The Tangential Titan

Bienvenue, dear readers.

Is anyone else mildly alarmed by the ever-growing hordes of prowling computer seekers?

Has anyone else noticed the crush of cars that fill the increasingly overflowing parking lots?

Tell me, has anyone else felt the rush of fear upon going into the escalators of McCarthy Hall and finding that one cannot move, because everyone else is pressed in a terrifying mass around oneself? A mass that prevents one from ascending or descending an escalator?

And has anyone else become aware of the enormous waves of Flier People on the crowded sidewalks?

Dear readers, I hope you have. (Or I hope you haven't, because it is rather depressing.)

For we have entered - take a deep, deep breath - entered a new era. And what is this era?

It is, dear readers, the Era of Too Many Students.

Take a deep breath and reread that sentence.

Yes, dear readers, the time has come.

It. Has. Started.

 
 I realize I have been gone for quite some time, but this was due to the fact that I was trapped in a well for sixteen days and the police had to come and get me out, and I'd run out of fried zucchini, and my poor kitty Hypnos was howling at the top of his lungs in my old, abandoned, mossy-carpeted apartment.

I arrived in the well only because my bike decided to throw me off while riding over a heap of broken cobblestones, and I flew gracefully into the air and then down with a splat. Thankfully the bottom of the well was made entirely of limb-sucking mud, so I was uninjured.

I lay in the mud and contemplated my escape. The stinking, glossy, wet stone walls of the well were twenty feet high and impossible to climb. My backpack of food (filled with things from the sundial, thank you, dear readers) lay besides me in the grime. My hair was greased with slimy weeds; my clothes were merely lumps of soggy dirt.

Perhaps it was not sixteen days. Maybe it was three.

But anyway I was there, and I was there for quite some time. A couple of crows circled overhead, pausing to shriek at me; a red dog passed by and stuck his head over the edge of the wall and barked. A few old ladies on their morning jog went past, but by then my throat was too dry and too hoarse for me to shout, and anyway I was half-asleep and quite delirious by that point in time.

When the policemen came I wasn't sure if they were real. I wasn't sure if I was real, or if I had lived in the well forever and my old life had never happened. I was lying there in the squishy, comfortable mud, watching shadows play along the stone rim of the well, a half-eaten fried zucchini piece besides me. The policemen looked in, saw me, yelled at me (I think to ascertain if I was alive), called the firemen, threw ropes and ladders and things down and finally got me out.

I vaguely recall saying something about missing school when they pulled me up. I don't remember much else. The big fireman laughed at me and muttered something about kids. I took offense, I am sorry to say. But I am most certainly not a child.

So that is why I haven't written for a little while. My apologies. I hope you haven't died of boredom. Perhaps you will after you've finished this post. But that would be sad. So don't. Die when you are old and yucky instead. (I apologize if you are old and yucky and have taken offense. Old is not congruent with yucky, if you are concerned by this elegant turn of phrase. By the way, you have lovely hair. And your nose is not too large, did you know?)


Today our new topic is:

POLITICS. 

Because I am kind, I am not going to mention that word throughout the remainder of my post. Instead I will refer to it as the Great Goo, because the Great Goo sounds much more interesting, less intimidating, and altogether satisfactory. It has a sort of ring to it, I think. Great Goo. Great Goo. The Great Goo. Your Great Goo. My Great Goo. Goo. Goo. Goo.

Ahem. Yes, well. The Great Goo. That thing that no one wants to hear anything about anymore. Except, of course, if you happen to be a certain type of professor.

You know who you are.

Yes, that kind of professor. You. There. I see you.

The thing about you is that I hear about the Great Goo from you all the time. And I really don't know why... (or do I? Well, I'll leave that for another time). Because, you see, you're not really supposed to be tackling the arduous topic of the Great Goo. You see, it's not actually allowed.

Gasp!!

