Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Feasting upon the Bones of My Enemies (Pt. 2)


It was the morning of August 25th, 2010, and thus far had not been kind. Its inception was rude and abrupt. Its morning repast was unusually light - not by choice, but rather due to a depletion of food supplies in the Johnson abode. That is, unless one were to count the one remaining moldy bagel. Not that I am above eating a moldy bagel, but at the moment, it didn't seem particularly appetizing. Nevertheless, hunger overcame reasoning. I carefully removed the moldy portions, ate what remained of the old bagel and proceeded to commence my daily commute to school - a commute which would prove to be among the worst I had experienced thus far. You see, I had foolishly fallen prey to the temptation of searching for the "Holy Grail of Parking Spots". I say "foolish" because when parking at UT, you take what the parking gods grant you. No questions asked. Much to my chagrin, this mythical "Holy Grail" did not exist, and instead, my quest sent me into the very blackhole of time I wished to avoid - downtown morning traffic. Further exacerbating the commute was the growing amount of physical exertion required to retain the contents of my bowels, which will play an important role later in the story.

After performing the daily sacrificial offering, an act which consisted of circling the parking garage for 20+ minutes, the parking gods seemed appeased and miraculously granted me a spot on the fifth level. Walking briskly from the parking garage to the classroom, I was convinced that somewhere along the line, I had committed some egregious offense and was being justly punished for it. Perhaps, it was well deserved? So be it, I concluded. Maybe I shouldn't have tossed my garbage into my neighbor's lawn like that? Maybe, I shouldn't have laughed that day when those zoo monkeys flung their poo onto that poor unsuspecting old man and child? Maybe, just maybe, I had overstepped the bounds of prudence when I kicked that pathetic freshman into that trash receptacle? Famished, fatigued, and now penitent, I resigned myself to fate and resolved to do no more harm.

The classroom I am referring to is located at 1600 Peyton Manning Pass, directly in front of the Neyland Stadium - the same site where that rather peculiar monologue was given only weeks earlier - and is called the UT Hearing and Speech Center. Being the nerd that I am, I typically arrive to school roughly 45 minutes early in order to review lecture notes, secure a front row seat, etc. This particular day, because of the foolish route I had taken, I had arrived late - approximately 9:50 am. Entering the classroom, I used my bookbag to reserve a seat and hastened to the restroom to relieve myself of the gastrointestinal burden that had been churning within. Much to my chagrin, the door was locked. Never before had it been locked, and never at such an inopportune time as this had I expected it to be. Not good. Like a navigational system that reroutes itself when one makes a wrong turn, my mind quickly scanned the known surrounding area for alternate options, weighing their distance and accessibility, and concluded that it would be best to exercise patience and wait, as all existing alternate options would be too time consuming. So be it, I concluded. Wait I will.

And, wait I did. 3 minutes. 5 minutes. 7 minutes. 9 minutes. I double-checked the door, just to ensure I had not deceived myself. In fact, I wiggled the doorknob extra hard in hopes that the rattling noise would draw the attention of the occupant inside. Still locked. Confounded! I listened intently. Not a sound. I won't lie - the devil himself presented me with the temptation of using the women's restroom. (A temptation in which my French brother-in-law Erwan would've easily fallen to; in fact, he may have even proceeded straight to the women's restroom without even first checking the men's restroom!) But, not me. Get thee behind me, Satan! A man's dignity and pride simply will not allow such. The wait continued. 11 minutes. 13 minutes. At this point, mild annoyance was mutating into smoldering anger. My abdomen churned and growled in agony. Any vestige of compunction or resolve to "do no harm" was quickly withering away.

