The College Avenue Crisis

Based on a true story.

1. THE NEGOTIATION

I’m writing this manuscript inside a jail cell. They say I’m under arrest until they can figure out what the hell is going on.

The house on College Avenue was a frenzy of police activity.

The yard was blocked with yellow tape. The siren lights from police cruisers and ambulances flashed like strobe lights. Helicopters hovered overhead.

Forensic teams shuffled in and out of the house. The K-9 unit arrived and led drug-sniffing dogs through the house, tearing up the place as they went.

Meanwhile, TV news crews outside harassed the police for juicy details.

“This is 10TV reporting live from the south end of College Avenue, where police are responding to a 911 call about an alleged bomb threat. As you can see, the police are fully underway in their investigation. It’s now confirmed a total of five bodies were discovered inside. The police aren’t releasing the identities of the victims, but all are believed to be university students. Neighbors reported hearing what sounded like a ‘gunfight’ late last night. Currently, the police have no further details.”

On its surface, it appeared to be a clear-cut case of a drug deal gone awry, but as they uncovered more evidence, it became clear to the investigators this was no ordinary drug deal gone wrong.

“10TV with breaking updates on a developing story. We are broadcasting live at an unusual crime scene on College Avenue. I’m being told the State Bureau of Investigation has taken over the investigation. It’s confirmed that along with the bodies, authorities recovered a safe containing narcotics and an armory of illegal weapons. I’m hearing there’s one unnamed individual in custody, but it’s unknown if this individual is a university student. Authorities are advising there is no longer any danger to the public. The State Bureau of Investigation is now working on a combined effort with the FBI, ATF, DEA, and DHS to close this case.”

The district attorney charged me with terrorism, first-degree murder, possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, racketeering, wire fraud, and conspiracy.

The police are asking lots of questions, and I’m the only witness who can offer any explanation. What are the chances?

I was sitting in an interrogation room. I tapped my fingers on the table, breaking up the silence.

“So, tell me again — what you were doing inside the house?”

Silence.

“How’d all those dead bodies get there?”

“I want my phone call.”

“Be patient. You’ll get your phone call soon enough. In the meantime, you need to answer my questions, got it?”

I nodded.

“You were covered in blood. How’d that happen?”

“I told you already.” I ashed my cigarette in the ashtray.

Across the table was Todd McCandles, the lead detective on the case. He sat cross-legged, writing on a yellow legal pad.

“I know, but how about you walk me through it again. From the beginning,” he said.

“It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world, kid.”

I put my cigarette in the ashtray and took a sip of coffee.

“Look, kid, I just want to hear your side of the story.”

“Can I write my statement instead? I’m an English lit major, it’d be better if I wrote it.”

“Oh, an English major? What’s your favorite book?”

“Less Than Zero.”

“Haven’t read it.”

“I’ll send you a copy.”

Detective McCandles smiled.

“What’s yours?”

“Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I love to read. I used to get made fun of for it back in high school.”

“Good choice.”

“Well, all right then. That works.”

Detective McCandles returned with a yellow legal pad and pen.

“You can write your official statement — that’s what’ll go in the police report. But I still want to do an interview if it’s okay. Just to start collecting the basic facts.”

“Only with you. I’m not talking to anybody else.”

“Sure, kid.”

I began writing.

“I’ll be back in a while to check on you. Knock if you need anything.”

I’d been writing for three hours when Detective McCandles returned with an electric typewriter.

“You’ve filled up the whole notepad. We only need the relevant information, you know?”

“Just being thorough.”

“Thought you could use this,” he said, holding up the typewriter. “Found it in the archives department. It’s from the Stone Age, but it still works fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Must be some story you’ve got,” he said, eying the yellow legal pad.

“You’ll be the first to read it.”

He chuckled. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

This is my only opportunity to tell my side of the story, so I’m going to tell a damn good story.

Let the record show I’m putting forward this statement on my own volition. I hereby swear the facts I’m about to present are, to the best of my knowledge, truthful and accurate.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

We sat waiting inside Conrad’s old Pontiac on the vacant rooftop of the Yochum Parking Garage.

The Yochum Garage is one of the tallest buildings on campus, and the rooftop level offers a stunning bird’s-eye view.

We were waiting on Tiny Terry.

I never liked Tiny Terry, but he was a dependable customer. He contacted us with a vague business inquiry but wouldn’t give any hint what it was about. He said we had to hear it in person.

We’ve sold plenty of drugs to Tiny Terry, so I didn’t think twice. Conrad, however, was suspicious. But we were curious, so, we appeared at the rendezvous point to discuss this “business inquiry.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Conrad said again. He drew his hood over his head. “This whole thing is sketchy, bro.”

“Cut it out. You’re making yourself look sketchy.”

Conrad pulled down his hood.

“My Sharona” by The Knack was playing on the car stereo.

Behind black sunglasses, I scanned our surroundings. A concrete barrier at the ledge shrouded us from the view of nosy onlookers. This scene was like something out of a detective noir film.

Indeed, this whole thing was sketchy.

“I didn’t even want to be here in the first place.”

“Shut up. He’s here now.”

A black pick-up truck rumbled up the ramp. The high-lift truck coughed a black plume of smog from the rusty exhaust pipe. Its windows were blacked out so you couldn’t see inside. The rickety truck crept into a parking space opposite us and switched off its engine.

Tiny Terry exited the vehicle. He pulled up his sagging belt buckle and spat. His ostrich-skin cowboy boots squeaked as he walked.

He meandered our way. I could tell by his demeanor he was disgruntled by our early arrival (which is what I hoped for).

We exited our vehicle and approached Tiny Terry, converging at the dead center of the rooftop. Our silhouettes were painted across an empty expanse of pale, blue sky.

“Howdy, boys,” he said, tipping his cowboy hat to us.

“Nice of you to join us.”

Tiny Terry chuckled. “You are a funny one, my friend,” he said, pointing at me.

“What can I say — I’m a businessman.”

Conrad looked annoyed.

“Besides, we don’t want to waste anybody’s time here.”

Tiny Terry feigned a smile, staring daggers at me with his beady, little eyes.

“Well, it seems our friend here wants get down to business,” said Tiny Terry, “so, let’s talk turkey.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Tiny Terry cleared his throat and spat. “I represent an interested party who’s looking for a large quantity of LSD. When he asked about acid, I mentioned y’all. I said y’all were the right guys for the job — you could hook him up with acid, no problemo.”

“What are your terms?” asked Conrad.

“Who’s this buddy of yours?”

“Fella goes by the name Bone-Saw. But I reckon y’all have heard of him.” He spat snus on the pavement again.

“What kind of a name is Bone-Saw?” asked Conrad.

“Look, I’ll cut to the chase. My associate wants a hundred sheets of blotter acid, and he’s willing to pay top dollar for it. But he expects to receive it at a discounted rate for purchasing in bulk. In exchange, he’s willing to trade an AR­-15, plus cash payments of $1,000 to each of y’all.”

“What the hell?” said Conrad.

“It’s a mighty fine firearm, I tell you h’what,” said Tiny Terry, “and if y’all do this, I can assure we’ll have a hell lot more business for y’all.”

“When do you need it?”

“How’s about a week sound?” said Tiny Terry, “can y’all do it?”

“I think we can arrange it. What do you say, Conrad?”

Conrad’s expression did not change. He hesitated, then replied, “What the hell, sure.”

“Looks like we have a deal,” said Tiny Terry.

I reached to shake Tiny Terry’s hand, but Conrad interjected. “Wait a second. Let’s make one thing crystal fucking clear: the gun better be unloaded, you hear me?”

“Oh, come on now. What do you think this is? Don’t y’all worry.”

When he shook my hand, I locked eyes with Tiny Terry. “The gun better be unloaded,” I repeated, “mark my words.”

“I think this is the start of a beautiful, new business partnership…”

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Maybe I can use this manuscript in my creative writing portfolio for graduation. That is, if I’m allowed to graduate after this. The jury is still out on that matter.

I am (was?) a senior at [REDACTED] University. It’s a private liberal arts college in the Midwest. Enrollment is around 4,000 students. It’s situated in a classic college town.

College Avenue is the main road dividing campus. It’s where the student housing is (and where all the parties are).

It’s also where Conrad and I resided.

I shared a cozy two-story townhouse on College Avenue with my partner-in-crime, Conrad. Although we were full-time students, we operated a small-time dope-pushing operation together. We were two of the biggest players on campus and damn proud of it.

We had different motives for getting into the game. Money was the driving factor uniting us — albeit for different reasons.

For me, it was a side-hustle for extra cash in my pocket — something to generate beer money and pay for textbooks. It was all good fun for me. My parents are wealthy lawyers. I had no material reason to sell drugs, but I love money. I wasn’t desperate for money, but it didn’t matter.

Above all, I craved danger. I’m a natural born thrill-seeker — an adrenaline junkie of the highest order. I dreamt of becoming the next Tony Montana or Walter White. The threat of capture only emboldened my pursuit of money and cheap thrills.

Furthermore, I sold drugs out of a deep-rooted libertarian instinct. I believe it’s an act of black-market revolution. I favor a laissez-faire drug policy. Easy access to recreational drugs is a fundamental right of every honest working American.

All drugs should be legal for recreational use and readily available. All drugs — yes, even the scary ones like cocaine.

It’s not the government’s job to regulate drugs. People should make their own choices — the government can’t decide these for them.

Give me one good reason why Joe Six-Pack shouldn’t be allowed to purchase an eight-ball from his local pharmacy — you can’t.