Yes. Shocking. Absolutely shocking, I know. Brace yourselves for another shocker, dear readers. 

Even though talking about the Great Goo is not actually allowed, professors do it anyways.

It's really quite sad, you know, when you see how the Great Goo reduces intelligent people to screaming and howling monkeys in the grip of something similar to rabies. The Great Goo takes strong, wise professors and dangles them over a raging fire of stupidity.

 

You may ask me how I know. I will give you an example.

Let's pretend that you are a student in a classroom. I will call you Student A. In the classroom there is a professor and two other students: the Prof, Student B, and Student Y.

Student A asks a perfectly normal question about the topic at hand. Let's say the class is devoted to government, so Student A asks:

"Could you explain the definition of the electoral college again? I'm not certain I understand it."

And because no one really understands the electoral college entirely, the prof begins to do so. And maybe the discussion takes a turn like this, where the prof shares his or her opinion:

"I don't believe the electoral college is really useful in our day and age. I think we should adopt a new system."

Now, this point is harmless in itself. Many people have acknowledged the problems inherent in the electoral college system; others have pointed out it has worked for centuries without fail. But the problem is how the prof states his or her opinion. If the prof goes on to say:

"But I do understand the merits of the system, and there are good arguments for both sides."

then he or she has not overstepped their bounds. He or she has personally advocated for a side, but he or she did acknowledge the importance of dual opinions. However, if the prof did not say this, but said something that merely supported his or her personal opinion, then they would have crossed the line between teaching and forcing others the uselessness of only one point of view.

Of course this scenario would never work for an algebra course, for instance, or for physics. In these classes there is only one right answer. There are only facts and logic. But in many other classes this problem does occur. In another example, let us look at this scenario:

In an announcement to the class, Student Y says: "There is going to be a rehearsal rally for such-and-such Great Goo party next Tuesday during class. I think you should all come and support us."

Student Y is entitled to his or her opinion, and if this occurs before class has officially begun, this is alright. But if the prof encourages further discussion on the matter during class, and then says this:

"Yes, what a wonderful idea! We should all go. Next class we will spend half of it at the Great Goo rehearsal and the rest in the classroom."

then he or she has completely forgotten his or her place, and has forced the students to participate in a Great Goo discussion that they may wish to take no part in. The prof's role is to function as a professor, not as a Great Goo advocate. By taking Great Goo into the arena of the classroom (or by taking the class into the arena of Great Goo), the professor in this scenario is no longer doing his or her job properly. In fact, he or she is not doing their job at all. He or she is lobbying for Great Goo. He or she is not teaching anything, except demonstrating to students how to misuse one's authority.

 To conclude (I love saying that...), Great Goo should have no part in the classroom. To introduce Great Goo into the sacred realm of learning is tantamount to introducing parasites into a cow. Both things are wrong, disgusting, and both eventually kill the host by their (gooey) invasion.

Because it is late and I am tired (still recovering from the evil of the Well, dear readers, so sorry) I will continue this blog post later. Beware the Great Goo, dear readers. Bewareeee.....

I wish you all a good night!

P.S. And for your viewing benefit, here is a picture of the Great Goo. It has managed to escape the test tube, so I am warning you ----- it is commmminnnnnggggg for youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu....

RUN!!! RUN WHILE YOU STILL CANNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!

Tip of the Day:

Tip #107: Avoid wells.

Tip #108: Avoid broken cobblestones.

Tip #109: Avoid real goo.

Tip #110: Brush your teeth. (It is always good to do so, for goo may form in your gums otherwise.)

The Terse Titan

Dear readers, I learned a new and very important fact this past year.

Students are not professors.

Shockingly, this even applies when you invert the statement! But the line above is the one I am thinking of right now. Students, dear readers, are not professors. Not even a little bit. Not even when the student puts on a professor-like hat or wears professor-like shoes, or comes to school dressed entirely in a mauve pantsuit! They are still not professors!