But, alas! Suddenly, an indistinct sound could be heard from within. Straining my ears, I listened closer. Beyond the concrete walls were the muffled sounds of faucets running, paper towels dispensing, and locking mechanisms unlocking. Heaven be praised! But, in an effort to avoid a potentially awkward encounter with the mysterious occupant, I sidestepped around the corner, all but disappearing from view. A man of rotund figure, who shall hitherto be referred to as "M.O.R.F.", exited and turned the opposite direction, preventing a glimpse of full-on frontal view. Confounded, again! Had there been a casual observer, they would've remarked at stark contrast at the man who had just disappeared behind the corner and whose peering eyes re-emerged. He would've remarked at the man's drastic change in physiognomy; once calm and civil, now resembling the feral beasts of the Appalachians. He may have even remarked at his penetrating gaze; it was the same morbid stare of Medusa that turned heroes of old to stone. M.O.R.F. disappeared into the classroom - the very classroom in which I had reserved a seat - and, as he did, I swiftly glided down the corridor and rushed into what would become...

...Dante's ninth circle of Hell.


If not the ninth, at least the seventh or eighth. "(Cough, cough, cough) A trap! Oh, how wretched I am!", I muttered. I will not endeavor to embark upon an expository discourse describing the hideously offensive odor that permeated, no, that had been baked into the four walls of this room. Indeed, any attempt would be woefully inadequate. Never before had my olfactory senses been so inflamed, so overwhelmed. Never before had my nostrils been filled with a stench so putrid, so vile, so reprehensible. The most comparable experience I can recollect was my experience in the army gas chamber. In fact, I exhibited similar symptoms - irritation to eyes, nose, and throat, difficulty breathing, drooling, nausea, etc. An average man would, perhaps, rather have gnawed his own arm off than stay inside and suffocate. And, yes, I could've succumbed to the idea of barreling out of the restroom gasping for breath, but once again, my dignity precluded me from doing so.

So, summoning every survival skill I knew, I sealed my nose and mouth as tightly as my shirt would allow, only inhaling and exhaling when better judgment deemed it absolutely necessary. Business was taken care of at warp speed. In fact, the entire time spent inside the ninth circle could've lasted no longer than 60 seconds, perhaps shattering a world record. Not even bothering to check myself in the mirror, I kicked open the door, stumbled out, and breathed deeply of the life-giving air. Feebly leaning on the railing for support, I slowly made my way back to the classroom. Panting, I cast a scrutinizing glance over the classroom for anybody even resembling the culprit, but alas! he was nowhere to be found. A grimace clouded over my brow, but I quickly gathered my composure and once again remembered my earlier vow to do no harm.

An epic inner struggle ensued, at the end of which the following letter was written:

"Dear M.O.R.F.,

We are not that different, you and I. We are both capable of mass destruction, as you have clearly proven this morning. One of us, however, has abandoned his old barbaric ways in an effort to reform himself for the good of society, not wishing to inflict any more harm. In this regard, we differ greatly.

Indeed, one must commend you for the impeccable timing and skill in which you executed your cunning attack this morning, luring me into your deathtrap. It was well planned, and had all the marks of a veteran. Credit must be given to whom credit is due. I know not what compelled you, but this I do know: despite my sincere attempts at reformation, the primal instincts still remain within. Prior to this morning, they lay dormant. But thanks to you, good M.O.R.F., these primal instincts have been awoken, aroused, and provoked. Let me make this clear: you have violated the cardinal rule. And, as you will soon discover, violators will be violated. I look forward to orchestrating your demise, and witnessing your systematic destruction, my good friend. Ciao!"

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Facts: True and False

Hey, kids! Gather 'round! It's time to play a game! This game is called "The following statements are true / The following statements are false". It's fun and easy!

Ok! The following statements are true:
  • After much trial and error, I have discovered, with an indescribable sense of satisfaction I might add, the "perfect route" from home to school.
  • I am foaming at the mouth to fill my stomach, that carnivorous abyss, with some good ol' Korean BBQ.

  • I am also foaming at the mouth to step foot inside a local karaoke establishment and leave it in utter shambles, just like the olden days in Korea.

  • On my bedroom floor, there lay strewn about an intimidating pile of clothes (clean). Each attempt to organize this unsightly pile has been met with a resilient line of reasoning that is beyond my powers of refutation: "Hey. Why even hang this crap up if I'm just gonna wear it this week?"

