ma'am. Would you like to buy some door paste?"
"Door paste? I've never heard of that before, what does it do?"
"Well, ma'am what it ?'does' is not important, but know this: It tastes like chicken..."
"What!? Chicken!? I absolutely ?'adore' chicken! I'll take fifty packs!" I began to laugh historically , nearly spraying the chicken flavoured concoction out of my nose and onto the chess game. Everyone turned their head toward me, making sure they weren't left out of any inside jokes that might be secretly going on.
"What's so funny?" Johnny nudged my arm.
"Nothing...Knight to E7." I began to dictate the right chess player's moves for him. And he, involuntarily, listened and moved accordingly. The other chess player rubbed his face and looked at me.
"Hey come on now, he has to make the moves for himself, you can't help him, that's cheating."