I will illustrate this new fact in a bold and striking story:

Once upon a time, I was in an English class I will refer to as the Class that Defied All Other Classes Before It. Or maybe I will call it: The Class that Shocked Beyond All Shocking. Or perhaps I will simply call it The Almost-Class.

Because it was The Almost-Class, dear reader. It was The Almost-Class that was almost a class. I had thought it might have turned into a True Class, but it will languish forever in the dust bin of Almost-Classness, there to remain until a new Almost-Class spreads its wings and claims the title for its own.

The Almost-Class was taught, fittingly enough, by a professor I will now refer to as the Almost-Professor. I will not, however, reveal this professor’s identity. I will simply call them “A-P.”

A-P was not a bad person, per se. They (I will not refer to them as he or she, either, for fear or revealing their true identity) were only a little unsuited to their role as professor.

You may ask how I know this.

Well, dear reader, it was shown to me.

On the first day of class, we received syllabi. The syllabus was nothing important or different; it was the schedule inside that shocked and astounded my studently virtues.

For it appeared that we, the students, would be doing the professorly work. We, dear reader, would be teaching the class.

The schedule looked like this:

Monday: Syllabus

Wednesday: Student-Led Discussion

Monday: Student-Led Discussion

Wednesday: Student-Led Discussion

Monday: Student-Led Discussion…

And so on, and so on.

We were, dear reader, in short, taking the professor’s role upon ourselves. We were the professor. We were no longer students.

Unfortunately, as always, this disruption led to a whole string of incidents.

      

1.   The Incident of the Pie (Wednesday, 10/3)

The day on which the Incident of the Pie began was much like any other day. We filed into our classroom in Humanities, blinked as the fluorescent lighting sent brilliant streaks of white-hot light into our brains, sat down in our desks, pulled out notebooks, papers, pens, etc., and waited. We were waiting for the hapless student who would be teaching the class today to show up, and he did not disappoint us.

From this point on in the story, I will refer to this person as the Boy with the Hat. For he was wearing a large, silver baseball cap with the word LIOM inscribed across the brim. (My fingers tremble as I remember it… I can hardly bring myself to write the word… LIOM… for it is not even a word! It does not even form an intelligible acronym! I must tell you, dear reader, that I spent much too long trying to decipher its meaning, but I admit I failed. LIOM will forever remain a cypher of uncrackibility.)

But back to the Boy in the Hat – he was the victim chosen to teach the class that day, and though I don’t remember what we were supposed to be learning, let me tell you that we were not supposed to be learning about pie.

However, that was what the Boy in the Hat had chosen to teach about.

But at this time, no one knew this. The A-P came in, settled themselves into a desk at the back, and pulled out their binder and pen, for they always took notes on the student who taught the class each day.

The Boy in the Hat took his time: he pulled down the screen in the front of the class, turned the projector on, pushed a small table into the front of the room, and sat down behind it.

“Lights off, please,” he said.

The student nearest the light switch flipped them off.

The projector whirred into life, and we beheld a brilliantly shining, beautifully colored, astoundingly awesome picture of…

PIE.

I gaped at the screen for a moment, half-hoping words would appear and explain away the problem. We weren’t supposed to be learning about pie. We weren’t even learning about food.

Maybe he was giving a presentation on food in the books we had read?

But I couldn’t remember anything about pie. I glanced stealthily at the student next to me, but she appeared as bewildered as I was.

The Boy in the Hat was unperturbed. He sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and tapped his fingers against his chin.

“As you can see,” he said, “the picture on the screen is of a banana cream pie.”

We did see. The only problem was that we didn’t know why it was up there.

“Today,” the Boy in the Hat continued, “we will all be learning how to make banana cream pie. Please take out a sheet of paper and a pen. I will go through each step slowly, so as to give you the most time possible to incorporate these new ideas into your brain.”