  • I found not one, but three pennies on heads today. Hooray!

  • The first week of school has come and gone. The most astonishing aspect of which was the staggering gender ratio of my department: less than one male for every ten females. (Perhaps, this has some correlation with the three pennies I found today?)

  • Of the many noble souls of the above mentioned department, some are willing to engage in conversation with me, but most are not. (Eh. Scratch the penny theory.)

  • Each time any of the following songs are played on the radio - "Airplane", "California Girls", "Billionaire" - the likelihood of me furiously ripping my radio from the dashboard and hurling it out the window increases ever so slightly.

  • Last week, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I received a $2,000 scholarship. Hooray!

  • In a grand reversal of fortune, the much anticipated "Lake Day" (a day in which I enlisted myself into a group of like-minded individuals that was to venture out to a local lake for the purpose of skiing and tubing) was canceled due to inclement weather. Boo! Hiss!

  • My French brother-in-law, Erwan, continues to amuse me. First, he informed me that he "sometimes" irons and starches his underwear. Odd, but understandable. Next, it was discovered that he chooses to sit down and urinate as opposed to standing up (in direct violation of the unwritten code of manhood). Lastly, recently while shopping at Krogers, I was informed by "my sources" that he elected to do his business in the ladies restroom. For me, this was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Alright! Now, the following statements are false:
  • Parking at the University of Tennessee has thus far been a stress free experience. Not once have I been late to class. Not once have I abandoned plans to stop by the gym after class due to lack of parking. And, not once have I been tempted to punch the mustaches off other operators of motor vehicles competing for the same parking spot.

  • I am not intimidated at all by this semester's workload. It should be a piece of cake, or as the Koreans say, "as easy as laying down and eating rice-cakes."

  • I got a wicked tattoo across my back that says, "UT Audiology & Speech Language Pathology Thugs 4 Life".

  • While enjoying a delectable evening repast at Cracker Barrel this past Sunday with new friends (one of whom is endowed with an exquisite sense of humor), I did not laugh so hard that I cried, nor did I nearly fall sideways out of my chair drawing the attention of entire establishment.

  • I did not crap a litter of lizards when I opened the monthly cable & internet bill from Comcast.

  • An alarmingly disproportional amount of my grocery budget is not being spent on jars upon jars of hot pickled okra.

  • In order to offset these unforeseen costs, I have not elected to begin showering at the UT gym (FREE), nor have I considered simultaneously doing my dishes in these showers. Yet.

  • Over the past week, a mysterious beauty of western European descent - one whose hair is "black like the plumage of the raven" and whose teeth would "put even the purest of ivory to shame" - has not at all attracted my attention.

  • I have ample courage to approach the above mentioned beauty.

  • Today, from its rude inception in the morning 'til its weary end, has been the best day ever.

  • I don't feel the initial stages of a malicious cold laying siege to my body's precious immune system.

Monday, August 16, 2010

The Letter (Part 1)


"Education - the progressive discovery of our own ignorance. " -Will Durant

May 19th 2004, Kirkuk, Iraq.
More than 140 miles north of Baghdad, east of the ancient Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, long convoys of olive green trucks entered Kirkuk Air Base. The occupants of these vehicles quickly dismounted and retired for the day, weary and fatigued. The day had been blistering hot, and now the night was becoming freezing cold - both extremes were equally unpleasant. The giant pumps of the Kirkuk oilfields in the distance churned as usual, permeating the dry desert air with the thick smell of petroleum. Also in the distance could be heard the sounds of an occasional gunshot ricocheting, which were sometimes accompanied by the stentorian boom of a mortar round. The power of these explosions seemed to shake the very earth, or at least rattle every window and fixture in the old dilapidated building which housed the weary soldiers.