It doesn’t have to be this way. We could end the failed War on Drugs. We could pardon all nonviolent drug offenders. We could halt the militarization of police. A better future is possible if you believe in it.

I digress.

Conrad, on the other hand, had a more pressing need for money.

Growing up, Conrad had a rough home life. He learned early to be a hard-nosed scrapper. He embraced the grind. No job was below him, no matter how dirty or degrading. He worked a variety of odd jobs to pay his way through school. Thus, Conrad’s graduation hinged on his ability to earn money — he couldn’t receive his diploma if he was behind on tuition payments.

Which he was. With graduation two weeks away, Conrad was in urgent need of quick cash to save his ass fast.

When I first suggested we sell drugs, Conrad welcomed the idea. He said it was easy money compared to his summer job at the meat rendering plant.

If there’s anything I’ve learned it’s this: if you don’t have money, you don’t matter. No amount of moralizing can change this axiom. Money doesn’t buy happiness — but it does pay for necessities like rent, utilities, and groceries (as well as the finer things).

I recognize the irony — if money is so important, why am I an English major? I don’t know, I just love books and writing. I reckoned the rest would figure itself out.

Conrad and I met freshman year. He wasn’t my roommate at the time, but we lived on the same floor. That’s when we got our start in this business.

To be honest, I got the idea to sell drugs while binge-watching the series Breaking Bad. Imagine that.

Conrad turned out to be a great business partner. He’s an accounting major, so he treated it as legitimate business. By the end of the semester, we were even selling weed to the RA.

From there we scaled our operation, establishing ourselves as players in the campus drug trade. We made a name for ourselves by bringing sweet weed to the student body.

It’s a small campus — the type of place where everybody knows everybody. This has its drawbacks, but the close-knit community made it easy to network. Conrad and I started selling weed to our friend group. Then to friends of friends. And then the people started coming to us.

We had a broad, diverse clientele. Our customers included student athletes, professors, student government senators, fraternities and sororities, ROTC guys, music kids, hippies, nursing students, the debate team, and most of all — the College Libertarians.

There were other players in the campus drug trade, but we established amicable relationships. To maintain peace, we had a mutual understanding to stick to our own lanes. If each crew kept to their own niche in the market share, we could coexist in this fragile ecosystem.

Other key figures on campus included Matt, a sports management major who supplied a majority of Adderall on campus; then there was Neil, a communications major who had an endless supply of cocaine; and of course, there was Parker (AKA the “Prince of Pills”), a marketing major who could somehow get his hands on any prescription drug known to man.

But as for weed, Conrad and I reigned supreme. It’s the most popular drug on campus (and the world for that matter). However, we never carried more than a pound of the great, green goodness at any time.

Sometimes we ventured into new market territory with other drugs, such as LSD, magic mushrooms, and ecstasy. But we refused to sell cocaine — we didn’t want to be liable for a wrongful death lawsuit.

The point is we weren’t moving serious weight. And that was the reason for Conrad’s bewilderment at our present crossroads.

We deliberated over a plan of action. This was unchartered territory. We’ve never made a transaction this big (and never thought we would).

Conrad voiced his opposition.

“It’s too dangerous. We’re not meeting a stranger while holding that much product. Especially not a stranger who we know, for a fact, is bringing a goddamn gun!”

Conrad was petting his cat, Mr. Mittens. The fluffy, orange cat purred as Conrad stroked his ears.

“Tiny Terry isn’t a stranger — we sell him drugs all the time.”

I went to pet Mr. Mittens, but he hissed at me and scurried under the sofa.

“Yeah, well what about Bone-Saw? I’ve never heard of him. What if they stick us up for our drugs, huh? What then?”

“It’s just Tiny Terry — you’re not scared of him, are you?”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

“We have a safe full of drugs and cash — they could steal that too.”

What if we show up to a loaded gun aimed at us? Then what?

Conrad had a point, it was dangerous.

Therefore, we must have a backup plan — a failsafe for worst-case scenarios. We needed an equalizer — a kill-switch!

“I have an idea,” I said, snapping my fingers.

“Oh yeah? What’s your brilliant idea?”

“Let’s suppose they do pull some funny business. It won’t matter. We’ll already be one step ahead of them. We’ll pull some funny business of our own.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Hear me out.”

“You wanna know what happens if they try to rob us? They won’t be able to if we have a bomb.”

“Are you fucking insane?!”

“Relax — it’s not going to be a real bomb. We just need them to think it’s real. A bomb trumps a gun in a game of rock-paper-scissors.”

“You can’t be serious…”

“Nope, I’m dead serious. We don’t have our own gun, or I’d suggest bringing it. But we will have a gun after this.”

“I thought we were in the game for money, bro — not this psycho gang­banger shit.”

“It is about money, always has been.”

“Why should we care if this Bone-Saw guy has a gun to trade? Why do we even need an AR-15 in the first place?”

My plan was simple: pull the wild card.

Should things go awry, I could expose my ticking, wired chest — strapped with a bomb vest — thereby needlessly escalating the situation.

It’s crazy, but it’s so crazy it just might work.

“There’s a lot of money to be made here.”

“Look bro, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it,” said Conrad.

“Fine. I’ll do it without you. You’ll get nothing.”

Conrad sighed. “Bro, you’re fucked up…”

“Just think of all the things we could do with an AR-15…”

Conrad rolled his eyes.

“This is fucked up — but you’re just the right crazy motherfucker to pull it off. Let’s do it. But first, I want to know more about Bone-Saw.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

2. THE PARTY

“Who’s Mitch? What’s his role in this?”

I was sitting across the table from Detective McCandles.

The fluorescent ceiling light flickered.

“Mitch? Come on, don’t bring Mitch into this shit too.”

“Too late. He’s already in custody.”

“What? For real?”

“Yep, so you should tell me everything I need to know about him.”

Twilight.

I sat in a chair on the porch watching the foot traffic on College Avenue. A steady flow of students walked along the sidewalk. Class was out — campus was alive with students scuttling off to weekend binge drink.

Conrad was at work. It seemed like Conrad was always working. Conrad held three part-time jobs. His primary job (the job he was currently at) was serving at an Italian cafe. His second job was working the night shift at an indie movie theater. His third job was work-study — once a week at the IT helpdesk. As I said, Conrad is a grinder — every penny mattered to him.

I got an incoming call from Leigh but sent it to voicemail. I had more important calls to make.

First, I called my supplier (“Mitch”).

“I’ve got a favor to ask. But I’ve got to warn you, it’s a big ask.”

“No worries,” said Mitch, “ask away, boss.”

“I need one hundred sheets of blotter acid, pronto.”

“Oh shit. How soon do you need it?”

“Next Saturday. Can you swing it? I know it’s a big ask.”

“No can do. Sorry, boss.”

“Why not, Mitch?”

“I’ll see you tonight, boss. Let’s talk then.”

“You’re going to the party at the lax house tonight, right?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Right on. Oh, Mitch — another thing. I need you to find out what you can about this guy — goes by the name ‘Bone­Saw,’ or something like that. It’s important.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Mitch and I go way back — he’s a friend of mine from high school. Mitch, a computer science major, supplies our product. He orders it from the Dark Web (he’s quite tech-savvy). Mitch also runs an illicit hustle, selling fake IDs from China (he makes a small fortune doing this).

Like myself, Mitch comes from a well-off family, with no reason for turning to crime other than a rare love of the game. He believes there’s no such thing as an “illegitimate” business. Mitch is a certified capitalist — he thought pesky things like laws and regulations shouldn’t get in the way of profits.

Next, I called Tiny Terry.

“Green light on our end. We’ll have it Saturday.”

“Mighty fine work. All’s good on our end too,” said Tiny Terry.

“Remember — no funny business.”

“I don’t know why you’re paranoid, brother.”

“Just doing my due diligence.”

“Anyway, Bone-Saw said to deliver it to his place next Saturday.”

We agreed to it, but something felt off about Tiny Terry. We’ve done business before without incident. But he’s a sketchy prick, and now he’s in cahoots with this mysterious Bone-Saw — to what end?

Who the hell is Bone-Saw anyway?

I dismissed my suspicions. Maybe I’ve watched too many crime shows. Maybe it was all going to my head.

It was just that stupid AR-15 entering the equation — it introduced an element of unaccounted chaos.

To be honest, I didn’t even want it — I planned to sell it at the pawn shop for a quick buck.

I lit another cigarette and gazed off in the distance, watching the sunset until darkness fell, and the streetlights on College Avenue lit up the night.

The lacrosse house is a shithole on College Avenue. The yard is always littered with red Solo cups, cigarette butts, and crushed Natty Light cans. Tonight, there was a smashed table in the front yard.

Conrad and I walked into a crowded house. We couldn’t move without rubbing against people. Someone bumped into me and spilled beer on my shoes.

“Hey! Watch it!”

Trap music boomed from a pair of subwoofers, shaking the whole house. The amateur DJ was playing a song I’ve heard before, but I don’t know the name because I’ve only heard it at parties when I’m drunk and high.

Pong balls flew like missiles. Two girls made out while a pack of guys filmed it. A drunk couple argued loudly in the kitchen.

We were looking for Blake, who lived in the lacrosse house. I think he’s a poli sci major. We’re mutual friends with Mitch.

Blake was doing a keg-stand when we found him.

“There you guys are! Come on, let’s go.”

We followed him to his bedroom.

“You got the stuff?” he asked.

“Yes sir.” I reached into my pocket, removed a plastic bag containing ten blue ecstasy pills. “Here you go. All yours.”

