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Adjusting To Life On The Inside


  So, dear readers, at today’s writing, I find myself incarcerated still, locked away in jail like a common criminal, and apparently abandoned by my one friend and only hope of securing freedom; my attorney, “Double-Double” Medjuck. He had previously convinced me to refinance my house with a second mortgage and give him the money to fund our legal battle against the university, then summarily skipped out on me and I haven’t seen or heard from him since! I am left now to languish here in prison indefinitely as the wheels of justice seem to have ground to a halt, and I have become resigned to merely sit inside and wait until my trial date arrives.

  There is nothing I can do except wait, really, and the time begins to weigh heavily upon me, so I decide that I will do my best to try and stay occupied. All convicts have the right to attend school and university while incarcerated; they can get a degree from any of the online colleges while doing their time inside the joint and hopefully they may gain some discipline and receive a little practical training that may help them to straighten their lives out, and break free of their criminal lifestyles for good. A trade or a degree, that they can fall back on when reintegrated with society. They can get their doctorate while serving hard time as there are even PhD programs available! This opportunity is perfect for me because not only do I desperately need some sort of constructive activity to fend off the maddening boredom of prison life, but I also need to get a law degree ASAP because it would appear that my lawyer has left me holding the bag, and now, in terms of legal defense, I will have to fend for myself. So that is that, there can be no question, I am going to attend university behind bars and become an attorney so I can do the wise thing and represent myself in court!

  Before I can begin my new academic career, however, there are the finer details to deal with regarding my housing within this correctional institution itself. I need to be assigned to a cell, and given the basic toiletries and bedding that all inmates are provided. A hulking guard with spaghetti stains on her uniform grunts my name through the bars and I am called forward to be billeted my cell. We walk for what seems like hours through dimly lit hallways and dank passages, being admitted through remotely operated giant steel doors and clanking steel-bar gates until finally I arrive at what will serve as my home for, what looks like, a long time to come.

  My cell is an austere affair, 10x12 with a stainless steel toilet-sink combo in between two cots which line the opposite walls. There's a bare steel framed one, which I assume belongs to me and upon which I drop my bedroll, and a neatly made one across from it, at the foot of which, seated with back to me, the individual who would apparently be my cell-mate from now on.

  He’s ignoring me. I clear my throat and stand waiting for him to acknowledge, but he’s lost in thought. Maybe stupor? He just sits and looks at nothing, facing the back wall of the cell. I peek around to catch a glimpse of his face, and he seems to be in some sort of a trance, quite possibly medicated(?). His eyes are glazed over and half closed, his mouth hangs open, there is some drool running down his chin… then … suddenly he jumps to attention, he’s up on his feet like a flash of lightning and has his fists up in fighting stance, looking all around the cell as though he were being attacked from all sides. His eyes are like a wild animal, until he realizes there is only myself standing there, holding out my hand to shake. I demure to overlook his little outburst and politely introduce myself, to which he acts disgusted, stares at my outstretched hand, and shakes his head in disbelief. He sits back down on his cot and, dispensing with the formalities, lets me in on the “lay of the land” 

The Law of The Jungle is Explained to Me

   With no introduction whatsoever, he gets right up, into my face and begins... "Listen up punk! We're both going to be in here for a long, long time, and that means I gotta look at your ugly face every day when I wake up, so you better get a few things straight.” He hisses, “This is my home, and don’t you forget it, or else! Don’t touch my stuff, and don’t rustle my jimmies and you’ll be OK. There’s rules in here, just like the outside, except, in here, the big dogs eat, and the little dogs get eaten, capisc?” 

  I nod my head slowly in concurrence.

  “Oh yeah, and one more thing…” he adds, “No whistling! Only the screws whistle. If I ever hear you whistle I’ll shank you and cut your lips off!"
  "Other than that, I think you’ll be okay.” Now his tone is considerably lighter, almost friendly. “Just watch me, and do what I do, and you shouldn’t have any problems at all.” Now he even wants to know a little about me and asks; “So...what are you in for?”