In this building, the same group of soldiers who had just retired for the day were laying in their bunks; some already sleeping soundly, while others lay staring absentmindedly at the rusty ceiling. In one of these bunks, lay a certain soldier, who perhaps due to the sounds of distant gunshots, was unable to sleep. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. This particular chapter that life had presented to him had proven to be lonely and tumultuous, but writing the occasional letter seemed to alleviate the insipid drudgery of daily life on the other side of the world. Using a small flashlight for illumination and a considerably thick book for a writing surface, the ink of his pen was scribbling furiously onto a crinkled piece of paper. He signed his name at the bottom, "Your friend, In Kyu", and inserted the piece of paper into an envelope addressed to a certain "Erik Johnson". He would drop it in the mail bin tomorrow morning, but for now, he decided to return to the book which had temporarily used to write on, "The Count of Monte Cristo". He read on in hopes that the day's fatigue would cause his eyelids to become too heavy, and eventually fell asleep.


June 5th, 2004. Mililani, Hawaii.
In the vast azure firmament, could be seen an arc of prismatic colors along with a lone cirrus cloud carelessly drifting away with the tradewinds of the Pacific. The brilliant rays of the summer sun radiated over the beautiful island of Oahu, the most densely populated of all the Hawaiian islands. A cool breeze blew gently, causing the ferns and leaves across the island to dance quietly. If one were to listen intently deep within the tropical verdure, one might hear the clangs and clanks of bags upon bags of recyclables being exchanged for handfuls of coins. This was the Mililani recycling center, which offered a juicy 5 cents per any can or bottle. For a certain lanky man-child, business was good. He had just completed his weekly transaction and was tabulating the lucrative profits gained by the exchange, "Four dollars and five cents... Four dollars and fifteen cents.... Good week". Appearing satisfied, he proceeded homeward bound. He checked his mail and proceeded up to the 12th floor via the "Urine Elevator" (aptly named due to the recent string of instances where one would find a mysterious puddle of urine standing on its floor). He carefully maneuvered around these mysterious puddles, and successfully reach his destination floor. "Ugh. Gross", he muttered. The door of Unit D-1201 was unlocked and opened, and he was finally in the comfort of his own home.

Wiping the sweat from his brow and removing his black army boots which had been soiled red by the Hawaiian clay, he felt the hunger pangs usually associated with this time of day, or for that matter, any time of day. He inspected the contents of the refrigerator. "Some old bread. Boiled eggs from last week. Ugh. Good grief. Absolutely nothing to eat... again.", he sighed to himself. Closing the door in dismay, his attention shifted from hunger to curiosity, and was drawn to the stack of mail on the countertop. He sifted through. "Hmm... phone bill, pizza delivery coupons, credit card pre-approvals, junk, junk, junk, and... ", he paused, discovering an envelope. Its edges looked dingy and worn, as if it had undergone a long arduous journey. His eyes brightened. It was postmarked from Iraq, and addressed from a certain "Private Cho". "In Kyu!", he exclaimed. This was the name of his best friend; a noble soul he had not seen or heard from in at least six months. He hastily tore open the envelope and read the letter contained within. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each time reading with a little more scrutiny and enthusiasm. If a casual observer were to examine his facial expression as he read, they would remark the evidences of joy and perhaps inspiration over his physiognomy. Upon finishing the letter for the third time, his hunger pangs once again commanded his attention. A plan was quickly developed to employ those newly acquired profits from his recycling ventures into resolving the pressing needs of the moment - dinner.

(To be continued...)



Thursday, August 5, 2010

Operation: "K-town Stomp"

Disclaimer: The following may or may not be entirely true. Some names have been concealed to protect the innocent.

It was the stormy evening of July 7th, 2010. Somewhere in the dark recesses of Knoxville, Tennessee, several men of dubious character dressed in pinstriped suits had convened in a small, dark room. With the exception of the creaking sound made by a low hanging ceiling lamp swaying to and fro, all was silent. The dim lamp emitted only enough light to illuminate the pale physiognomies of all constituents in attendance. Thick smoke from Cuban cigars rose slowly from ash trays, further obscuring these faces to a degree which rendered them almost unrecognizable. Scarcely had they all sat down, when the man whose arrival they were awaiting rapped upon the door.

