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That Old Love Challenge

I thought the Magistrates were dead until Bart came to Mark’s room the night he picked up Death Row’s Greatest Hits, seven 40 caps twisted off on the floor and Bart begging us to help him with his impending dorm trial over the girl in the bathroom, this was two days after the copy of his write up had been passed around the floor. Bart said, I hear that you guys can get things done?

Mark, slipping back into power mode, said, We might be able to help. What do you need?

Bart said, Well, I need some help with this bathroom thing.

I immediately thought there was no fucking way we can help this kid with this but Mark said there might be something we could do, and asked Bart to give us a couple days to figure it out. Bart left the room, satisfied that his fate was in the hands of professionals. I packed up the rainbow-sheen two footer graphix bong I had picked up at Phil Man’s in Dayton the previous summer and asked Mark how the fuck we were supposed to affect a dorm trial. We both knew Bart was desperate for help and the payoff was sure to be tremendous in the long run. Mark had inside knowledge of this RA who wrote Bart up, that she came from the same hometown as Snowplow. Mark had spoken with another RA on the second floor about the Bart situation as he sat on the smoke bench the previous night. When they got to the part where Bart said he’d go down on her for a pardon, the other RA told Mark that the girl wouldn’t have accepted that offer from anyone but Snowplow.

Snowplow? I said with disgust.

Mark said, I know. I know. I guess they went to the same high school together and she was two grades above him. She’s had a thing for him ever since.

I said, And you mean to tell me they ended up in the same college, in the same dorm, and even on the same fucking floor?

Yep.

I said, Well, shit man, it must be fate and who are we to fuck with fate?

Mark said, That’s exactly what I was thinking.


No way man, that chick is whacked! Snowplow was wearing his traditional boxer shorts as we sat in his dingy second floor room. It was almost noon the following day and the shades were still drawn, a musky odor soaking the room in a net of stink that you couldn’t get away from no matter where you moved. Mark looked pensive. I was pissed.

I said to Snowplow, Listen man, we went out of our way to do you a fucking favor.  Now you need to do something for us, right? Remember the deal?

That must have gotten the best of his sense of honor because he said, Goddammit, you’re right. You’re right. He looked serious for about five seconds and said, Alright I’ll do it, but this squares us.

Mark said, Yeah, sure it will. Just make sure you get both copies of the write up from her room.

He said, If they’re in her room, I’ll get ‘em. What’s the kid’s name?

Alexander. Bart Alexander. Don’t forget.

The RA on the second floor told Mark that all RAs turned in their exception reports and write-ups to the Hall Director on the final Wednesday of the month, which left us only about a day or so to get the report out of her room. Every form had two duplicates for a total of three copies. Bart had one copy with his signature, one went to the RAs file, and the other went to the Hall Director for use in the formal hearing. The RA generally filed the report and never worried about it again until they were called in to testify on the incident. Sometimes there was no need for testimony and the whole incident was forgotten in the campus stretch between Orientation Day to midterms to finals. If Snowplow could get the two copies out of her room before the meeting on Wednesday, my boy Bart would likely be home free and would owe us one hell of a favor.

The quick skinny is that Snowplow did it but he got into more trouble doing it than what we were trying to solve. The plan was for this bulbous-nosed meathead to call the RA on Sunday night, ask her to go out and get some dinner, come back to her room, and start drinking. We weren’t sure how exactly that would be accomplished on a Sunday night but Snowplow was adamant he could do it and we left it to him.

We didn’t tell the ass not to get butt fucking drunk before he even got to her room. He got there, sloppy as hell, the door open, and she must have been in the bathroom which was six doors down from her room. This gave him about four minutes to investigate her room for the write-ups. He found them in her desk drawer in a folder marked Hall Meetings. There were four other sets of write-ups in there. Snowplow grabbed Bart’s papers, folded them up and shoved them into his pocket just as she walked back in the room.

He woke up naked next to her Monday morning. She had no roommates so no one but the Magistrates knew and since it pertained to official Magistrate business, a secret was a secret and something we held deadly serious. We didn’t hear anything from Snowplow until finals week, when he told us the RA was pregnant with his baby. He came to us for help with the situation but there were levels that even the Magistrates wouldn’t sink beneath. Bart was home free and we wouldn’t waste much time in collecting on the favor. I heard a few years back that Snowplow married the RA and they’ve been together ever since, plowing the snowy interstate routes of Eastern Ohio. Life take some jagged turns sometimes.

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