“Much appreciated, my dudes.” Blake swallowed one of the pills and locked the rest in a metal toolbox under his bed.

“Hey, Blake — do you know a dude named Bone-Saw?”

“Yeah, I know Bone-Saw. Not personally, but I’ve heard of him. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“I don’t know the guy, but I know he’s a football player. Really big dude — I think he’s a linebacker. I heard he holds the school record for most career-ending injuries.”

“Most career-ending injuries?” asked Conrad.

“Yeah, as in he’s caused the most career-ending injuries.”

Conrad looked confused. “There’s a record for that?”

“Apparently. I heard he keeps score or something — and he keeps a kill-list of the people he wants to fuck up.”

“Sounds like a real psycho.”

“Yeah, he’s got major ’roid rage.”

“How do you know all this?”

“He was bragging in the gym about it. Why do you care about Bone-Saw anyway?”

“He wants to buy acid.”

“Weird,” said Blake, “Bone-Saw’s a drug dealer too, you know.”

“Oh really?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s new in the game but he sells coke and shit to the football team.”

“Interesting.”

“Come on, let’s go,” said Blake, “there’s a party downstairs.”

Back downstairs, we mingled with the other partygoers, passing the time until Mitch arrived.

I stood next to a sweaty guy, who initiated a conversation by asking, “Do you have coke?”

How subtle.

“No. Go away, please.”

But the sweaty man would not stop talking loudly at me. He was standing uncomfortably close, almost shouting directly into my ear.

“I have this theory about cocaine,” he said, “listen to this shit — I’m ‘researching’ the effects of coke on my central nervous system, and I’ve made an important neurological discovery — when you snort coke through your left nostril, it goes to the left side of the brain; when you snort coke through your right nostril, it goes to the right side of the brain — that means snorting coke through your left nostril results in a more creative high since it’s going to the left side of your brain — that’s the creative side; and when you snort coke through your right nostril, it’s a more logical high since it’s going to the right side of your brain — that’s the logical side. Another thing about coke is — ”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you have coke?”

“I think that guy does.” I pointed across the room to a random guy wearing a backwards baseball hat.

The sweaty man seemed to forget about me, staggering over to the unsuspecting partygoer (much to my relief).

Conrad and I were hanging out by the keg when Mitch patted my shoulder.

“I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere,” he said.

“Mitch, my man, please tell me you have good news.”

“Not here. Follow me.”

We navigated through the sea of sweaty partygoers to the basement.

We sequestered in the dank basement. Black mold and cobwebs covered the walls. A prehistoric washer / dryer unit occupied most of the space. Hockey sticks, lacrosse helmets, and other sports gear were scattered about. Water dripped from the ceiling.

“First thing — got any word on Bone-Saw?”

“I still need to talk to my people,” said Mitch, “but my girlfriend’s roommate’s boyfriend said he likes to break collarbones. Or something like that, I don’t know, boss.”

“Collarbones?” asked Conrad.

“Look, it’s just what I heard. I’ll let you know when I have more info.”

“How about the acid? Can you get it?”

“Here’s the deal, boss. I can get it. But not before next Saturday. It depends.”

“On what?”

“Logistics,” said Mitch, “you get your product from me — I’m your guy. But I get it from another guy — that’s my guy. And he gets it from his guy. And so on. That’s how supply chains work.”

“Just try to get it ASAP.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“But you will try?”

“I’ll try, but no guarantees.”

3. THE LIBRARY

“You and Conrad were big players on the scene? Is that right? How do you have the time to sell pot? Don’t you ever go to class?”

“Sometimes.” I was starting to like Detective McCandles, but this question annoyed me.

I stared at the clock on the wall.

Detective McCandles flipped through his notes.

“Can you walk me through a day in the life of a college drug lord?”

It was springtime and final exams loomed on the horizon.

Contrary to all logic, finals are a busy time of year for us drug dealers. Of course, there’s always a high demand for Adderall and the like, but there’s also plenty of students looking for fire weed to help them unwind after studying.

The Blacklick Library is a four-story building at the heart of campus. Ivy grows on the brownstone walls, giving it a distinguished appearance. On the secluded fourth floor are reservable private study rooms. The study rooms have locking doors, so they’re an ideal venue for illegal activity (or a public hookup if you’re into that).

Conrad and I booked one of these rooms to study for final exams, but we were also using it as an impromptu office space to conduct business. We typically make transactions from the privacy of our townhouse, but we resolved to study — the business would just have to come to us.

Green desk lamps gave the study room a cool hue. There was a conference table in the center of the room and whiteboards on the walls. I drew the blinds shut and we began studying.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Hey, hey, what up?” It was a basketball player named Slim. I don’t know Slim too well, but he’s a chill dude — I think he’s a business major.

“Come in,” said Conrad.

“You want an eighth, right?”

“Yes sir,” said Slim.

“And you sent Conrad the money already?”

“Yes sir.”

I removed a small metal lockbox from my backpack and opened it. Inside were several pre-packaged bags of purple weed. I tossed one of them to Slim.

That was the first of many transactions we made in the study room. Students periodically popped in and out to see us.

Next came Chuck, a grimy hippie who plays didgeridoo on the quad. He wanted an ounce of weed — he paid in cash with dirty one-dollar bills. “Peace and love, my dudes,” he said before leaving.

Next was Mary, who wanted a pre-rolled joint to share with her sorority sisters. “We’re gonna smoke this shit before chapter tonight,” she said.

Then came Drew, a strait-laced engineering major who secretly indulged in the devil’s lettuce from time to time — he paid in cash for an eighth. “You guys are a lifesaver,” he said.

And then there was Julia, an education major who paid in cash for a dimebag. “This is the only thing getting me through student teaching,” she said.

There was another knock at the door — this time it was Mitch.

“Fellas, I got some bad news,” he said.

“What is it now?”

“You’re not going to like this, boss.”

“Out with it already.”

“I can’t get it in time.”

“You’re sure? There’s no way?”

“Nope. Shit comes all the way from Singapore. It takes time — probably six weeks tops.”

“Six weeks? We don’t have that much time!”

“Why’s it’s never taken so long before?” asked Conrad.

“You’ve never asked for a shipment this big.”

“Well, what are we gonna do? We need acid ASAP.”

“I’m sorry, boss, but I think you’re shit out of luck on this one.”

“Not an option.”

Mitch shrugged. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you, boss. That’s just the way it is.”

“We have to figure something out.”

“What are we going to tell Tiny Terry?” asked Conrad.

“Nothing. For now, we’ll say nothing. In the meantime, we need to brainstorm ideas.”

I was sitting in the back of the lecture hall, listening to the professor discuss the themes present in The Stranger by Albert Camus. I was attending an elective course called “Existentialism in Literature.”

This book is one of my favorites. It’s about a guy who — for seemingly no reason whatsoever — decides to shoot and kill a guy. He’s arrested, but he’s indifferent to the consequences. He’s shuffled off to prison, but he’s not fazed. The only thing that bothers him is when a priest comes trying to save his soul.

The professor said, “Camus explores the theme of alienation. In the text, Meursault struggles with alienation. He’s detached from the rest of the world. Everything is random — without order. Meursault recognizes the universe for what it is — absurd. There’s no higher order to the universe. Everything that happens to us is by our own doing and for no other reason. Can anybody tell me what drives Meursault to shoot the Arab?”

The professor scanned the room, but no one raised their hand.

“Meursault realizes it makes no difference whether he shoots the Arab. What he does or doesn’t do makes no difference in the grand scheme of things. In the end, Meursault is on trial not for murder, but for being a stranger to the rules of society — his inability to fit in with society is what makes him a criminal. Does anyone care to comment on Meursault’s apathy?

The class remained silent.

“Meursault accepts his fate. Fate is inescapable. This is at the core of existentialism. We can’t escape our own mortality. Meursault takes comfort knowing death will return his freedom.”

As the professor spoke, I doodled a hangman in my notebook.

“And that’s it for class today. Let me end with a quote from the text.”

The professor looked at the lectern and read the quote.

“‘As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself — so like a brother, really — I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.’”

4. THE PROMISE

“Is it true you have a girlfriend?”

“More like had a girlfriend.”

“What happened?” asked Detective McCandles, “did she dump you when she saw the news?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m all ears, kid.”

I went to the coffee shop on Main Street to see my (ex-) girlfriend, Leigh. She’s a psych major who I’ve been in a steady relationship with.

We sat in a booth at the back of the coffee shop.

“Leigh, this isn’t easy to say, so I’ll cut to the chase — I’m breaking up with you.”

“Um, excuse me…? What?” She cocked her head to the side in confusion.

“This relationship was good while it lasted, but now it’s holding me back. We’re graduating — I want a fresh start.”

“Oh… you’re serious…” she said, looking at her coffee.

“This isn’t working anymore.”

“There has to be something I can do to change your mind…”

“My decision is made. Nothing you say or do will change that.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Why?”

“To be honest, we have nothing in common anymore. I don’t see a future with you. And frankly, you bore me.”

The real reason was more complex than that. At times, I felt like I was encapsulated in the middle of a shadowy vortex with a voracious appetite. Devouring everything in its path, the vortex tried in vain to alleviate its insatiable gluttony, but no matter how much of my life this wicked cyclone consumed, it was never satisfied. I was trapped at the epicenter of a colossal, swirling black hole of chaos that swallowed up anyone I got too close to. I wasn’t right for Leigh, and I think deep down she knew it too.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t care what you do.”

“You promised to never let me go.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

I looked at my watch.