"Hark! It is he!", whispered one of the voices.

The door creaked on its hinges as it was opened, and the light from outside briefly revealed the countenances of all - some ghastly, some nervous, some impassive. The man entered with a firm step, said not a word, and carried in his hand a leather-bound suitcase. The door shut behind him, once again shrouding the physiognomies of all with shadows. The man sat down at the table in what appeared to be a seat reserved for him, a seat which was adjacent to a mysterious lady whom, judging from the almost imperceptible glance exchanged between them, he seemed to be acquainted with. The suitcase was opened, its contents displayed to the satisfaction of all, and closed again, drawing nods of assent from all in attendance. At last, the silence was broken. The two parties then began the negotiations, funneling all concerns through an unbiased arbitrator who sat in the middle of the dark room. Questions were raised. Answers were returned. Stipulations were made. And at last, a mutual agreement was reached. Papers were circulated around the table, which, after going full circle, were returned stamped, signed, and sealed in blood-colored ink. These papers, which held all the markings of an official document, and a set of keys were then exchanged for the mysterious contents of the suitcase. All constituents appeared pleased, and one-by-one trickled out of the room just as they had trickled in. The mysterious transaction was complete and its participants scattered like cockroaches.

Bustlin' beetles, Erik! Were you the man with the suitcase?

I must confess. I was. And, I will also confess to you the following: the above scene loosely describes one of the most memorable days of my summer thus far. It marked the day that I officially became a "Knoxvillian", acquiring the deed to a little piece of that sacred American soil in which I intend to reside for the next 3 years, maybe more.

And, pray tell me, who was the mysterious lady?

Ah, yes. That lady was none other than a certain Tiffany Gomez, a sagacious realtor in the Knoxville area whom I would heartily recommend to any good fellow looking to procure a piece of Knoxville soil. I found Mrs. Gomez to exhibit all the traits of someone successful in her profession - helpful, personable, armed with a vast knowledgeable of the local area, and not to mention, eminently magnanimous. For example, upon discovering that my iPod had recently met its fateful demise in the washing machine, she generously bestowed upon me an Apple giftcard at the conclusion of our meeting.

Bravo! Let us drink to the health of Mrs. Gomez, and may her generosity return to her ten-fold!

Yes, and may she live for a thousand years! Immediately following the conclusion of this meeting, a certain Northern Excursion demanded my full attention and precluded me from setting foot in Knoxville again until a later date - July 19th, a day of infamy.

Infamy? One would've presumed that the locals would've welcomed you with open arms!

Alas, as they say, the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow. Upon re-entering the city limits of Knoxville, I couldn't believe my eyes. On the horizon, there seemed to be a large assembly of people blockading the road. Apparently, in my absence, word had quickly spread throughout the city of my intentions to move in, and for whatever reason, had fanned the smoldering anger of the local citizens. My suspicions were confirmed as I drew nearer. Indeed, a myriad of people had gathered and were angrily shouting slogans and waving placards such as:



A fusillade of vegetables - avocados, tomatoes, potatoes - were thereby hurled at me, pounding against my car, and the crowd converged on me; not in a civil manner, but in a manner in which a pack of ravenous jackals might have converged on a stray gazelle.

Alas! And, it was thus Heaven recompensed virtue? Pity!

To the best of my fallible ability, I narrowly evaded their clutches and, arriving home, I rushed inside and feverishly dead-bolted the door. The house, or condominium rather, was completely empty - devoid of any furnishings. No bed. No sofa. No food. And, not having had sufficient time to contact the utilities company, not even electricity or running water. Wearied and fatigued from my journey, I spread a sleeping bag on the bare floor and laid myself down. Alone, in the solitude of the dark home, as nature's orchestra of frogs croaking and cicadas buzzing (or, whatever cicadas do) could be heard from outside, the imagination ran wild with a single question: "What am I to do?"

But, isn't it true, good friend, that things which in the evening look dark and obscure appear but too clearly in the light of the morning?