  Nervously, I tell him, in one breathless sentence, that I was framed. I have been charged under criminal law and been accused of committing heinous terrorist acts in attempting to cause great personal injury up at the university, but it is all a giant misunderstanding, and that I’m planning on attending the jail-house university to get my Doctorate of Law degree from one of their PhD programs, so that I can announce my Innocence before the Judge and defend myself in the Court of Law when my trial date comes up.

  My cell-mate, upon hearing this laughs out loud. He’s slapping his knee and doubling over. This is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and wiping a tear from his eye, he grabs onto my shoulder to steady himself and tells me, “Man, you’re the limit, look around you, not only is every single con in this hell-hole ‘innocent’ but they’re all lawyers too!” He resumes his laughter, “College is a waste of time, school never did anybody any good! University is a joke. In here we have other things to keep us occupied.”

  As he’s telling me this I begin to realize who this man is, I recognize him from the pictures I had seen splashed across every newspaper and magazine only a few short months ago. This whole time, unbeknown to me, I have been sitting and chatting with “The Criminal Court Killer” a maniac lawyer who lost his mind while representing a client on trial for jay-walking and went on a homicidal spree. He had barricaded the court-room and taken everyone inside hostage, torturing and killing each of his captives, one by one. 

  The ordeal had lasted 3 days, and he had refused all negotiations, until finally, he had been lured out by the SWAT team rolling pennies down the hallway just outside the courtroom doors. This was too much for the lawyer and he could not resist running out after them, only to go straight into the arms of the heavily armed authorities, who were laying in wait. A perfect trap! 

  Afterwards, when they went into the court-room, and witnessed the scene of such extreme and barbaric violence, the results of days of torture and carnage, several senior police officers were reduced to tears, had to take stress-leave, even early retirement, and are all in therapy still to this day.

A Very Bad Man

   “University is for pussies, why would you want to sit around studying and learning in some jail-bird college when we’ve got REAL entertainment, boy!” He winks at me. I’m put off by my realization of just what an extreme psychopath I am sharing digs with, but I sort of half hear what he’s saying…

  “You’re gonna have fun with us in here, friend. We got's something extra-special... We got's ‘Gladiator Days!’ He’s very excited about this activity. I’m not sure what ‘Gladiator Days’ means but it has my bunkie all fired up, he’s writhing with pleasure. “Gladiator Days is the BEST! The guards set it all up for us! And it’s so much fun! I LOVE it! Plus, I’m the reigning and current champ, so all the fresh meat has to fight me, meaning YOU (he jabs me in the chest) are going to battle ME! Tonight!” 

  I’m starting to see what he’s talking about. Gladiator Days seems to be some sort of bare-knuckle boxing match, or wrestling, something athletic and competitive. And he’s informing me that I will have to fight him. It is kinda surreal because he doesn’t at all seem threatening or aggressive about it, just polite, matter-of-fact and to-the-point. I on the other hand, am starting to feel terrified. I try feebly to talk my way out. "I don’t want to fight you", I say weakly, shaking like a leaf, "I don’t know anything about fisticuffs!", I tell him, "I'm not a criminal, I’m a nice guy, just ask me."

  Again he looks at me like he doesn’t believe I could be so na├»ve. “This isn’t fisticuffs bro. This is gladiator days! Anything goes. Anything. And to the death! Two men enter, one man leaves. Don’t you worry, kid, it’s all sanctioned by the guards, it’s basically a tradition in here.”

 I’m starting to feel the panic arise within me, I start pleading with him, “Please mister, you don’t wanna fight me, I’ve never been in a fight in my life, I don’t know the first thing about it. Honest!”