“You’re so full of shit. You’ve changed.” Her dejection turned to anger now. “All you care about anymore is doing drugs and selling drugs. And money — you never shut up about money! You’re pathetic, you know?”

“Goodbye, Leigh.”

Leigh’s anger subsided, and she reverted to crying.

I stood and left her sitting there alone.

I cornered Skinny Boy as he left class. Skinny Boy was avoiding me, which pissed me off.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, blocking his path.

“Hey there…” Skinny Boy appeared flustered.

“Where you been lately?”

“Uh, what?”

“You’re not answering your phone. I thought you must be out of the country or something.”

“Uh, no?” Skinny Boy laughed nervously. He stepped backward, but his back was to the wall.

“You’re full of shit.”

I stepped closer.

“You know, I was looking through the books, and I noticed you’re behind on payments — by a lot.”

Skinny Boy was frozen in place.

“You owe me five hundred dollars.”

“I can get the money, I promise. I just need time.”

“I’ve given you ample time to pay up. Why should I give you more?

“I swear I have it. I just need more time.”

“How much time?”

“By the end of the week — I swear.”

“Don’t play games with me. I don’t like games.”

“No games. I promise.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“I’ll find you at the end of the week. You better have my money.”

“I swear on my grave. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You broke up with Leigh?” asked Conrad.

“Yeah. How’d you hear that?”

“She told me. She came to me today in the dining hall asking what’s up with you, why you’re being so callous. She says you’re not answering your phone. What’s up with that?”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing. I didn’t know what to say. How long were you planning to dump her?”

“For a while now. After graduation, we’ll go separate ways. Seasons change.”

“You make a fair point there.”

“Better to get it over with now, sooner rather than later.”

“If you say so.”

“Better things are on the horizon, my friend.”

I was alone watching the movie Scarface on the TV. It was the scene where Tony Montana is given a crucial warning — “Lesson Number One: Don’t underestimate the other guy’s greed!”

Leigh called me earlier that day, but I still wasn’t answering her calls. I had nothing more to say to her.

Conrad had just returned from working at the Italian cafe. He tossed his jacket on the table and glared at me.

“Pause the movie,” he said, “we need to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“Skinny Boy.”

“What about Skinny Boy?”

“He told me you accosted him outside Battelle Hall. What the hell, man?”

“I didn’t accost him — didn’t even touch him. We were just chatting. About how he’s in the hole five hundred bucks. Remember that?”

“Bro, that’s my cousin.”

“Which makes it worse — who rips off their cousin?”

“Whatever. Listen to me, bro, he promised to get the money this week. Trust me, he’s good for it. He’s going through some shit right now — the last thing he needs is us chasing him down for money.”

“You can’t let him walk all over you. He owes us money — that’s how business works. Besides, he knew what he was getting into when he opened a line of credit.”

“Stay away from Skinny Boy. I’ll handle it.”

“Fine. But don’t let him off the hook.”

“I won’t.”

“You better not.”

5. THE BAR

“What do you do for fun? When you’re not selling drugs.”

“Why are you asking this?”

“I don’t know — just trying to build rapport, I guess,” said Detective McCandles. He seemed genuine.

“Well, I’m in college — was in college — so mostly I like to drink.”

Conrad and I went to the Zig — the local college bar.

The Leipzig Haus (AKA “the Zig”) is a dingy dive-bar on the far south end of campus. The Zig’s a hidden gem, a diamond in the rough. For generations, it’s been the designated watering hole for students. Many townies also frequent the Zig (the townies are an interesting bunch, I tell you). The Zig is a great place to kick back with a frothy pitcher of ice-cold Keystone Light. Even some professors drink there after class.

The Zig was busy. Many of the patrons were there watching a pay-per-view boxing match on the big screen TV behind the bar. Even with finals approaching, students were eager to cut loose.

“Take it Easy” by The Eagles was playing on the jukebox.

Conrad and I were waiting on Mitch. We sat at the bar, sharing a pitcher of Keystone Light.

“You know, we don’t have to do this,” said Conrad, “we could tell Tiny Terry the truth — we can’t get the acid, he’ll just have to find it elsewhere. What’s the worst he can do?”

“You’re planning for failure.”

“Bro, I’m just saying.”

“Have faith in Mitch. He’ll pull through. He always does.”

“I’m not sure this time.”

Next up on the jukebox was “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

“Why do you think he wants so much acid?” asked Conrad, “what’s he gonna do with a hundred tabs of acid? Trip for the next six months?”

“I don’t know. Sell it?”

“Tiny Terry? That little twerp? No way.”

“Why else would he be partnering with Bone-Saw?”

“Who knows what the deal is with Bone-Saw. What do you make of this oh-so-mysterious Bone-Saw? Do you think Blake is full of shit?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Who cares?”

When Mitch arrived, he announced, “I have good and bad news. Which first, boss?”

“Good news.”

“The good news is I have a credible lead on acid.”

“Give us the details,” said Conrad.

“I heard about a guy. He’s a TA, but he’s also a drug chemist. He makes whacky designer drugs in the school chemistry lab. He calls himself ‘The Alchemist.’ He said he’ll cook all the LSD we want — for the right price.”

“Drug chemist?” asked Conrad.

“Yeah, he synthesizes everything himself. He makes LSD, PCP, GHB, MDMA, MDA, ether, moonshine, mescaline, methamphetamine, bath salts, plant food — you name it. I’ll arrange for you to meet him ASAP.”

“Excellent.”

“What’s the bad news?” asked Conrad.

“The bad news is I think Tiny Terry is up to something.”

“Up to what, exactly?”

“I’m not sure, boss. Something’s up with the guy.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“He asked me for drugs. But I’m guessing he didn’t say anything about that to you guys.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. He cornered me as I was leaving class — he asked me which drugs I could him. He seemed really interested to know where my supply comes from. I told him a magician never reveals their secrets. Then he asked if I could get him Rohypnol, so I told him to go fuck himself.”

“What does that little shit think he’s doing, going to you behind our backs like that?”

“I don’t know, boss, but it gives me a bad feeling.”

Mitch ordered the next pitcher.

“Piano Man” by Billy Joel was playing on the jukebox now, and several drunk guys were singing along.

Blake joined us at the bar. He asked how studying was going, and we told him we hadn’t studied enough yet.

There was a commotion across the bar.

Two men argued by the dartboard.

“You cheated!” said one of the men, who was tall and brawny with long blond hair.

“Bullshit!” said the other man.

Blake pointed and said, “Look, there he is. That’s him — the tall one.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The guy you were asking about. Bone-Saw — that’s him.”

The men were shouting now.

“You cheated — that’s the only reason you won!” said Bone­Saw. A vein bulged from his red-hot forehead.

“Yeah right,” said the other man.

Without warning, Bone-Saw lunged forward, grabbing the man’s shirt — slamming him against the wall.

Other bar patrons started to notice.

“Listen here, you sorry ass motherfucker — don’t show your face here again. You hear me?” Bone-Saw was practically foaming at the mouth.

Bone-Saw kneed him in the groin, then dropped him to the floor. He grabbed a beer bottle and poured it on the poor bastard. “Huh? You like that, bitch?!” Bone-Saw smashed the bottle in the man’s face.

The whole bar was watching now.

Bone-Saw kicked him in the teeth, consumed by an animalistic frenzy. He looked at the man with cold indifference — the way a predator looks at its prey.

Two bouncers converged on Bone-Saw. They attempted to pull him away, but Bone-Saw broke away with ease.

“Don’t fucking touch me! I’m leaving now!” He gave the man a final kick, then sauntered out of the bar with a smug grin.

The bar patrons gave a round of applause.

The other man was struggling up now. He was soaked in blood, beer, and piss. Shards of glass were lodged in his face. “What the fuck are you all looking at?! Somebody get me a beer already, god damn it!”.

“Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash played on the jukebox next.

“That was Bone-Saw?” asked Conrad.

“I told you — dude has total ’roid rage,” said Blake.

“You’re doing business with him?” asked Mitch.

“He doesn’t play nice — so what?”

“Did you see that?” asked Conrad.

“Maybe the guy did cheat.”

“Good lord.”

“So, you guys have business with Bone-Saw?” asked Blake.

“Potentially,” said Conrad, “it depends if we can get a metric shit ton of acid.”

“Weird. He doesn’t seem like the type to use psychedelics. Too intense.”

“I think he wants to sell it,” I said.

“Sell it?” asked Mitch.

“Yeah, I think he wants to sell it. Why else would he want a hundred tabs of blotter acid?”

“A hundred tabs of acid?” asked Blake.

“Just don’t get yourselves into any trouble, okay?” said Mitch.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control.”

6. THE ALCHEMIST

“How’d you get the LSD? You couldn’t get it from Mitch, so how’d you get it?” asked Detective McCandles.

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

The Alchemist invited us to his crummy duplex on College Avenue.

The Alchemist was a teaching assistant who was earning his PhD in biochemistry, but discovered synthesizing illegal drugs was more lucrative than being a lousy TA.

When he wasn’t teaching, the Alchemist was strung out on a homemade batch of crystal meth, or whatever designer drug happened to be on the menu (usually it was crystal meth).

The Alchemist preferred to stay on the downlow. He didn’t want word getting out about his psychedelic antics. Nor did he want every bright-eyed freshman on campus approaching him with bothersome requests. He moved in silence like a snake in the grass. I must admit, I respected the hustle.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked the Alchemist through the storm door.

“Uh, Mitch sent us,” said Conrad.

“Oh, that’s right. Come inside.”