He flipped to the next slide, and we all scrambled to begin writing things down. The A-P hadn’t stopped him – perhaps this was some sort of joke?

A boy in the corner began laughing hysterically.

The Boy in the Hat cleared his throat loudly, ignoring the sounds of madness echoing around the room. “The first step for preparing a superb banana cream pie is collecting the ingredients. Please write these down: one cup of whole milk, four egg yolks, one cup of granulated sugar, five tablespoons of all-purpose flour…”

His voice faded to a drone as I looked incredulously around me for the A-P. Perhaps they would step up now and demand that the class return to normality?

But the A-P was staring dreamily off into space, their chin propped on their hand. Their eyes were half-closed.

I gave up.

Clearly we weren’t going to learn anything about English today.

       

2. The Incident of the Test-Drive Dummy (Monday, 10/8)

Seeing as the Boy with the Hat had succeeded so well in his presentation of banana cream pie, a second student decided to shirk the assignment as well.

We entered class that day to find a test-drive dummy propped up against the whiteboard, a smile drawn clumsily over its plastic face and a red wig thrown over its bald head. Hanging around its neck was a sign that proclaimed: I am your Teacher for the Day. Ask me any Question and I will Answer You. Next to him stood a smiling student, his/her face very happy.

I sat down in my desk, let my backpack slide to the floor, and dropped my head into my hands.

“Today,” said the smiling student, “we will be learning about ventriloquism.  We will learn via live presentation. I have brought in this dummy in order to demonstrate what not to do when attempting ventriloquism.”

A student in the back of the classroom raised her hand.

“Yes?” said the Ventriloquist.

“How does this have anything to do with our book?” asked the Brave Soul.

“Well,” the Ventriloquist said, glancing at the A-P. The A-P blinked dreamily at the opposite wall.

The Ventriloquist shrugged. “I have no idea. But I’m teaching it, and we’re going to learn it.”

He/she turned to the dummy, draped an arm around its plastic shoulders, and said, “Well, Charlie, how are you feeling today?”

The dummy said nothing.

The Ventriloquist said, his/her voice pitched much lower, “I’m doing just fine, buddy. What about you?”

The dummy stared blankly at the class.

I closed my eyes and thought about dropping the class. If only it was the beginning of the semester again… if only… if only…

Schedule, cont.

Wednesday (10/10): The Incident of the Beehive

Monday (10/15): The Incident of the Bad Haircut

Wednesday (10/17): The Incident of the Horror Stories

Monday (10/22): The Incident of the Classical Music Aficionado

Wednesday (10/24): The Incident of the Werewolf

Monday (10/29): The Incident of the Fried Zucchini

Wednesday (10/31): The Incident of No Class

Wednesday (11/5): The Incident of the Lost Snake

Monday (11/7): The Incident of Dropping the Class Forever

Dear readers, there are some things I cannot take in this world. One of them is a dead cat. Another is a can of root beer.

But the one thing, dear readers, that truly bothers me are Those Who Shirk Their Responsibilities.

I hope everyone has learned a valuable moral lesson today.

 

Here it is in a concise fashion:

Do not take dead cats from strangers. Or cans of root beer.

Have a pleasant Monday, readers.

Tips of the Day:

Tip #103: Take classes you are interested in. If you are not interested in them, drop them. Let me add, dear readers, that the classes required for your major should not be dropped. You’ll have to take those, sadly, if you wish to graduate.

Tip #104: Floss regularly. Please.

Tip #105: Select your bow ties wisely. Purple-striped is always recommended.

Tip #106: Eat zucchini. I suggest fried.

The Second Tallish Titan Post

I told Toby that instead of referring to the Huge Rat as the Library Rat, he should call it the Liberty Rat.

Liberty... as in free!

Toby did not appreciate my idea.


A few days ago, I was leaving the Pollak Libary when I happened to pass a large row of paintings (I think, or maybe they were giant weirdly colored photographs) on the wall in the North Side.