  He sizes me up for a second, considers what I just told him, then says, “Look here sonny. You seem like a nice enough kid, I dunno, I like you. So I’m gonna do you a little favor. I’m gonna show you something, and maybe it will help you out.” And with this he reaches under his mattress and produces one of the steel bed-slats, about 2 feet long and sharpened along one side to resemble a crude, home-made machete. “It’s easy really,” he continues as he gets up and immediately grabs an unsuspecting trustee who just happened to be passing our open cell door at that moment. “You just have to move quickly,” he throws the trustee to the ground and puts him in a scissor-lock, “know and understand how to use your weapon,” he turns the machete a few times so I can get a good look at it, “And STRIKE while the IRON is HOT” saying this as he proceeds to carve at the trustee’s neck, amid gargled screams and spaying jets of blood, until he completely decapitates the subdued victim in about 30 seconds flat. “It’s easy, nothing at all.” He’s standing now, shrugging his shoulders at the simplicity of the whole thing, machete in one hand, twitching, bloody head in the other, lock-down sirens wailing behind him as he stands there smiling and looking at me as at least 15 armored guards with clubs and shields rush into our cell and proceed to pummel him into submission, drag him away and throw him in the hole. 

"Gladiator Days"

   When the commotion settles and the sirens are quiet, I sit alone once again, my cell covered from floor to ceiling in about a gallon of blood, and the trustee’s head sitting on the cot across from mine, still twitching slightly, the eyes blinking and the mouth moving as if to speak at me. I swear I could have heard it say “Don’t be a fool! Play it cool and stay in school!”

OUT-MODED TECHNOLOGY


I love these out-dated computers, and the way they look. That the mid-century aesthetic has been abandoned in their contemporary counter-parts is simply criminal.


 Check out the electronic stylus for "on screen" drawing, a precursor of the cursor!


 Takes two guys with a degree to operate this clunker! The guy typing probably needed  a PhD to program it!


During the 80s the university was throwing these beasties into the garbage, now you would need to take out a mortgage to buy one!


 Back when this rig was brand new, the egg-heads predicted there would be one in every home by the late 70s. Then we would all communicate via video phones and attend online university, etc.


 I like how it's a bunch of dudes calling the shots, while the women do all the hands-on work.


The hippies really picked up on the creative applications of these early technologies. Nerd-hippies that is, they probably all went on to become lawyers.


The roadies for this guy risked great personal injury every time they had to move his set-up.


It all must have seemed like sorcery to the laymen back then. You would have to be in college to even know computers existed.It is amazing how far we have come...

Knee-Deep In Legal Matters

  Days, weeks, possibly months past as I sat in my cage in the Department of Behavioral Sciences. With no sunlight or human contact it was hard to tell. I was fortunate that there was nothing at hand with which to do myself personal injury, because I was at wit's end and had become desperate, imprisoned like a criminal as I was, deep in the bowels of the university. The only thing that kept me going through this ordeal was the slightest degree of a faint and distant hope that one day I would get out, and I could get my lawyer to bring criminal charges against the college. I fantasized about destroying the PhD programs, dismantling the university and its reputation; so severely, that my vindication would come in the form of their precious mba rankings going straight through the floor and into the dust. The mind plays tricks…


  Just as I was near entirely consumed with my revenge fantasies of criminal prosecution, the lone door to my cell flung open and two white coated figures snatched me from the floor and hauled me to the office of the dean of the college. I stood, confused and disoriented, before the dean of the college, Professor Skinner, and four mean looking campus security officers. The jig was up, the dean informed me. My bogus credit cards I had used to pay for my admission to the university had been declined, and I was no longer welcome there. I was to be immediately expelled, and a peace-bond had been placed upon me by the college forbidding me from coming anywhere near the campus. The security guards grabbed me, each taking a limb, and carried me to the exit at the rear gate. The dean walked sternly at their heels, and as we neared the gate he told me that they had figured out it was I who had exploded the bomb earlier, from the security footage, and I was transferred from the hands of the college security officers directly into custody of the actual police standing just outside the gates, and placed under arrest to face criminal charges of terrorist activity with intent to cause personal injury. I should have just gone to online university, but I guess it was too late for that now.