It was cramped inside. The curtains were pulled shut so no sunlight could get in. Books and crumpled papers were stacked to the ceiling. There was an aquarium with white lab mice inside. Crushed cans of Mountain Dew littered the floor. What struck me most were the walls — cryptic writing was scribbled all over the walls (some of it looked like complex math equations, but some of it just looked like nonsense).

“Ignore this shit,” said the Alchemist, stepping over the mess. “Mitch says you need LSD. Correct?”

Before we could answer, the Alchemist said, “I don’t usually do business like this, but I’m making an exception — just this one time. You should thank Mitch, he vouched for you.”

“That’s right, Mitch saved our asses,” said Conrad.

“Right. Of course,” said the Alchemist, “you need a hundred tabs of blotter acid? I can do that — for the right price.”

“Name your price,” I said.

“A pound of grass.”

“Is that non-negotiable?”

“You bet your sweet ass it isn’t. Take it or leave it.”

“Deal.”

Conrad winced.

“Excellent,” said the Alchemist, “I’ll get started tonight. Don’t forget the grass.”

“Sounds good. Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Wish I could say the same,” said the Alchemist with a forced laugh.

We shook on the deal.

“Why the hell did you agree to that? That’s our entire stash.”

“You gotta spend money to make money. Ever hear that?”

“I’m questioning your decision-making lately.”

“That’s just, like, your opinion, man.”

“I’m serious.”

“Trust me, okay?”

“I’m already putting lots of trust in you, bro — too much trust.”

“Keep your eyes on the prize.”

We returned to the Alchemist’s duplex the next day.

“Were you followed?” asked the Alchemist. He poked his head out the door and looked around.

“What? No,” said Conrad.

“Just making sure. I think someone is following me. Come in.”

Inside, the Alchemist asked, “Did you bring the grass?”

I unzipped my backpack and removed a big bag of weed. “Here you go. Let us know how you like it.”

The Alchemist smelled its contents, wafting the aroma with his hand like it was one of his bizarre experiments. “Smells like Christmas trees.”

What a freak.

The Alchemist led us to his basement. “Welcome to my little shop of horrors.”

The basement was a makeshift mad science lab. There were beakers, burners, test tubes, and petri dishes covering a workbench. Tall stacks of binders and notebooks towered above. A half-finished robot rested on an operating table. A terrarium housed a colorful venomous snake. There was a big box freezer in the corner — I didn’t want to know what’s inside.

The Alchemist opened a safe and removed a small box. “This stuff is magic. It’s ten times more potent than any other LSD known to man.”

I opened the box and inspected its contents. Inside were sheets of unadulterated LSD adorned with the image of the Monopoly Man.

“Beautiful.”

“Let me see,” said Conrad.

I showed him.

“The Monopoly Man — that’s funny.”

“Glad you like it. I had to give it my personal touch. I’m an artist first, scientist second,” said the Alchemist.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No — thank you,” said the Alchemist, “that pound of grass should last me until the end of the summer.”

“I better not catch you selling it.”

“Do you remember the musical festival last year?” asked Conrad.

“Hell yeah. That was a grand old time.”

“I know, right?”

“It was our most profitable weekend to date.”

“Yeah, we sold out on the first day.”

“It was busy, for sure.”

“I miss those days. Things felt carefree. Now I feel stressed about school, work, and bills. Graduation’s creeping up out of nowhere, and I still don’t know what I’ll do for work.”

“It’s normal to feel stressed by those things. Graduation’s an opportunity for new beginnings.”

“At this rate, I won’t even be allowed to graduate. Not with how many tuition payments I’ve missed.”

“That’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. We’ll be flush with cash after this deal.”

“Yeah, well it still won’t be enough to cover my tuition payments.”

“You can have my half.”

“No — you don’t have to do that.”

“You need it more.”

“That may be true, but still.”

“Let me do this — as a friend.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. I don’t care about the money anyway.”

“You don’t? How come?”

“Call it a love of the game.”

At this point, money didn’t matter to me anymore. I was more interested in getting to the bottom of this mystery with Bone-Saw.

And I was obsessed with the gamble of a hoax bomb. Would the plan work — or would Bone-Saw call my bluff? I couldn’t resist playing the odds. I was too invested to quit.

7. THE KAPPA HOUSE

“What’s the deal with Tiny Terry?” asked Detective McCandles, “he seems like a central figure in this.”

“Fuck him.” I took another puff from my cigarette.

“What’s the lowdown on him?”

“Short little fucker.”

“Come on, you gotta give me more than that.”

Conrad was working at the indie movie theater, so I attended a party at the Kappa house alone.

The Kappa house is an enormous, stately building with rows of classical-style columns in the front. The Kappas are the premier, top-tier fraternity. Every weekend they host the wildest parties this campus has ever seen. (The Kappa brothers are also some of our best customers).

When I arrived, there was a girl passed out in the front yard — her girlfriends struggled to carry her home.

On the rooftop, a wild man danced and shotgunned beers.

Inside, people were crammed in from wall to wall. There was an amateur DJ booth in the center of the room — a dance remix of “Out of Touch” by Hall and Oates played on the sound system.

Eventually, I bumped into Blake.

“Have you seen Tiny Terry?”

“Yeah, I think he’s in the backyard,” said Blake.

“Thanks. I’ve got business with him. Take care.”

I navigated the dense crowd to the backdoor.

Several kegs of beer were on the deck. Partygoers spilled into the backyard. A group was gathered to cheer on the wild man, who was still dancing on the roof.

I saw Tiny Terry attempting to hit on two uninterested girls. I approached him with single-minded fury.

I’ve never cared for Tiny Terry. He’s a weird, little dork. And kind of a prick too. He’s the type of guy who scares the girls at parties.

Which is exactly what he was doing now.

I patted him on the shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, little buddy.”

“Hey, what the hell?” asked Tiny Terry.

The girls took this opportunity to return to the party.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, little buddy.”

“Stop calling me that! What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you going to Mitch behind my back?”

“Oh, that? That’s what this is about? I can explain — ”

“You better have a damn good explanation.”

“What did Mitch tell you?”

“He said you’re poking around in my business. Do me a favor and stop bugging Mitch. Got it?”

A crowd was formed to watch the wild man dancing on the roof. “Burning Down the House” by the Talking Heads blasted on the sound system now.

“I was just talking.”

“Bullshit. He said you asked him to get you Roofies. What the fuck is that about?”

Tiny Terry was flustered. “What? That ain’t true!”

“Whatever you say.”

“Mitch can’t be saying that shit! What if — ”

“Shut up. The point is: Mitch and I have a special business partnership. He’s a distributor, he doesn’t deal with clients — that’s how it works. End of story. Anything you’ve got to say to Mitch, you can say to me.”

“All right, all right! Relax! We’re business partners now too, you know.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Everything still good on your end of the deal?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll have your acid for you. But let me ask you this — what are you planning to do with so much acid? Are you on a spiritual journey to open your third eye?”

“OH MY GOD!”

There was a blood-curdling scream, followed by a wave of gasps. Then the party erupted into hysterical screaming.

The wild man dancing on the roof got too cocky. He slipped, smacking his head on the gutter, and falling three stories onto the deck. His leg was shattered — he suffered compound fractures to his tibia and fibula, and his knee was bent the wrong way. Jagged bones jutted out from under his skin. Blood was everywhere. He clutched his leg, wailing in agony.

Panic ensued. Some people rushed to help. Others simply fled.

“CALL 911!”

Amid the chaos, Tiny Terry slipped away, escaping into the night.

Despite the horrific accident, the party raged on. The dancing man was taken to an ambulance, and afterward everyone seemed to forget about him.

I was chatting with one of the Kappa brothers when my phone rang. I thought it would be Leigh calling again, but it wasn’t. I didn’t recognize the number, but I knew it could be a client trying to reach me.

“Hold on a second, I’ve got to take this call.” (A good drug dealer must be willing to always answer his phone).

I found a quiet spot outside to take the call.

“Hello,” said a guttural voice on the other end.

“Who is this?”

“You know who I am.”

“Bone-Saw, is that you?”

“Stop asking around about me.”

“I knew it was you. I’ve got to know who I’m doing business with.”

“We’ll meet soon enough, my friend. In the meantime, stop poking around in my business.”

The line went dead.

8. THE BURGLARY

“Tell me about the ‘bomb,’” said Detective McCandles, “it wasn’t supposed to be real, right?”

“No. The explosives team determined it was an elaborate hoax. I thought the lead detective on the case would know that.”

“I know, I know. Just trying to get the facts straight.”

“Right.”

“How’d you know how to make the damn thing?”

The party at the Kappa house fizzled out by 3:00 A.M., but I was still feeling rowdy. Tonight was the night — this hoax bomb wasn’t going to build itself.

Columbus Hall is the largest academic building on campus. It’s a mighty structure with sleek, modern architecture.

Because of his work-study job at the IT helpdesk, Conrad had a keycard to Columbus Hall. After the party, I crept back into my apartment and found Conrad’s wallet in its usual spot on the kitchen countertop. I stole the keycard out of it. Mr. Mittens rested atop the refrigerator — he gave me a dirty look.

Conrad was asleep upstairs, so I moved in total silence. I retrieved a flashlight and an empty backpack from my bedroom. I wore a neck gaiter, baseball hat, and a pair of gloves (and I was dressed in all black, of course). Before leaving, I poured two grams of coke on my desk and railed fat lines until it was gone, and I couldn’t feel my face.