Again, you are correct, my perspicacious interlocutor. And, it was on the very morning of July 20th when, like a lightning bolt, it dawned on me what must be done. There was only one option. Like the taming of a wild beast, the citizens of Knoxville, or "K-town" as it might be referred to in the ebonic vernacular, simply must be shown who's boss; the operation was therefore dubbed "Operation: K-Town Stomp".

The primary mission of this operation? Completely furnish the new condominium without suffering any mortal wounds at the hands of the ferocious locals. So, taking a light morning repast, I laced up my old army boots, dawned my coonskin cap (two items indispensable to these types of operations), camo'ed up the face, dashed out the door and into the wild frontier. Taking the town by storm, I swiftly procured only items that were requisite in fulfilling my mission, and only resorted to smashing skulls when my judgment deemed it completely necessary. Having the prescience of knowing that the mission could not be accomplished alone, I also issued deployment orders to some trusted allies in Nashville; namely, my sister (also ex-army, specializing in decorative strategies and furniture acquisitions) and my father (ex-Tennessee militia, specializing in a wide array of home improvement strategies). Upon received these orders, both of these allies quickly traversed the rugged terrain of Tennessee, and came to my aid battle ready.

In a mere week's time, white flags were beginning to appear everywhere. Signs were nailed to trees near my house conveying rather compelling pleas for mercy. They had had enough - some had been kicked down flights of stairs; others had been thrown headlong into various trash receptacles; still others were the unfortunate recipients of the most egregious wedgies ever witnessed by humankind. On the flip side, food rations had been secured. Furniture had been acquired. Miscellaneous household items were now in my possession. And, it must added that all these items were attained without having received so much as a scratch on my limbs. Operation K-town Stomp was turning out to be a grand success.

These pleas for mercy went ignored, however. As far as I was concerned, the rampage was only beginning. On the last day of July, just as I was lacing up my boots in preparation to break some more bones, an official courier from the mayor suddenly knocked on my door and handed me the following letter:


Bravo! Then, assuming the illustrious citizens of Knoxville commit no further blunders or infractions, is it reasonable to presume that you and your fellow Knoxvillians are now of one accord?

Indeed, good comrade! Peace has returned, resting itself on the good city! Now, if you'll excuse me. Having recently been inoculated by the good folks at the local immunizations clinic, you must understand that I am quite sore and require adequate recuperation. I must bathe myself in the finest Pierrer waters, quench my thirst with a glass of Chardonnay, and partake of my mid-morning repast, which is being pre-chewed by my wonderful new maid-servants. Cheerio!

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Feasting upon the Bones of My Enemies

From its formations at the confluence of the Holston and French Broad Rivers, the Tennessee River flows peacefully along guided by its age old borders from the mountainous east to the plains of the west. It then abruptly takes a northbound direction, whereby it eventually deposits its waters into the Ohio River. At its origin in Knoxville, the waters of the Tennessee River churn slowly as they circumvent the UT campus, advancing under the Henley Street Bridge, passing the Neyland Stadium which, the reader may be intrigued to know is the third largest stadium in the U.S., and finally bending around the botanical gardens of the University of Tennessee.

Around 2:10 pm on July 30th, if one were so inclined to promenade about the "Green Way", a walkway situated on the river's borders, one might have chanced upon a man walking, or rather marching, feverishly in the direction of the Neyland Stadium. His general appearance was somewhat savage, and one may have mistaken him for John the Baptist himself, only more barbaric. And, more Southern. His large, projecting forehead was covered by a coonskin hat. From his lips, protruded a large tobacco pipe which he held at the side of his mouth. And, although he wore no shirt, his torso was partially covered by a bright red bandanna around his neck and a satchel in which he no doubt carried some dangerous dagger, or perhaps, a delicious homemade sandwich. Around his waist he wore a bearskin tunic. Judging by his slender frame, he could be no more than 27 or 28 years of age.