Underneath the paintings/photographs were little plaques.

I read some of them. Well, all of them. (Have pity on me; I was bored.)

William B. Langsdorf.

L. Donald Shields.

Miles D. McCarthy.

Jewel Plummer Cobbs.

Milton Andrew Gordon.

Wait....

Aren't those names of buildings on campus?????

Then I freaked out for a little while.

I guess only the most important best people get to have their names on buildings. Maybe they were very attractive people. Maybe they had nice hair. Nice hair is always important.

But I digress.

You see, what I wanted to say was that I think I should name the buildings. After all, I am the Anonymous Titan and I am the best person ever and everyone loves me.

Here is my list of proposed names (with explanations!):

1. McCarthy Hall. How uninformative. I mean, McCarthy doesn't even mean anything! And everyone knows that McCarthy is the G.E. and Math building. I propose this new name: MathyGe Hall.

2. Langsdorf Hall. Um.... who named this place? And why? Langsdorf Hall does not look like a Langsdorf. It looks more like a Freddy or a Sebastian. Besides, it houses English students and crazed professors of some College that I can't remember right now. My proposed name: Englishland Hall.

3. Dan Black Hall. Another place named after a person. Why do we have so many of these? Who knows. I have no idea what goes on in this building, because I've never had a class here. So I propose this name: Hall of Mysterious Mysteriously Mysteriousness. I like it.

4. Humanities. I wonder, is this name supposed to refer to the humans that work and study within its walls? I think not. Perhaps it has something to do with the College of Humanities? Maybe. But I don't care. It has a boring, boring name. My proposal: (well, since I can name it whatever I want...) Happy Hall.

5. University Hall. This name has placed first in The Most Boring Most Uninformative Name Ever Category. I really need to rename this place. I propose this name!: Englishland Two Hall!!

6. Ruby Gerontology Center. Why does that sound like it was made for old people? Oh. It was. Well, then. I'll let them keep that name, then. Besides, it's always nice to name buildings after gemstones. My current apartment (room, building, house... You'll never know exactly what it is) is called: The House of Fire Opals. Touching, isn't it?

7. Mihaylo Hall. For some reason, this remains me of hay. And 'lo. (For those of you who are lost right now, 'lo is an abbreviation of Hello. 'Lo, everyone.) So, I consider this people-named hall to be boring. Yes, boring. Very boring. My amazing name for this hall is....

Drumroll, please.

Mikey Hall!!!!!

Yes, I know it is amazing.

 Yes, I know you are AMAZED!!!!

er, cough... excuse me.

 I meant to make that a little smaller. Oops.

Ahem. Back to business.

So, as I was saying...

8. 

Number Eight??

Where are you?

NUUUUMBERRRRRRR EEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHTTTTTT....

No, no, no. Not you. Number Eight. 

Oh, knock it off. You were perfectly happy until I told you I wanted Number Eight. Go home, please.

Thank you.

Pause.

 I guess we're not going to find Number Eight today, folks. Why don't y'all just mosey on down to the town square and find an old storyteller to talk to ya? Yeah, that's it. Bye now.

This is the moment where the Anonymous Titan frantically tries to think of a new interesting subject.

 Because I know how short your attention span is. Pretty short, huh?

Ooh, wait! GREAT IDEA MOMENT!!!!

How about I tell you a Story???

I see from your face that you are thrilled at this idea!!!

Okay, I can't actually see you. Just pretend, all right? I can't do EVERYTHING around here!

So, the other day, I was sitting in my English classroom (because I am an English major, in case you forgot) and I was listening ever so patiently to my brilliant English professor, when I happened to glance over at my neighbor and my brain exploded.

Why do you think my brain exploded, dear reader?

THAT'S WHAT I'M ABOUT TO TELL YA, BUSTER!!

