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To: Daniel Jackson
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A university is like a government in miniature. Officially democratic policies conceal an ironclad despotism, with a vast disenfranchised population at the whims of a privileged few, but also with the power to be awoken and moved to action. It is the perfect small-scale experiment.

If a large government can be toppled, a small one can be too. Tactics are easily adapted to differing scales, especially in cell-based organizations. A major–but not too major–university is compact enough that a sustained campaign by just a few cells should show results much sooner than with an established and hegemonic government. If the methods and plan we have chosen are successful–and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t be–our organization may be able to destroy or seriously disturb the university within the space of a single semester.

That will be the proof of concept. From there, it will be a simple matter to disseminate the tools and tactics we used worldwide and move up the chain. A major city, a state, a nation…once we have proven it can be done, someone will do it.

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to put Paul Goerdt into the Infectious Diseases course.

Everybody knows that pre-meds are apt to take home a new disease every week–mistaking hunger pangs for the onset of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and nonsense like that. But if anyone in the provost’s office had read over Goerdt’s psych profile (which he helpfully included in his application) in addition to his grades, they might have suggested something a bit more appropriate, like lab research on rats. But no.

Goerdt, as anyone who knew him could testify, had a way of internalizing everything to the nth degree coupled with periods of extreme mania (though without any depression). Coupled with his pessimism, extreme intelligence, and decided lack of respect for the niceties of civilized life, incidents were bound to occur.

So when his fellow classmates were using an electric thermometer to make sure they hadn’t contracted this or that, Goerdt was running on a rec center treadmill to try and pass the (imaginary) toxins out of his body faster. When asked by the campus DPS why that entailed jogging with no clothes, they were assured that it was to guard against the threat of reabsorbtion and to make sure that every endocrine gland was fully employed.

“We’re still waiting for Schoss to turn in his story on the Greek Formal,” said Jamie. “It’s the front page tomorrow.”

“You sent Schoss to cover the formal?” said Pam, incredulous. “The same Schoss that disappeared last finals week and wound up calling his roommate from Munising?”

“The very same. He has connections to the community, and always writes positive articles,” Pam said. “Whenever I send someone like Loam, I get an anti-Greek diatribe the next day, and an avalanche of angry letters from various and sundry Mu Delta Qoppas.”

“Schoss is probably passed out under a beer pong table after throwing up on his camera and/or date,” cried Pam. “Hell, the Greek Formal will just be getting swinging at press time! We’ll have to go with Loam’s story on financial aid or the SMU Times will run with a big white spot where the cover story should be.”

“Hell no,” replied Jamie. “The Greek Formal story is going up tonight . We just need someone to go out and find Schoss: you.”

“What?”

“I need to typset and handle ads,” said Jamie. “If you know how to do that, you’re welcome to take it over.”

“What makes you think it’s a pot party?” Ben asked.

“Well, as you can see on the flier, it’s taking place in Gerry Hall, room 420, and begins at 4:20 pm on April 20th. You’ll also note the solicitation for ‘amateur entomologists’ to ‘bring their own roaches’ and ‘budding chiropractors’ to come and get their ‘joints kissed.'”

Ben nodded, eyes grim. “Let’s roll.”

“Uh, Ben, last I checked we were criminal justice minors and members of the Student Patrol,” Dave cried. “We don’t have the authority to bust anybody for anything.”

“Leave that to me,” Ben said, rubbing his hands. “You just leave that right to me.”

Political movements in Deerton had a way of being triggered by the oddest occurrences. There was the time Angus McPherson took his S-10 through the Deerton Wash & Wax without removing his rod and tackle from the bed, for example. The gear had been plucked out by the washer arm and tangled in it, so the next three cars through the wash were scratched and pummeled by whirling hooks and sticks. The Wash & Wax’s owner refused to pay damages, and her husband was the mayor; before long the entire administration was swept out of office.

The turmoil of ’05 began when a ram escaped from Casey Winterburn’s goat farm on US 313 and made its way into the Mountaintop and Pinewood apartment complexes. Both were cul-de-sacs surrounded by drainage ditches, leaving the animal with no way out, and were peopled by commuter students from Osborn University. Most of the students were out-of-staters or from one of the big east state cities–not the sort to take meeting a ram in social settings well.

At the time, Tecumseh County Animal Control was run by Mayor Routon’s brother-in-law. They received dozens of calls from Mountaintop and Pinewood, some from panicked big-city folk who’d barricaded themselves inside, but took their sweet time responding. TCAC claimed overwork at the time; scuttlebutt later had it that the truck was being used to move furniture between houses and wasn’t dispatched until that task was done. Even then, the situation was handled in a way guaranteed to provoke the complex residents: rather than using a tranquilizer (which would have cost $10 per shot), the TCAC used a .22 caliber rifle and took three shots to down the ram. Residents emerging afterward found bullet marks in the wood exteriors of their buildings.