  I was “read my rights” and taken “downtown” where I was booked, stripped, searched, and given my “one phone-call” which I used to contact my attorney, “Double-Double” Medjuck, but to my dismay, I got a recording telling me that his number was no longer in service. Now I was really sunk. What was I going to do? I was facing some serious criminal charges and this is the type of thing people need lawyers to help them get out of. I expressed my dismay to the desk Sargent, as he led me to the cell block, but he told me I was actually in luck. It seems that due to the heinous nature of my terrorist acts I was originally to be placed in “PC” or “protective custody” where they send  rapists, serial killers, child molesters, the lowest of the low of the criminal world, but that PC was totally filled beyond capacity so I was to be placed on Special, Double, Extra-Protective Custody, an even more secure section of the prison where the very worst, most unspeakable criminal degenerates are sent, the ones too extreme and horrible, even for PC. He said I'd have no problem finding an attorney in there, in fact, they had just busted up a convention and Double-Extra-PC was populated entirely with lawyers at this time. 

  I wasn't too sure how I felt about this, I needed an attorney, but this extra-secure, double severe protective custody thing sounded scary, and as we drew nearer to the cells a frightful, animalistic din arose. Disgusting guttural noises and sub-human screams filled my ears and a stench of blood and feces seemed to permeate the walls. We walked past cages where lawyers and attorneys engaged in vile degrading acts, sneering and grabbing at us as we went by. A Crown Council Attorney offered lewd suggestions to me from his cell, beckoning me to come inside and join him, and a criminal defense attorney in another cage threw a cup full of human waste at us, just missing me by inches. A torrent of abuse poured from his mouth, and he promised us both great personal injury, in explicit, gory detail. We finally arrived at the main holding pen, or “range” as they call it, a giant, gymnasium sized cage that held about 200 men, each a legal professional. 


   They say prison is basically a “crime college” but this one was more like a “criminal law school”.  A university of corruption; with PhD programs in felony, malfeasance, and wrong-doing. You could get your degree, and apparently, their mba rankings were the best around! 

    The guard shoved me into the cage, and slammed the door shut behind me, brandishing his night-stick at the lawyers and attorneys who clawed and groped at him through the bars, smashing at their knuckles and hastily making for his exit. Now I was alone to fend for myself, terrified at the scene of bedlam around me. There were personal injury lawyers playing some sort of gambling game with their business cards, and civil prosecutors reading out made-up writs of appeal to no one in particular. Some climbed the bars, or fought with each other amongst themselves, while others simply sat in a stupor, drooling, obviously too far-gone and beyond hope, mentally and emotionally broken to the Nth degree. I tried to keep to myself but was hounded by dozens of solicitors, pulling at me and prodding me incessantly. I was backed into a corner, outnumbered and paralyzed with fear when a hulking giant of a barrister intervened. He roughed up a few of the advocates and claimed me as his “fresh meat”, and his alone. They deferred to his dominance and shrank away, and he suddenly took on a more seductive tone with me. He put his arm around me, almost gently, and introduced himself. He knew why I was incarcerated (he had contacts amongst the “screws”) and he suggested I would be needing his services as a medical malpractice lawyer, to bring counter-suit against the university, and the directors of its PhD programs. The college had obviously done me great personal injury and we should sue! He handed me his card, smiling, when out of nowhere there was a great conflagration, and I saw a flash of silver, as he was jumped from behind by another attorney who proceeded to stab him repeatedly with a home-made “shiv” The lawyers all hooted and hollered as he was shanked again and again, until he was nothing more than a bloody mess of wounds lying lifeless on the floor, his business card shoved rudely in his dead mouth. His attacker stood hunched over him, panting heavily, dripping with sweat, spat on the carcass and quickly passed his weapon to a cohort who just as quickly made it disappear. Then just as the guards arrived he straightened up and regained his composure, and I saw that, lo and behold, it was Medjuck! My attorney was here, and now maybe I would be saved. He winked at me as he told the guards that the victim had “fallen” and that nobody had seen anything, to which they eyed us all with a degree of suspicion before giving up and carting away what was left of the dead barrister, and warning us to “keep it down”