Anyway, I was sitting at my desk, listening, thinking, musing.... when I glanced at my neighbor and saw that he was DRAWING ON HIS DESK. WITH A PEN. A PEN WITH INK. WITH INK THAT WAS PERMANENT. AND YA KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? THAT MEANS SOMEBODY'S GONNA PAY.

Ahem. Cough. Gasp. Cough. Gag. Choke.

So I leaned over and pulled out my bullhorn and took out my airhorn and felt around for my firecracker and I blew that boy away.

My, did the class scream!

And the professor sent me outside.

I must tell you, dear reader, that firecrackers plus airhorns plus bullhorns EQUALS pandemonium.

And that is the end of my Story.

Tip #101: Do not terrify people while in your English class. Not that I actually did those aforementioned things, of course, but just as a Tip, I think things involving firecrackers, airhorns, and bullhorns, especially in the hands of a Crazed English Major usually end in EXPULSION.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!

Did I really just use the "E" word?

Er, hmm, yes. 

 So don't do bad things, readers. Let that be a lesson to YOU. 

Tip #102: Go to bed now. Because I am tired. Go away. Goodnight.

 

Don't let the imaginary bedbugs bite!

Hypnos says Yawn. 

Goodnight, dear reader.

The First Tallish Titan Post

I am sitting at my computer, staring at the pretty white color of the blog post box, thinking deep, intricate thoughts...


So tell me, dear readers, how has your year been?

Mine has been just SPIFFY.


Let me list the reasons why my Year has been so SPIFFY:

1. I slaved away on Grammer homework.

2. I slaved away on Research Papers.

3. I slaved away on Studying.

4. I moved twelve times.

5. I found a job That I'm Not Allowed to Discuss.

6. I slaved away on Doing Nothing.

7. I slaved away on Midterm Studying.

8. I slaved away on Finals Studying.

9. I slaved away on Finals.

10. And now I am slaving away on this Wonderful Blog.

Gosh, my year has just been so Fab!

(I apologize to all English majors for abbreviating needlessly.)


Let me tell you a teeny tiny story about something that happened to me a little while ago:


It was Freshman year, and I was walking past the TSU towards the bookstore, when I saw a glorious, wonderful, amazing, astounding sight.

It was a beautiful thing to behold.

I was unable to look away.

The Tuffy Plant stared back at me with gloriously leafy eyes.

She was perfect.

Every inch of her was made of lovely green leaves, trimmed with great care. Her head was a crowning glory of green. Her trunk, dear reader, was magnificent.

I collapsed in front of her to pay homage.

And some annoying Flier Person tried to help me up.

Cue scene change:

Imagine my horror, dear reader, my sickening feelings, my misery, when I left the TSU earlier this year and was about to pass the bookstore - and saw something unthinkable.

Tuffy?

Tuffy, is that you?

Leafy Tuffy, is that you??

Leafy Tuffy??!!!
 

Tuffy now resembled a tiny shorn bush. She had been reduced to a pile of leaves on the hard, cold ground.

My beautiful, adored statue was gone.

Why had I neglected her so?!

How could I have forgotten Leafy Tuffy?

I collapsed on the cold cement to weep.


Let us pause for a moment in solemn, sad remembrance...


Yesterday I happened to run into Toby, whereupon he told me a rather sad story. Of course, it cannot rival the story of vanished Leafy Tuffy, but it was sad enough for some sympathy.

But I am terrible at sympathizing with people, so you will have to do that for me.

Toby's Sad Story, dear readers, for your enjoyment (or weepiness, whatever):


Toby sat in front of the library, eating his dinner, which consisted of a taco, a burrito, and chips. He also had salsa, but that is not pertinent to this tale.

It was late at night: ten or so, and the lone janitor sat all alone on his lonely bench of Aloneness.

There was a mysterious rustling noise from behind him.

It came from the direction of the famed Pollak Library.

Toby sat very still, not even chewing on the remainder of his taco shell.