The mayor refused to force TCAC to issue an apology, despite the fact that Casey Winterburn had made the rounds the next day doing just that. And the stage was set for confrontation.

McPherson, the head of deliveries, was an on-again, off-again literature PhD candidate who’d been at the university for almost a decade. He called the skill of delivering Tarot Pizza “The Knowledge” after the mental street map London cabbies had to memorize. The difference, of course, is that a London “Knowledge Boy” has three years to demonstrate mastery before being fired.

McPherson’s “Knowledge Boys” got two weeks.

The worst part was the developments on the outskirts of town. They were mostly filled up with SMU students but were, to a one, designed in an artsy style designed to cover their essential cookie-cutter nature. The builders had favored impractical means of tarting things up, not the least of which were unreadable house numbers. Many were copper-on-copper, which were all but impossible to make out once tarnish had set in, while others were on only one side of mailbox posts (invariably on the side facing away from prevailing traffic).

“Now,” Bethany said, toying with the ‘editor-in-chief’ sign on her desk. “With a Greek participation rate approaching 50% on our campus, we have to be very careful about offending our fraternities and sororities. Offense translates into boycotts which translate into lower sales which translate into pink slips and thin resumes and eventual refrigerator boxes under overpasses for the lot of us.”

“Do you really think a school newspaper run by students runs that kind of risk?” asked Tom, the sports editor.

“Try and get a Kenmore box when you land in the gutter,” Bethany retorted. “They’re the most spacious and are double-ply.”

Tom folded his arms and glared as Bethany passed a stack of papers around the office.

“The point is, people, we need to take steps to preserve our circulation from baseless attacks on the Greek community, especially on the opinion pages,” Bethany said. “So I’m beginning a new initiative.”

The paper contained the following list:
Digamma Ϝ
Stigma Ϛ
Heta Ⱶ
San Ϻ
Qoppa Ϙ
Sampi ϡ

“What the hell is this?” demanded Aaron, the opinion editor. “It looks like a rejected script page from a Star Wars prequel.”

“Those are obsolete Greek letters,” Bethany said proudly. “Unused since 500 BCE. They look Greek, they sound Greek, but they ain’t Greek. Not anymore, at least. From now on, you are to substitute these letters for the letters of an actual Greek organization when writing opinion columns, dealing in speculation, and so on.”

“You cannot be serious,” Aaron said.

“So, if you were writing about a rumor of a wild party in your opinion column,” Bethany said, briskly ignoring Aaron, “you could attribute the even not to the very real Sigma Phi Delta, but the fictional Heta Qoppa San.”

A moment of silence followed. “I like it,” Felicity, the weekend insert editor, said. “It opens up all sorts of puns to us. Frat acting up? We can tell people ‘don’t be a Heta.’ Sorority getting a bad rap? We’ll call ’em Stigma Heta Omega or the Stig HO’s for short!”

“I think you might be trying to get blood from a stone, Nelly,” sighed Mary.

“Max isn’t dumb,” Nelly cried. “He might bleed if I squeeze him too hard, but he’s Phi Kappa Phi. Plus G Kappa Q.”

“Well, Max may be an Adonis; he might not be your garden-variety meathead, that doesn’t mean you have much in common,” retorted Mary.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” her friend said.

“He unwinds by watching old NFL games on TiVo; you unwind by leveling up dragon monsters online. He love red meat; you’re a vegetarian. Do I have to go on?”

“Opposites attract, right?” said Nelly. “You see it in the news all the time!”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t think the odds are in your favor. You’ve been in the same class for weeks; is there any spark?”

“We’ve talked a few times,” Nelly said eagerly, “but he usually gets really into talking about the State games with Toby Undine and Kelly Tuomo.”

Mary crossed her arms. “So, in other words, you’re swooning over Max because he’s a gorgeous hunk of man-candy despite the fact that, if you ever went out, you’d run out of things to talk about around the five-minute mark.”

“You make it sound like there’s something wrong with that,” Nelly said.

Elections for homecoming royalty were always a hazard, McClernan thought. The groups of sorority girls, always clad in matching too-big t-shirts in bold primary colors, relentlessly pushed their candidate of choice on hapless passersby and streamed across campus roads in droves. Strategically placed groups of women blocked every access point to campus and every thoroughfare between major buildings.

They were everywhere.

And they were well-prepared.

Drilled in late-night sessions over the past month, the pledges were prepared for every dodge and evasion that McClernand could summon.

A group of girls canvassing for Phi Qoppa’s candidate jumped him on the way in. “Vote for Brandy!”

“I”m a professor,” McClernand said. “I can’t vote.”