   Medjuck turned to me and smiled. He was flanked by two nasty looking articling students who served as his henchmen, and he was obviously the “top dog” in this prison ward. He put his arm around my shoulder, told me to come with him to his “office”, and when he moved the other lawyers shrank away from him in fear and parted the way for us to walk to the far end of the range to an area cordoned off with bed sheets. Inside there was a cot for him to recline on and pictures of Judge Judy adorned the walls. He settled into his regular legal eagle mode and with finger-tips pressed together, examined me like so much meat in a butcher's shop. He snapped his fingers once and one of his stooges fished a plastic bag filled with sick looking purple fluid from out of the toilet-bowl, and proceeded to pour us two cups. He silently beckons me to drink, and I take a tiny sip of the foul raisin wine, trying not to gag.


   Medjuck explains the situation to me. I have problems. Big problems. So big, in fact, that prison is probably the safest place for me right now, much safer than “outside”. So that end is covered. But there are other complications to consider. As my attorney, he is unable to serve me at all unless he is “outside” This is essential, he explains, if we have any hope of suing the university for my personal injury. He's getting kind of fired up on this point, or maybe drunk, probably both, but he goes off a little. He has a bit of a grudge to settle with the college and their PhD programs. He wants to squash it like a bug, throw their mba rankings in the dirt, and take down the whole institution to the point where it is reduced to existing as a mere online university, a shadow of its former self. He laughs a little at his idea, but straightens up just as quick. He's on to his other favorite theme…funding. He needs to raise bail to get out of prison so he can begin our legal proceedings in earnest. He leans in on me. He knows I own property, and he wants me to mortgage it to raise the bail. 

  “But I already put a mortgage on my place Doubles. Don't you remember? I took out a mortgage and gave the money to your brother, the doctor. Can't you get it from him?”

  Medjuck sneers and looks away. “My brother has left the country.” He spits, “He's in Argentina doing charity work, something to do with children, the 5th Reich, I think he called it. At any rate, he is unavailable to help us at this time. Can't you refinance your mortgage, get a second mortgage? It is absolutely necessary to the success of this case that we get funds immediately, so I can proceed in a timely fashion.”

  I suppose I have to agree, after all, he is my attorney, and he certainly knows best. I tell him I can give the go-ahead to take out a second mortgage, if it will help the cause. Hell, I'll take out a third mortgage, even a fourth if I can just clear my name and sort this whole mess out once and for all. At this he nods at one of the articling goons at his side who reaches into his pants and produces a cell-phone wrapped in cellophane from his back-passage. When he hands it to my attorney, Medjuck grimaces and shakes his head. He doesn't want to touch it, considering where it has been, so, with a slight degree of annoyance, he directs the flunky to hand the phone to me. 

  Holding the poopy phone as delicately as I can, several inches from my face, I call my bank and make arrangements for the mortgage to go through and the funds to be transferred to Medjucks account, and no sooner had I ended the call a screw appeared at the front of the cage calling out, “Medjuck! Drop your cock and grab your socks! You made bail!”


   I'm a little overwhelmed, this all happened so quickly, but my attorney, ever the professional, pats me on the back, and as he is leaving, says; “A little advice… and for this I will not charge; if you plan on returning to college in the future, consider pursuing your degree at an online university, it may be your only option…” then shaking his head and straightening his yarmulke, chortling all the way, he skips out the door, leaving me once again, to fend for myself.

Covert Operations at The Department of Behavioral Psychology

  I awoke this day, invigorated, all set to embark on my new endeavor at the university in pursuit of my degree, and the excitement of attending the schools and college where I was well on my way to attaining a doctorate in my new career. All was not 100% though, as I still had many questions yet to be answered, foremost of which was, “what exactly was the degree I was pursuing?” I figured it would be in my best interest to first take up my inquiries with the patron of my new academic career, my attorney, “Double-Double” Medjuck, at his legal offices downtown. My lawyer would be sure to answer all my questions, and then I could proceed to the colleges and resume my studies with confidence and a clear mind.