The lights were off in Columbus Hall when I arrived. I pulled the neck gaiter over my face and entered through a side door.

There was an eerie, uneasy atmosphere inside. Rumor has it Columbus Hall is haunted by the ghost of a student who committed suicide during finals week by jumping headfirst out a sixth-story window and cracking his skull open in the middle of campus. I don’t believe in ghosts, but students report hearing strange noises during night classes, such as whispering from the heating vents.

Behind the IT helpdesk were various pieces of computer hardware, which I loaded into the backpack.

Next, I went upstairs to the computer lab. To my shock, the door was unlocked. I went inside and stole a hard drive.

Looking through the contents of my backpack, I decided this wasn’t enough. I needed more parts to work with.

I exited Columbus Hall and slinked across campus.

The school bookstore is a stand-alone building located near the front gate of campus. It was locked, but I was determined to gain entry.

I crawled through an unlocked window at the back and found myself in a backroom storage area. From there, I entered the sales floor.

I collected various items off the shelves until the backpack was almost too heavy to carry. Before leaving, I lit a cigarette. I flicked the ashes on the carpet and flipped off the security camera.

Keeping to the shadows, I skulked across campus back to my apartment. At one point, I saw a campus security cruiser patrolling College Avenue, so I had to hide in the bushes. The cruiser came to a full stop. I thought they spotted me — but the cruiser rolled along.

Back at the apartment, I replaced Conrad’s keycard in his wallet. Mr. Mittens was still on top of the refrigerator glaring at me.

I woke up with an awful, throbbing hangover. Call it karmic vengeance. I felt like absolute shit, but there was work to do.

I began creating the “bomb.” I acted alone, as Conrad wanted no part of the construction.

“It’s your idea, so you do it.”

“Whatever.”

“Where did you get this shit anyway?”

“I broke into Columbus Hall last night.”

“You what?”

“I broke into the school bookstore too.”

“What the hell? I thought you were going to a party.”

“I did. But I felt wild, so I went on a side-quest.”

“You better hope they don’t check the security cameras.”

“I’ll be fine, I wore a mask.”

“What’s up with you? Why do you suddenly think you’re a criminal mastermind? We’re about to graduate and move on to the real world. Don’t you want to get a normal job? And do normal things? Or do you just want to sell dope forever?”

“Selling dope is a normal job.”

“Have fun building your stupid bomb. I’m going upstairs to study.”

For reference, I skimmed through a PDF of The Anarchist Cookbook I found online. If I wanted to make a convincing hoax bomb, I needed to familiarize myself with the mechanics of real bombs. (Overall, it’s a good read — I rate it four stars).

Rather than a vest, which would be too restrictive, I built the hoax bomb inside a backpack. Stealth and ease were critical factors that couldn’t be ignored.

I crafted a crude device from the stolen supplies. It consisted of miscellaneous charger cords; a bundle of test tubes duct-taped together; a dismantled smoke detector; batteries; an alarm clock; several digital watches; and random stripped parts of computer hardware. I wired these into a tangled mass and zip-tied it in the backpack.

It looked inconspicuous enough to pass like a normal backpack. This is a college campus, after all — everybody wears backpacks.

It was jerry-rigged so the timepieces synced to the smoke alarm (for dramatic effect). With the press of a button, my Casio wristwatch would commence the countdown timer, allowing for remote control.

I spent all week building and testing it until it met my standards. I was proud of my invention. I felt confident my plan wouldn’t fail.

I showed Conrad the final product.

“What the fuck, bro? What the actual fuck? I didn’t think you were serious!”

“When am I ever not serious?”

“Do you want to get put on a terrorist watch-list?”

“It’s not even real. It’s like a prop in a movie.”

“A prop that could get us both arrested. Or killed.”

“No one’s going to get killed. I promise.”

“Have you heard from Skinny Boy? I can’t get in touch with him.”

Conrad was dangling a shoestring in front of Mr. Mittens, who swatted at it with his paws.

“No. I haven’t been able to reach him either,” he said.

“I thought you were going to deal with it.”

“He’s good for the money, I’m telling you, bro.”

“Then why’d he disappear once it was time to pay?”

“This isn’t like him. Something’s up.”

“He better come up with our money, or there’s gonna be a problem.”

“Do you ever stop thinking about money?”

“Never.”

9. THE BAD NEWS

“You do know selling drugs isn’t a victimless crime, right?” asked Detective McCandles.

“I do now…”

“What made you change your mind?”

Conrad called me saying he had bad news, but he’d tell me in person. When he arrived at our apartment, he looked somber and defeated.

“Skinny Boy is dead.”

“What?”

“He’s dead. His girlfriend, Annie, is dead too. They were found in his apartment this morning.”

Mr. Mittens meandered into the room and rubbed his face against Conrad’s leg.

“How?”

“Drug overdose. The paramedics found a bag of cocaine in his pocket, and it tested positive for fentanyl.”

I didn’t know what to say, so all I said was, “Wow…”

“I did some asking around, and Skinny Boy’s friends say he bought it from Bone-Saw. Apparently, Bone-Saw is notorious for stepping on his product, and he’ll cut his shit with anything he can get his hands on. Remind me why we’re doing business with this motherfucker?”

“Conrad, you know what this means now…”

“What?”

“We’re never going to get the five hundred bucks he owes us.”

“Fuck you.”

Conrad stormed out of the room.

When I returned from class, Conrad was on the porch.

“What are you doing?”

“Come check it out.”

I climbed the porch stairs to go see what he was doing. Conrad held a squirt gun pistol in one hand, and an aerosol can of matte black spray paint in the other.

“What’s with the squirt gun?”

“I’m painting it, so it looks like a real gun. Duh.”

“Well, look at you!”

“You have your failsafe — now I’ll have mine.” Conrad gave one last spray of the paint can and then displayed the squirt gun. It looked like a real pistol — good enough to fool someone in the short-term at least.

“That’s the spirit!”

“I didn’t want it to come to this, but I think we’d be remiss to not bring a ‘gun’ of our own. What do you think?”

“Genius. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Let’s just hope I don’t need to use it.”

“So, you’re all in now? Even after everything with Skinny Boy?”

“I just want to meet the man who killed my cousin and look him in the eyes.”

“We don’t have to do any more business with Bone-Saw after this. If that’s what you want, that’s what I want too.”

“We should retire. Call it quits. Graduation is soon.”

“Don’t remind me. Retirement? I’ll think about it.”

“We should get out while we’re on top.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

10. THE LECTURE

“Tell me this, son — why did you go through with it?” asked Detective McCandles, “from what you’ve told me, it sounds like every alarm bell should’ve been going off. There wasn’t a little voice telling you to stop and think about what you were doing? I mean, what were you thinking?”

“I wish I had an answer. I really do.”

“What’s the deal with this Bone-Saw guy?” asked Conrad.

“Listen — Bone-Saw is a hardcore motherfucker,” said Mitch, “you better know who you’re dealing with. Be careful, boss, and I don’t say that lightly.”

“I’d never even heard of the guy until last week,” said Conrad.

“My fraternity brothers gave me the scoop,” said Mitch.

“Well, what are we dealing with here?”

Mitch leaned in closer. “Bone-Saw breaks bones. Last semester, he sold an eight-ball of coke to my fraternity brother, Sammy. All the brothers told Sammy not to buy coke from Bone-Saw. They told him they didn’t trust Bone-Saw, or his product. They tried to tell him Bone-Saw was bad news, but he didn’t listen. Sammy buys the eight-ball anyway. Time comes for Sammy to pay, but he doesn’t have the money. So, Bone-Saw sends these goons to abduct Sammy from his bedroom in the dead of night. Tied him up, blindfolded him, and threw him in the trunk. They drove him into the woods. Bone-Saw was there waiting. It was brutal. Allegedly, Bone­Saw snapped Sammy’s collarbone with his bare hands. They beat him to a pulp — left him for dead on the side of the road, bruised and bloody. Luckily a jogger discovered him in time to save his life. It took him months to recover, and he’s still not back to his old self. And Sammy isn’t the only one — there’s others. Apparently, Bone­Saw does this all the time.”

“Holy shit,” said Conrad.

“Whatever. I refuse to be intimidated.”

“Boss, are you sure you want to do business with this punk? He sounds like a grade-A son of a bitch. Bone-Saw might be more than you bargained for.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“I mean it…”

I got another call from Leigh. I’d been avoiding her calls. I considered sending it to voicemail once again but decided against it for some reason. When I answered she said, “It’s nice to hear your voice again.”

“What do you want?”

She pleaded with me to change my mind — to reconsider what I was doing.

“What about the good times? Or do those mean nothing to you?”

“Seasons change.”

“The only thing that’s changed is you.”

“Change is good.”

“Yeah? Well, you’ve changed for the worse. I don’t like it.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t have to sell drugs, you know.”

“Leigh, this conversation is going nowhere.”

“You could sell the last of your supply and retire comfortably. And we could be together.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about law school? Aren’t you going to take the LSAT after graduation? You can’t be a lawyer if you’re a drug dealer.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you being this way?”

“What way?”

“Stop being so thick-headed.”

“This conversation is over now.”

I sat in the back of the lecture hall, absent-mindedly doodling in my notebook. I stared at the clock on the wall, listening to the ticking like it was the only sound in the room.

I was in my “Existentialism in Literature” class. The professor was explaining the themes present in Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

It’s a book about a guy who’s forced to drop out of college due to financial hardship, so he decides to kill a mean old rich lady for her money. Or something like that. I didn’t finish it, so I don’t know how it ends.

