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.