  I arrived to find my legal counsel hastily loading a moving van with boxes of books and office supplies. He jumped when he saw me, startled, and looked at me like he had seen a ghost.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here” he stated, almost a question, “I thought, for sure, when I saw the news…” He continued to stare in disbelief.

  “I did everything you told me to boss.” I reassured, “I’m now enrolled at the university, and all systems are go!” He didn’t seem quite as thrilled as me about this development. “I’m attending both the college of neuropsychology, AND behavioral sciences in pursuit of a double degree, and I’m already familiar with several of the schools of medicine there.”

  I thought my lawyer would be pleased, but instead he seemed rather disappointed, and addressed me with not a small degree of anger. “Well, I suppose, since you managed to survive, we can still put you to some use.” He slammed the rear doors of the fully loaded moving van shut, darted to the driver side and hastily climbed in. “Go back to the university, and carry on. I want you to interview the head of the department there. You need to find out as much as you can, get as much information regarding the situation with my brother, the good doctor, and report back to me as soon as you hear anything. We need ammunition if we are to successfully bring about this litigation against the college. Do whatever you have to do, legal or not, and report back to me, right here, so we can prepare our case and begin legal proceedings.” With that he fired up the engine and threw the van into reverse, burning rubber as he backed out of the alley-way. “Meet me here at my legal offices, next week…No; make that TWO weeks from now. Right HERE!” he shouted at me over the roar of his idling engine. He gave me one last withering look before rolling up the window, shaking his head and flooring it out of sight in a cloud of dust and diesel. After the conflagration had settled, I looked up to notice his office was completely empty and a “for rent” sign hanging in the window.

Offices For Rent

 Despite my misgivings, I did as I was told and headed straight to the campus of the university, and made my way through the various schools and colleges to the department of neuropsychology and behavioral science, my mission, a personal interview with the professor in charge; one Doctor Joszef Skinner, PhD., a career academic, and holder of doctorate in so many different disciplines that I simply do not have space here to list them all. Let’s just say he was pretty much a “doctor of everything”. If I couldn’t find out what I was looking for from him, I wouldn’t find it anywhere.

  I located Doctor Skinner in one of the many labs contained within the sprawling colleges, busily checking on his many experiments, noting statistics on clip-boards, issuing orders to the various doctorate candidates constantly surrounding him, checking on a dozen things at once. He’s a busy man, but willing to talk to me none the less. I introduce myself, and he straightens his glasses, saying, “Oh yes, of course…” meaning he actually had no clue who I was or what I wanted. A true academic, he never once dropped his pose of all-knowing infallibility, and simply forged ahead anyway. “I am a very busy man,” he informed me. ”We can talk, but you must come with me on my rounds.” He was looking at a computer print-out spewing from a machine that had wires leading to a cage, and directly into the exposed brain of a monkey who sat despondently inside. He looked at the primate briefly, scribbled on his clip-board, and told the lab-coated student beside him to increase the animal’s dosage by 700%. Then, just as quickly, he was rushing off again, me, at his heels, in hot pursuit. There were dozens of similar cages in this room, and he checked them all, making notes and issuing orders, he was such a big man at the university, this doctor, and in charge of so many things in several of the schools and colleges, that he could hardly stop for even a moment, and was perpetually surrounded by half a dozen doctorate candidates, ready to jump at his steady stream of orders and commands. He never seemed to stop moving.

Frontiers of Behavioral Science
 
  We made our way through several labs, each larger and more cluttered than the last, and through it all I did not once get the opportunity to ask him even one question. The caged monkeys were his only focus, and there were hundreds to visit. Some were strapped into barbaric looking devices, others rocked back and forth in empty, dirty pens. There was aisle after aisle, of row upon row, of caged simians, all involved in one form of experiment or another. We walked past a large cage that housed four Rhesus macaques playing cards and smoking cigarettes, others who stood atop electrified plates and danced in time to “Hello My Baby” as current was passed through.


funny gifs
Dance, Monkey! Dance!