“Dostoevsky put some of his own ideas into this work — such as opposition to radical ideologies. After all, his crime is fueled by ideological intoxication. Rodion gets so hung up on his justifications for the murder that he’s unable to consider the crushing, grim reality of carrying it out. His reasons for doing it outweigh the reasons for not doing it. Can anybody tell me why Rodion confesses? What’s going through his head?

The professor scanned the classroom — blank stares.

“What drives Rodion to confess is his overwhelming sense of ambient dread. He fears being caught. He also feels disgusted with himself. He can’t live with his guilty conscience. In the end, he realizes he must face what he’s done.”

The professor glanced at his watch.

“Time’s up. On that note, I will leave you with my favorite quotes from the text.”

The professor looked down at his lectern and read the quote.

“‘If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment — as well as the prison.’”

Conrad and I sat in our living room. The movie Blow was playing on the TV, but neither of us paid any attention.

Mr. Mittens slept in Conrad’s lap.

“Want to know the best job I ever had?” Conrad asked.

“What?”

“One summer I worked on a disaster cleanup crew.”

“Oh yeah? What was that like?”

“I drove a box truck to places with fire or flood damage. I led the cleanup crew who’d come in after the fire department cleared out. We’d go into ruined houses to collect damaged personal property — electronics and clothing, stuff like that. Then we’d take that stuff back to our warehouse with a truck, clean out the smoke damage, and return it to the owners like brand new.”

“Sounds like a dirty job.”

“It was a dirty job. I came home every night covered in sweat and soot. There was heavy lifting too — I threw out my back carrying a treadmill out of a basement. And customer service was a real bitch — they were always pissed off on account of their houses burning down.”

I frowned and asked, “Well, what did you like about the job?”

“At the time, I hated that job. But sometimes I miss it. I really do. Whenever I feel stressed from the daily grind, I close my eyes and imagine myself behind the wheel of that big, beautiful box truck with the radio on and the wind in my hair.” Conrad stared off in the distance. “It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. Know what I mean? I felt good about it.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know.”

At the eleventh hour, Conrad had second thoughts.

We sat in his Pontiac outside our townhouse.

“We don’t have to do this. We could walk away at any time.”

“Yes, we do. You know why.”

“College isn’t that important.”

“The future’s important.”

“We won’t have a future if this goes the wrong way.”

“Listen — everything will be fine. Nothing is gonna happen. It’ll be a smooth deal, and we won’t even have to resort to plan B.”

“You’re right…”

I wasn’t going to let Conrad back out. I needed to do this. Just for the thrill of it. We had to see it through to the end, no matter what.

I was caught up in the high-stakes game — the fantasy of the fake out. I couldn’t turn back now.

This was the point of no return.

“Start the car.”

“You’ve changed, bro.”

“I said start the car.”

He did.

“Nightclubbing” by Iggy Pop was playing on the car radio — I cranked up the volume.

We drove off into the darkness.

11. THE EXCHANGE

“So, that brings us to the night in question.”

Detective McCandles gestured for my cigarette. He took a deep drag and passed it back.

“Yeah, I guess I should get around to telling you about that.”

“I think it’s time.”

“You’re right.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me about Bone-Saw?”

I hesitated. “You know, I’ve always believed there are no good guys or bad guys — just different competing interests battling it out on this hunk of rock we call home.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But now I’m not so sure…”

It was cold that night.

We sat inside Conrad’s Pontiac, parallel parked on College Avenue in front of Bone-Saw’s house.

Although Bone-Saw’s house was also on College Avenue, he lived across campus on the south end. The house itself was a lair fit for a supervillain — a decrepit Victorian monstrosity towering above the adjacent houses. Hundred-foot-tall dead elm trees surrounded the house. The trees were filled with owls, whose glowing red eyes illuminated the canopy like spooky Christmas lights.

I sniffed another bump of coke. Then another. And another (etc.).

Deep drag from my cigarette now.

“Save some for me.”

I handed Conrad the bag — he snorted its remaining contents.

One last drag from the cigarette. Stamp out the cigarette and scatter the ashes.

It’s showtime.

The briefcase was handcuffed to my wrist and the backpack was slung over my shoulders. Ironically, I chose to wear a black bomber jacket.

We exited the Pontiac and cut into the backyard. I knocked on the back door three times.

I could hear motion inside, then the door swung open. It was Butler and Chompy (the two redneck goons Mitch mentioned in his story). They ushered us in and locked the door.

“Follow us, he’s in the peak.”

(The “peak” is a nickname referring to the third-floor attic bedroom — it’s a common campus colloquialism).

The peak was a single, open-space floor plan comprising the entire third floor. The high ceiling rose to a sharp, convex point.

Cliché college dorm room posters covered the walls: sports cars, topless chicks, Scarface, Phish, Johnny Cash flipping the bird, etc. A massive American flag hung from the wall. The only lighting came from a black light lamp, which cast a cool, purple hue over the room. Smoke from the bong still drifted around in the air.

“Fire on the Mountain” by the Grateful Dead played on the sound system.

Bone-Saw and Tiny Terry sat on a leather sectional couch.

“I’ve been expecting you. Take a seat,” said Bone-Saw.

Butler and Chompy sat, but Bone-Saw snapped, “Not you! Go wait downstairs. I’ll holler if you’re needed.”

Conrad and I sat in folding chairs across from them.

“Cut the tunes,” said Bone-Saw.

It was intriguing to meet the man I’ve heard so much about. Bone-Saw was an imposing figure. An immense gold chain was wrapped around his neck. An unlit cigarette hung from his lips. Tattooed on his forearm was the cryptic phrase: “KILL GOD NOW.” He certainly looked like someone who enjoys breaking collarbones.

There was a mirror with lines of coke laid out on it. Bone­Saw offered a one-hundred-dollar bill rolled into a straw. “Care for a line?”

“We’re good,” said Conrad.

“Suit yourself.” He snorted all the lines himself.

“We meet at last,” I said.

“It’s nice to put a face to the name — especially with a name like Bone-Saw,” said Conrad.

“You know why they call me that?” asked Bone-Saw.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“Because I like to break bones. There’s something about the moment when it snaps…”

Bone-Saw burst into laughter.

“Relax! I’m fucking with you — they call me ‘Bone-Saw’ because I want to be an orthopedic surgeon.”

We laughed along with feigned smiles.

“I like you guys. I foresee us doing a lot of business together, what do you think?”

Conrad shot me nervous glance.

“Hold up, cowboy, one step at a time,” I said, “let’s see the money.”

“Yes, of course. You’re a man of business, I hear. A surefire straight shooter — that’s what they say about you.”

“Sounds right.”

Bone-Saw went to the gun safe behind him. He turned the dial a few times, opened it, and removed two envelopes. He walked over and handed an envelope to each of us.

“Thank you very much,” said Conrad.

Hold on a second.

I shook the envelope.

Something wasn’t right.

“This feels a little short.”

“You’ll find $1,000 cash enclosed — split equally between the two of you.”

“That wasn’t the agreement!”

“Whatever happened to $1,000 cash each?” asked Conrad.

“My terms have changed since you spoke with Tiny Terry.”

“This is bullshit!”

“What are you doing?” asked Conrad.

Bone-Saw was creeping back to the gun safe.

“Don’t take another step,” I said.

“Don’t you worry, I’m just fetching your gun.”

“How about you give us the rest of the cash first?”

Then Bone-Saw dashed to the gun safe, removing the AR-15 from inside, and pointing it at me.

“The acid — hand it over.”

It was a trap.

Of course, the gun was loaded.

Tiny Terry backstabbed us.

This was planned all along. There was never any intention of establishing a business relationship. More likely, Bone­Saw and Tiny Terry were angling to move into our territory and wanted us out of the picture.

“Enough already. Give me the acid.”

“No.”

“Just give it to him,” pleaded Conrad.

Tiny Terry approached me. “I’ll be taking this.” He grabbed my wrist, unlatched the toy handcuff, and snatched the briefcase.

“See? That was easy,” said Bone-Saw.

Tiny Terry set the briefcase on the couch. Then he went to the gun safe and retrieved a sawed-off shotgun. He removed two bullets from his shirt pocket and began loading them into the shotgun.

All the while, Bone-Saw continued aiming the AR-15 at me.

But we still had our kill-switch.

I was ready for this moment. I could not afford to screw up.

I was grinding my teeth, clenching my jaw hard.

“It’s a shame we had to meet on such terms,” said Bone­Saw.

I discreetly activated the stopwatch on my Casio wristwatch. My backpack began audibly ticking.

Bone-Saw kept the rifle aimed at me, but Tiny Terry paused and looked around the room.

“What is that?” asked Tiny Terry.

“Surprise, motherfuckers!”

I slung the backpack forward and unzipped it, exposing the mess of tangled wires inside. The ticking grew louder. I put on my best poker face, praying that it looked convincing enough.

“I’ve got a bomb.”

I displayed the timer, which was counting down from two minutes.

The peak seemed to stand still.

My focus locked onto Bone-Saw. I couldn’t even blink.

The silence was broken when Tiny Terry said, “What the fuck…?”

“You are a wild one, aren’t you?” said Bone-Saw.

I swiped sweat from my brow. “You heard me — I’ve got a bomb. Now drop the gun.”

Bone-Saw did not lower his gun, but he appeared surprised. I bet he didn’t see this one coming.

“Easy now,” said Bone-Saw.

“Drop the gun.”

“No.”

“Drop the gun before I blow us all to smithereens.”

Bone-Saw didn’t move a muscle.