This man was walking briskly towards the Neyland Stadium as we have mentioned, the home of the Volunteers. In his way, stood a young pimple-faced boy wearing thick glasses, carrying a half-peeled banana in one hand and three or four books in the other. A freshman, without question. Without any warning, the bearskin clad warrior unleashed a blood-curdling howl and planted his leather boot into the freshman's chest. His books flew into the air, his banana fell to the ground, and he himself stumbled backwards into a nearby trashcan, dazed and out of breath. The man picked the banana off the ground and devoured it, peel and all, in one bite, as Ugolino devoured skulls in the Inferno of Dante, and then resumed his march. He approached the locked gates of the Neyland Stadium, proceeding to rip them off their rusty hinges, as Samson undoubtedly would have done. Entering the stadium, he climbed to the top where he could command a bird's eye view of the entire campus and assumed a pose not unlike those heroes of old.

As the reader may imagine, this created a most peculiar scene. A man with the above description standing atop the Neyland Stadium, surveying the land as a king might do before issuing orders to his underlings to take it by storm? A small crowd of curious spectators began to gather below. Indistinct murmurs could be heard throughout its ranks, which were quickly swelling in size. The freshman who had been kicked into the trashcan finally regained his senses, mumbled a few indistinct words of pain, adjusted his glasses and caught a glimpse of the scene. The savage looked on the crowd below with satisfaction, perhaps satisfied with its size, and then silenced everyone with an almost mechanical movement of his arm stretching out toward campus, as Ceaser might have done in the Roman Coliseum. Finally, with as much eloquence to be permitted by a barbarian, he, or rather it, addressed the curious assembly.

"Citizens of Knoxville!", he paused, glancing into the onlooking crowd. His thunderous voice seemed to echo off every building on campus.

"Fools! Cowards! Uncircumcised heathens! I stand before you today to issue a warning of things to come. In a little more than a fortnight's time, a bloody campaign will commence. And, woe be unto him who stands in my way!"

The crowd was silent and attentive. The freshman shuddered and slowly crawled inside the trashcan, peeking out under the lid. The speaker continued.

"It will be a campaign lasting three long years, maybe more. A campaign more fierce than a grizzly robbed of her cubs. A campaign more terrifying than the hungry beasts who roam the African plains. Consider this your fair warning, you ingrates! Stay out of my way, lest you be trampled upon like the one cowering in that trash can over there!"

With an almost imperceptible grin, he made a gesture towards the trashcan which held the poor freshman, who quickly dropped the lid. He resumed.

"From August 16th, 2010, I, The Barbarian, will reign down terror on this campus. From henceforth, if any of you see me searching for a parking spot, you will gladly give up yours for mine. From henceforth, if any of you see me waiting in the line of a local restaurant establishment, or the book store, or the tuition office, then you will gladly let me in front. Professors - if any of you are so bold as to express dissatisfaction with my work, you will be promptly labeled an 'enemy'. Pedestrians - if I am late for class, and any of you further delay me by attempting to cross the street, you will be marked an 'enemy'. Fellow students - if any of you regard me as someone you wish to avoid social interaction with, for even us barbarians have social needs, then you too will have the dreadful misfortune of being deemed an 'enemy'. "

At this, one member of the crowd below snickered inconspicuously, but not in a voice so low that "The Barbarian" could not detect the perpetrator. He briefly disappeared, and returned with a seat from the stadium that had been torn out of the cement. He hurled this projectile at the culprit from atop the stadium, severing one of his limbs. The crowd gasped in unison, and gazed at the speaker in awe of his impeccable marksmanship.

"Be ye warned! The campus will be assailed, plundered and laid to utter waste. I will taste victory upon glorious victory! And, then, at last, I shall feast myself upon the bones of my enemies!"

With these parting words, the mysterious man disappeared once again leaping from seat to seat, as a mountain goat might leap from crag to crag, only this time he did not to return. Where did he go? What was his real name? What did he mean by these inexplicable last words, "feasting on the bones of his enemies"? Nobody knows...

Yet.