  Next, he showed me a room full of monkeys who, when given the opportunity to choose between food, and playing “Minecraft”, inevitably chose the latter, and starved themselves to death in favor of building virtual banana farms and pixilated looking tree-forts. We eventually arrived at small, dirty cage housing a lone, solitary ape, who was busily hammering away at a typewriter. Here the doctor paused, became thoughtful for a moment, and then turned to address me. 

  “Here is a fine example of the work we are doing here, the type of thing that makes this university the envy of all the colleges and schools doing similar work in this field.” He looks proudly at his subject. “We have managed to isolate the one out of one million specimens that is actually capable of typing the complete works of Shakespeare, and eliminated the other 999 999 useless ones. He's already completed Shakespeare, Proust, and Encyclopaedia Britannica. Now, we have him writing new episodes of “Suite Life of Zack and Cody” “ The doctor stops for a moment, very thoughtful, “Not only have we slashed our budget by 100 000% but apparently, over at Disney, the ratings have gone through the roof, and they’ve signed him on to an unprecedented six season contract.” He smiled proudly, then just as quick, spun on his heels half a degree and hurried onwards.

Magnum Opus
  I was a little overwhelmed by what I was seeing, could it even be legal? Do these sorts of atrocities go on at all colleges and schools, or was it a specific peculiarity of this university here? Was this the “information” my attorney was seeking in preparation to launch his litigation? I decided I had better cut to the chase, and finding myself alone for a moment with Doctor Skinner, I set right in.

  “What can you tell me of Doctor Klienholz Medjuck? I understand he received his doctorate from these very colleges here, and his theories were groundbreaking, to say the least. Maybe a tad controversial, wouldn't you say? Is this a continuation of the work he had started? And why was he removed from the university anyways?”

  For the first time today, I have the full and complete attention of Doctor Skinner; in fact, my words have frozen him stiff. He glares at me with disbelief. “That person has NOTHING to do with the work we do here, in fact, after all the damage he did to this department we are lucky to have survived at all. The inhumanity of his diabolical experimentation and his total lack of ethics were Olympic! He is not to be associated with this university in any way shape or form, his degree has been rescinded and his doctorate invalidated. The colleges of behavioral sciences and neuropsychology have stricken his name from all records, and have gone to great lengths to expunge his legacy from all records for good! His name is NEVER to be mentioned here, not ever again!”

  The Prof is still fuming; he keeps adjusting his spectacles neurotically, sweating and turning all shades of red. Now it is he that has the questions, and he leans in on me with his inquisition. “How exactly do you know of Medjuck? We have erased that man from history! You can’t even search him on Google anymore. Why do you know who he is?” His rage is turning to paranoia. He raises a finger at me, pauses, looks back at me for a moment, and then slowly reaches behind his back to depress a small button on the intercom on his desk. He is silent and motionless as the door to his office busts open and four burly grad students jump me and one of them jabs my ass with a needle, this being the last thing I remember…

  When I had awoken, who knows how many hours later, I find myself alone, in a tiny pen. There is nothing inside save for two buttons, one red, and one green. There is also no way out. Suddenly a small slot slides open to the side, and a pair of eyes looks through, studying me intently. I look back at the buttons, then the eyes again. They silently implore me, and with no other option at hand I try to judge whether I should try one of the buttons to see what it might do. Red or Green? Finally I choose green and, with no small degree of trepidation, I give it a stab. A little trap door opens below and a slice of apple falls out. I guess that’s dinner. At least I didn’t get the 50 000 volts, thinking, that’s gotta be the red button. There’s nothing else I can do really, so I go and sit myself down in the corner, and begin to eat my piece of fruit, thinking; “This is going to be a looooong semester.”

"Dormitory Life"