The Human Hotdog

BEEP! “Principal Simon? Spencer Pyle is here to see you. It’s not good.”

Quinn Simon sighed. “Send him up.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his desk drawer and took a few quick sips before putting it back where it belonged. He held the bridge of his nose for what seemed like forever. “What could he possibly want now?” he asked to nobody in particular. This would have been the perfect opportunity to venture into the dreamscape and bypass this unnecessary meeting with the anti-LGBT blogger. Or better yet, it would be a good time to put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger. Different dreamscape, same avoidance of responsibilities.

There was a loud knock at his door and before Quinn had the chance to allow him in, Spencer Pyle burst into the room on his own. The activist’s creepy face quivered with anger. His horseshoe hair seemed to be reverberating with every tremble. And yet, Principal Simon couldn’t be upset anymore. In fact, he smiled when he saw the reason for Spencer’s silent rage: he was covered head to toe in mustard and ketchup, like a human hotdog.

As Quinn struggled to keep his laughter in, Spencer crossed his arms and said, “I’m glad you think this is hilarious, Principal, and I use that term loosely. If this had happened to any one of your PC millennial students, you’d file an anti-bullying report. But since it’s someone who doesn’t agree one hundred percent with your own political views, then I guess it’s pure comedy.”

“I don’t condone violence or harassment of any sort, don’t get me wrong,” said Quinn as he waved his hand defensively. “But if you really want me to punish harassment, I should start by punishing you.”

Spencer slammed his palm on the desk and yelled, “I’ve been punished enough already! You see this suit? It’s going to cost a fucking fortune to get it cleaned! I’m not wearing a Men’s Warehouse piece of shit like you are! I actually pay for the things that I own! I live like a capitalist every day!”

“Fine, then go live like a capitalist at the dry cleaners and hold up your homophobic signs there.”

Sticking a finger in Quinn’s face, Spencer raged, “Colleges are supposed to be places of free speech. They’re supposed to be places where big ideas can thrive. And now your sensitive snowflake students think it’s okay to squirt condiments all over people they have minor disagreements with! You’re doing a great disservice to this generation! You’re turning them into entitled brats!”

Maintaining calmness under fire, Quinn folded his hands on his desk and said, “You have the right to say whatever you want, I agree. Your first amendment rights guarantee you that. However, the first amendment protects you from the LEGAL consequences of free speech, not the social ones. You have the right to speak your mind, but you don’t have the right to be popular. If you had to like everyone’s point of view, that would defeat the purpose of first amendment rights to begin with. You’re not the only one who has free speech rights, Mr. Pyle.”

As soon as Spencer grabbed Quinn’s suit jacket, that was when the principal’s grace under fire gave way to minor nervousness. “Squirting hotdog sauces on people is not considered free speech, you idiot. It’s assault. I’m pressing charges against every single one of those students and you’re going to help me identify them!”

“Assault?” Quinn chuckled. “I don’t see a scratch on you. I’m sorry, but ketchup doesn’t count as real blood.”

“It’s still assault, you jackass! I’m taking them all down! And I’ll take you down with them! You see, I’ve got sources on the inside who’ve told me some interesting things about you. They’re telling me that you purposefully distributed those ketchup and mustard bottles just for this occasion.”

“Really? Who are your sources?”

“I don’t have to tell you my sources. I’m a journalist.”

Quinn batted Spencer’s hand away. “Two things. One, you’re not a real journalist. You’re a blogger with a god complex. There’s a difference. And two, citing sources is something we ask of our students all the time when they write expository essays. When they make certain points, the teachers want to be able to fact check them. If the teachers have nothing to fact check, then the students will get F’s. I’m merely fact checking you, Mr. Pyle, that’s all. So who are your sources?”

Instead of giving a definitive answer, Spencer gave Principal Simon a mustard-drenched middle finger.

“I understand,” said Quinn. “So your sources could literally be anybody as far as I know. They could be other students. They could be faculty. They could be secretaries. Or they could be completely summoned from thin air. Your sources could be Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan for all I know. Please say your sources aren’t Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan.”

With clenched teeth, Spencer said, “They’re not Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan. They’re real people.”

“I’m sure they are,” said Quinn sarcastically. “But until you tell me who they are so that I can fact check you, I’m just going to assume that you’re another crazy right-winger peddling conspiracy theories at random. I’ve heard them all and I’m sure I’ll hear more. Barack Obama was born in Kenya. 9/11 was an inside job. Windmills give you cancer. And Principal Quinn Simon is willing to sacrifice a good-paying job just so he can squirt condiments on some bush league blogger who can only win debates by raising his voice.”

“You do want to silence me, Principal. I know you do. That’s why you’re asking me to name my sources, so that you can suspend them or expel them. Wouldn’t want any free thinkers on your campus. They’re not good for your agenda. Besides, if you know full well you didn’t do it, then why do you need to fact check yourself?”

“The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Pyle. You’re the one crazy enough to peddle these conspiracy theories. You’re the one who believes them to your core. If you can’t provide me with proof, then I suggest you leave my office before I call campus security.”

Spencer swatted Quinn’s phone off the desk, instilling even more wide-eyed, shiver-inducing fear in the normally stalwart principal.

Holding his hands up and quivering through his speech, Quinn said, “Take it easy, Mr. Pyle. You said yourself you don’t condone assault. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to contradict yourself, do you?”

“You’ve contradicted yourself enough times already, Principal Simon,” growled Spencer. “You don’t give a damn about free speech. You don’t give a damn about my wellbeing or my rights. You don’t give a damn about this country. So what if I don’t like gay people? Does that make me an evil person? Not in the least. I’m doing God’s work. You and your students are on a one-way ticket straight to hell. But hey, you can at least take your condiments with you and roast your weenies over all those open flames. Roasting hotdogs without a barbecue. That sounds like a party to me.”

Quinn was on the verge of shitting his pants upon gazing deeper into Spencer’s psychotic zealot eyes. They were wide. They were bloodshot. They stared daggers into Quinn’s so-called non-existent soul. “You know what?” he stammered. “Here, have something to drink.” With his hands occupied in the drawer, he opened the wine and mixed something in the liquid before pulling out the bottle.

Spencer folded his arms and smiled at his own intimidation tactics. “I had no idea you were allowed to drink on campus, Principal Simon. And here I thought that shit was banned after Brock Turner got his twenty minutes of action.”

“Please, just take a drink and calm down. Your voice is probably dry after all that screaming.”

Spencer yanked the bottle out of Quinn’s hand and chugged half of it before slamming it on the desk. “Oh, that’s some good tasting shit! Nice sparkling red wine. A little too bitter for my tastes, but that’s pretty much what you can expect from all alcoholic beverages.” The sounds of Spencer’s stomach grumbling echoed throughout the room. “Oh dear god…where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall and to the left.”

As soon as Spencer booked it towards the bathroom, one of Principal Simon’s secretaries entered with concern on her face, especially after seeing the multi-lined phone laying on the floor. There were also ketchup and mustard stains on Quinn’s own suit jacket, in the shape of someone’s hand, no less. “Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.

“Call the police, Betty. Spencer Pyle’s going berserk. Do it on your smart phone. We need to get everyone out of here before he’s done using the bathroom.”

Quinn’s plan worked like a charm. The most anal activist on the planet was unplugged with Imodium AD. Quinn could be pretty anal too sometimes, but not enough to need the entire packet of pills.