Perhaps, he thought, in a Toby-like manner, whatever it is, it will go away when it sees there is nothing out here.

 The mysterious rustling noise rustled again, mysteriously.

Toby wondered what was making the mysterious rustling noise so mysteriously. It was a complete mystery to him.

(Author's Note: pardon the hyperbolic wording. I am a teeny bit tired right now. I will attempt to tone it down, but sometimes that backfires...)

Suddenly, a Huge Rat scurried out of the Pollak Library,

 Toby screamed in horrified terror.

(Alright, alright, I'm only joking. Toby does not scream. I might, but Toby is very... er.... old-fashioned. He considers screaming a girlish phenomenon. Well... Let me rephrase. He is not a screamer. That is all I am going to say on the matter. Back to the story.) 

The Huge Rat (that had just emerged from the depths of the Pollak Library) scurried down the cement path through the trees, completely visible in the streetlights overhead.

Toby, being the fierce and manly janitor that he is, leaped to his feet (dropping his half-eaten dinner everywhere), snatched up his ever-present rake, and pelted after the Rat.

The Rat, seeing that someone was on his tail (Haha, tail, get it? Not trail, but tail!), ran faster, his tiny wormy feet bearing him away from Toby quickly. He saw the shining TSU up ahead, decided that less light was better, and made an abrupt left.

Toby staggered in order to avoid crashing into a pole as he made an abrupt left, hastily rebalanced, and pulled a flashlight out of his pocket.

The Rat curled up in a mess of dead leaves and tried to blend in.

Toby turned on the flashlight.

This is what the hapless rodent saw.

 

Can anyone blame him for promptly fleeing?

Toby will tell you that Rats are purely evil creatures with a nasty desire to make all Janitors of the World suffer, but I beg to differ.

Rats, like any other creature on this planet, do not deserve death! They deserve a life free from pain and suffering and fear! They are human just like us!

(As I type this completely ludicrous passage, I find it necessary to inform you that I am eating fried chicken.)

 As Toby chased after the Rat, through the trees and the fallen leaves and the wet grass and the near darkness, a horde of starving College Students appeared in the distance, waving signs and shouting hoarsely.

Toby backed slowly into the cover of the trees...

The Starving College Students (I will refer to them as SCS) approached, baring fanglike teeth and breathing moldy air. Toby hid behind a tree and shivered.

The SCS, being starved and dimwitted, did not see him. Their feverish eyes caught sight of the gleaming TSU in the distance - they ran towards it, hope in their faces!

Toby heard, rather than saw, the Rat slink off the grass and head for the Pollak Library.

He threw himself from behind the tree and ran like a person who has just seen their favorite actress/actor walk past and wave at them.

Unfortunately, the Rat disappeared into the Library.

When Toby reached the double doors and flung them open, all he saw were tiny muddy pawprints on the linoleum.

Will it surprise you to learn that he sat down on the floor and cried?

Or that the librarians, upon finding the muddy tracks, pulled their hair out and wept?

Or that Toby told this to me with considerably less appeal and drama?


I doubt it, dear reader.

You are very intelligent.



It is late now, so I will finish this post tomorrow in The Second Tallish Titan Post, and go to bed.

P.S. Hypnos says "Meow."

The Targeted Titan

The package arrived on the doorstep at exactly half past noon. The delivery man rang the doorbell, went back down the path back towards his truck, and drove away.

The door opened, and the owner of the house picked up the package, ripped off the masking tape, and took out a folded note and a small Tupperware container.

After reading the note, the owner took the lid off the Tupperware. 

A vintage lantern clock lay inside, gleaming like wet bronze in the sunlight, and stamped into its base was an inscription.

Agens Dou.

S. A. Montague smiled, put the note and the clock back into the Tupperware, and went inside.

The Targeted Titan

S. A. Montague:

I've followed your orders. The proof is enclosed.

- Jack Gent -

The Targeted Titan

Jack Gent came into the coffee shop and slapped a five dollar bill down on the counter. 