“Tell your students to vote for her after class, then!” They formed a human phalanx and wouldn’t let McClernand proceed until he’d taken a stack of fliers to pass out to his biology students.

Another group hovered near the cafeteria at lunchtime. “I’m a graduate student,” McClernand volunteered.

“We have a candidate for Graduate Council too!” they said as different fliers were unleashed.

Walking between Hurley Hall and Davis Hall, another group accosted him. “I’m just visiting,” he said.

“Tell your kids to vote for Mindy and the Qop Sigs!” the lead girl said.

“I don’t have any kids,” McClernand returned.

“Well, when you have some, tell them to vote Qop Sig.”

“I don’t ever plan on having kids. Can I go through?”

The head girl fixed McClernan with a steely, patrician glare. “Nephews? Nieces?”

By the time he arrived at Davis, McClernan had promised his niece Susan’s vote to three different sororities in perpetuity, despite the fact that Susan was three years old and in Connecticut.

I was privileged enough to receive a tour of the new suites by the University of Michigan’s Vice President of School Spirit, Charles Mellner. When the group meets Mellner, I ask him about the controversy over graduation—the fact that work on the new luxury skyboxes prevented it from being held in the Big House, its traditional venue.

Mellner, a big man with a big laugh, answers with a wide grin. “It was regrettable, but after all there’s a graduation every year. Each and every game is unique, and we’d do our fans a grave disservice if games were delayed.” One can understand why. Season tickets for the boxes start at the price of a fully-loaded luxury sedan.

The entryway is laid with Italian marble, with a grand staircase leading upwards. Mellner begins the tour asking if we recognize it; no one does. I mention that it looks like the staircase on the Titanic; at this, he claps delightedly. “It is! Either an exact replica or the original, raised from the ocean floor and refurbished at incredible expense.” Coyly, Mellner refuses to confirm which.

We’re then led into a standard box, with Second Empire carpeting, inlaid hardwood floors, and leather chairs. Each is equipped with a minibar—domestic and imported liquors are on tap—and a snack bar run by a major franchise—in this case, a Pizza Hut Express. “The boxes provide everything a Wolverine fan could want,” Mellner beams. “Access to the game from a superior viewpoint, and the staff is ready and able to provide a massage or salon treatment on demand.”

Mellner leads us to the front of the box, to a red switch under a lucite cover. “This signals to the field that the occupants want the last play repeated. It’s perfect for when a patron has to go to the bathroom; a comfort that the TiVo generation demands.”

This is trifling compared to the executive suite, which occupies a full floor. Designed to the standards of the Saudi royal family, the suite is pure six-star extravagance. Up the marble staircase and across the onyx flagstones set in a pool of vintage champagne, I ask Mellner about handicap accessibility. How can he justify the suite’s lavish layout when the university’s being sued by Wolverines in Wheelchairs?

“It’s actually not a problem,” Mellner says with an easy laugh. “There are only 16 people on Earth who can afford season tickets to the executive suite, and none are disabled.” I nod. “We think that’ll hold up in court,” he adds, grinning. After all, the people with tickets include the Chief Justice of the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals and 3 members of the House Judiciary Committee.

“Will students be allowed to use the boxes?” I ask.

“We recognize that students have an important role,” Mellner replies. “Namely, they serve to fill out the stands, which helps preserve the sense that one’s in the Big House. Naturally, we can’t allow students in the boxes; might cause our paying customers discomfort.”

Mellner directs me to a series of fire hoses in the stairwell, which are actually for crowd control, to prevent unruly students from storming the boxes, alongside the 50-man uniformed security contingent. In an emergency, all of the service personnel are armed and fully deputized by the city of Ann Arbor.

“That’s for undergraduates, of course,” Mellner smiles. “Most of our graduate students attended other schools before, so they might be spies for another Big Ten team. As such, they’ll be shot on sight—we have a first-class sniper post at the very top!” I beg and cajole, but we aren’t allowed to see it—it’s not done yet. The live fire trials, involving 120 rhesus monkeys over a 6-week period, don’t begin until next month.

“How much did this all cost?” I ask. Mellner regrets that he can’t tell me; the official figure is classified. Tthere’s a bit of mischievous maize and blue in him, though, and he gives me a candid estimate. The budget was drawn from the general fund, meaning that students’ tuition dollars were immediately transformed into building costs. Mellner estimates that around “30,000 to 40,000 students” gave their entire 4-year tuition to fund the construction—an impressive figure, as the university has only about 41,000 students enrolled at any one time.

And how much of the cost of a luxury skybox ticket goes back to academics? “That’s a different fund,” explains Mellner. “The money we make here is rolled back into the program—new uniforms, multimillion dollar coaching salaries, solid gold cleats for All-American players. Standard expenses.”