The barista looked at him. "Whaddya want?" he asked in a bored, mulish tone.

"A grande cappucino," said Gent. "Make it snappy."

"Coming right up," said the barista dully. He picked up the five dollar bill and fished around in the cash register for change. 

After Gent got his coffee, he went out and down the street, sipping genteelly from his drink, watching people hurry past him.

It was a pleasant Friday afternoon. The trees were just beginning to change color, and the wind, although cool, was not too brisk. The shops up and down the street were bustling with customers.

As he passed a bicycle stand, Gent caught sight of his prey. He was sitting miserably in a little open-air cafe several yards away, his head bent down towards his shoes, his hair flopping in his eyes.  

Gent slid his hand into his pocket and fingered the folded paper.

Ab irato: actus me invito factus non est meus actus.

The man looked up as Gent approached. "I thought you said you'd be here at four."

"It's pretty close to four," Gent replied airily, taking a seat. "You must know by now that I never keep appointments exactly, John."

"Don't call me that!" hissed Agent II. "You're supposed to call me Anthony!"

"Very well, Antony," said Gent pleasantly.

"Anthony," Agent II muttered. "At least try to get it right. What have you found?"

"Anthony, Antonio, Antony. I find it odd that you'd choose such a name. Mark Antony had a name like yours. He committed suicide rather than fight like a man. Are you... like him?"

Agent II raised his eyebrows. "I don't see where this is going."

Gent reached into his pocket and slid the note across the table. "I do. Montague has instructions for you, Antony."

Agent II read it twice, then pushed it back. "I don't speak Latin. And it's not Antony."

"Let me clarify," said Gent. He cleared his throat. "From an angry man (or woman, who knows?): the act done by me (that refers to me, I suppose) against my will is not my act." 

 He pushed the note back.

"Well?"

"I - I don't understand," said Agent II. He looked down at the little white paper. "What act? What are you talking about? Is that really from Montague?"

Gent flipped the paper over. "Look."

There was an emblazoned crown on the back, glittering black in the sunlight.

"Yes, yes, I see it," said Agent II weakly. "But I tell you I don't understand."

Gent leaned back and crossed his arms. "There are two options, I believe. One: Montague plans for me to... dispose of you. Two: Montague expects me to dispose of you." He paused. "I'd like to keep my job, you know... So, you see, there is really nothing I can do."

"But - why?" Agent II mouthed, lips flapping.

"I suppose Montague is tired of you being alive," said Gent. "I don't really know why; one never knows with employers."

He got to his feet.

Agent II flinched, then lowered his head. "There's nothing I can say, is there." His voice was dull. "Everyone always said you were the best. I guess they were right."

Gent stood there, looking at him. There was a curious expression on his face.

Agent II looked up. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving, I think," said Gent.

He looked down at Agent II, stared hard at him. "I suggest you depart also."

"What?"

Gent bent down to his eye level. "Get. Out. Of. Town. I never want to see your droopy mug ever again."

"You're not going to - to -?"

"You are the thickest bonehead I'd ever had the misfortune of knowing," Gent snapped. "I am not going to do Montague's dirty work for him (or her). Get out of here. Vanish; disappear; vamoose. Capiche?"

Agent II had risen unsteadily to his feet. "Okay. I'll... be going, then." He glanced nervously around him; patted at his pockets. "I didn't pay for my meal."

Gent had sat back down, and now he pulled a plate of steaming food towards himself. "I've got it."

He glanced back up. "Goodbye, Agent II."

Agent II wobbled for another moment, cast a final astonished look at Gent, turned slowly, and walked away, clutching his briefcase. He melted into a crowd of chattering teenagers and vanished.

Gent picked up the paper and scratched his fingernail over the black crown, almost absentmindedly. It crumbled and flaked under the pressure; when he took his hand away, the ominous sign was gone.