“I swear to god, I’ll kill us all if you fuck with me.”

Bone-Saw still didn’t move.

“Here’s how this is going to go. First, you’re gonna drop the gun. Then you’re gonna return the acid. And then we’ll part ways, never to see each other again.”

Bone-Saw tossed the rifle to the floor — I kicked it under the bed.

“You too, little buddy.” I looked at Tiny Terry. He dropped his gun and held up his hands.

“Now give it to me.”

Bone-Saw approached and shoved the briefcase into my arms.

“Come on, Conrad, let’s get out of here.” I dug the alarm clock out of the backpack and began to disarm the hoax bomb.

In a flash — Tiny Terry pounced on Conrad, slashing at him with a switchblade knife.

Conrad threw up his arms in self-defense, but he was cut badly on the hand. Blood spattered everywhere.

Conrad and Tiny Terry fought for control of the knife. Conrad had a greater reach — he swung his bloody fist at Tiny Terry, knocking him down.

The force of the punch caused Tiny Terry to drop the knife. The knife hit the floor with a clang and bounced somewhere underneath the sectional couch. Clattering shotgun shells spilled from Tiny Terry’s shirt pocket and scattered everywhere, bouncing, and rolling across the floor.

It was too late to salvage this transaction now. Violence was the only remaining option.

Tiny Terry tripped Conrad. They wrestled on the floor in a mess of blood and bullets.

All the while, the backpack continued to tick with ever increasing volume and frequency.

I rushed to pull Tiny Terry off Conrad, but Bone-Saw picked up the sawed-off shotgun and pistol-whipped me with it.

I fell behind the couch, where I found Tiny Terry’s switchblade on the floor. I snatched it up, clenching it with white knuckles.

Tiny Terry stood and kicked Conrad in the face.

I crawled to the other side of the couch, where Conrad and Tiny Terry fought. From the floor, I slashed Tiny Terry’s Achilles heel with the switchblade.

“You son of a bitch!” He collapsed, clutching his maimed leg, and howling as gore gushed from his wound.

Thirty seconds left on the timer.

Bone-Saw picked up two bullets and began loading the shotgun.

Conrad got up and charged at Bone-Saw. He grabbed the shotgun, trying to wrench it from Bone-Saw’s grip.

The smoke alarm began sounding off — its piercing wails rang out through the house.

Ten seconds left on the timer.

I went to aid Conrad, kicking Bone-Saw in the groin.

Conrad ripped the shotgun out of Bone-Saw’s hands and tossed it aside.

Butler and Chompy rushed upstairs. “What’s that sound?”

“It’s a fucking bomb!” yelled Bone-Saw, who was writhing on the floor.

Butler drew his pistol and fired three shots — one of them grazed my arm.

I ducked behind the couch.

Then the timer hit zero.

The room froze.

Time stood still.

Nothing happened.

Bone-Saw looked around in disbelief. “Kill them!”

Butler and Chompy raised their weapons — but Conrad was quicker.

“Not so fast,” said Conrad. He pointed the fake pistol at Bone-Saw. “If anyone moves, I’ll blow his fucking brains out.”

Butler and Chompy kept their weapons aimed at us.

“You won’t do it,” said Bone-Saw.

“The fuck I won’t. You killed my cousin.”

“Your cousin was a junkie.”

“Shut up!”

“Pull the trigger, bitch.”

“We’re going to leave now.”

Suddenly, Bone-Saw’s demeanor changed. “He’s bluffing!”

During the standoff, Tiny Terry collected a handful of loose bullets and retrieved the shotgun. He fired two shots. One shot hit Conrad in the thigh. The other shot hit Chompy in the face, and his body fell backwards down the stairs.

The peak erupted into gunfire.

Butler and Tiny Terry sprayed bullets across the peak.

It was a vortex of constant noise and motion. The ringing in my ears was almost deafening.

I dove behind the couch, but I wasn’t quick enough — a bullet grazed my arm. I laid flat on the floor until the gunfire ceased.

I waited for the shooting to resume, but it didn’t. I peered from behind the couch.

Amid the blaze of gunfire, Butler took a shotgun blast to the chest. Tiny Terry suffered friendly fire, as well, taking a gunshot to the groin. Both were killed in the crossfire.

Conrad was shot too. He was on the floor, clutching his abdomen. Blood spilled from the wound, but he still clung to life.

Then a freight train hit me.

Bone-Saw tackled me, slamming me against the floor as we went down.

“I’m going to break your fucking collarbone!”

Bone-Saw sucker punched me in the collarbone. It crunched. Pain shot through my shoulder and chest.

Bone-Saw bombarded me with an onslaught of heavy fists.

Mitch was right! I should have heeded his warnings, but it was too late.

I was about to die.

Then a gunshot rang out.

Bone-Saw collapsed.

I rolled his body off me and looked around in disbelief.

I ran to Conrad, who was slumped in a pool of blood, clutching Butler’s pistol. The blood was spilling out of his wounds at an alarming rate. He was choking up blood and bile. I looked in his eyes, but there was nothing there anymore.

I cradled his body in my arms and said, “I’m sorry, Conrad. It’s all my fault.” I took a blanket from the bedspread and draped it over his body.

I returned to Bone-Saw’s body to inspect it. He was shot in the collarbone.

It was over.

I repeatedly kicked Bone-Saw’s body until I ran out of breath.

I wiped blood and tears off my face. My arm was bleeding where the bullet grazed it. My collarbone throbbed with intense pain, but I did my best to ignore it.

But there was still one question…

I had to know for certain.

I limped over to the bed and retrieved the AR-15 from under it.

I checked the chamber.

Empty.

It was empty.

Good grief.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

I dropped the gun and fell to my knees.

My laughter grew louder and louder. In the distance, the wailing of police sirens grew closer and closer…

12. THE AFTERMATH

It didn’t take long for law enforcement to arrive.

They came out in full force with a SWAT van and helicopters.

The police formed a perimeter around the house and sent in the SWAT team. The SWAT team busted open the doors with a battering ram and flooded inside.

After the SWAT team determined my location, they stormed the peak, encircling me with guns drawn.

I was smoking a cigarette, holding my hands in the air when they entered. The laser pointers on their rifles lit up my head with red polka dots.

I surrendered and promised to cooperate.

The police mirandized me, but the only thing I could say was, “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault…”

The bomb squad was deployed to disarm the “bomb.” For over three hours, the police mistakenly believed it was a real bomb. Eventually, the feds were called to the scene. Upon closer inspection, they determined it was a hoax.

After clearing the house, the police took inventory of the paraphernalia inside. They recovered: $10,000 cash; one kilo of cocaine; five pounds of marijuana; an eight-ball of crystal meth; an eighth of shrooms; two grams of China white heroin; a gram of crack rocks; a plethora of pills (including ecstasy, Adderall, Xanax, Vicodin, Percocet, OxyContin, and Rohypnol); an AK­47; an Uzi; three sawed-off shotguns; seventeen unregistered handguns; four bump stocks; six grenades; and even a bazooka. (This was all in addition to the one hundred sheets of blotter acid and the AR-15).

There are unsubstantiated rumors that the police discovered a DVD containing a pornographic snuff film, but they destroyed it because the contents were “too disturbing for human eyes.”

The police couldn’t believe it. It was a crime scene more fitting of a Mexican drug cartel massacre than a college drug deal.

The police handcuffed me and led me to the back of a cruiser. The state trooper said, “Boy, I ain’t never seen anything like this in my thirteen years of service.”

The media caught wind of the heavy police activity on College Avenue. Rows of white vans from the local news stations were parked along the street. Their cameras flashed as I walked past them.

News reporters swarmed me, sticking microphones and cameras in my face. The police tried to brush them away, but they were determined to get the scoop.

The reporters pounced, bombarding me with a storm of questions.

“What are they charging you with?”

“Sir, what’s your name?”

“Are you the killer?”

“Is it true you that tried to detonate an IED?”

“Was this a suicide-bomb attempt?”

“Are you aligned with any radical ideology?”

“What is your message to the world?”

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“No comment.”

Meanwhile, hordes of onlookers gathered to gawk, gab, and gossip.

There was a news crew interviewing one of the neighbors — she was a student, although I didn’t recognize her. “I had Sociology with him sophomore year. He was always brooding in the back of the class. He wasn’t like regular people — he was so intense all the time, it was totally weird. I heard he wrote a manifesto planning out this whole thing. And I heard he’s made bomb threats in the past, but the school chose to ignore it. It doesn’t surprise me he’d do something like this. It was only a matter of time before he snapped.” She smiled at the camera.

Another student interviewed by the news said, “I didn’t think he was capable of something like this. He was a friendly guy — quiet though. There wasn’t anything off about him — nothing suspicious. He seemed like a totally normal dude. I guess you can never really know someone’s true intentions.”

Yet another student told reporters, “He’s innocent. Sure, he was a drug-dealer — everybody on campus knew that. But a killer? A terrorist? No way, dude. I mean, come on, get real. What everybody’s saying is lies. The only crime he’s guilty of is selling weed without a permit — if you even consider that a crime. This whole thing seems like a massive frame-job by the police. I say, let him have his day in court.”

It was a media circus like no other.

“10TV back again with updates on a developing story. We are at what is turning out to be the most expensive criminal investigation in state history. The State Bureau of Investigation has confirmed one unnamed individual is in custody. It is unknown whether this individual is a student at the University. The Attorney General says he will hold daily press conferences as more details emerge.”

One thing is certain: I’m famous. Or rather, infamous. But at the end of the day what’s the difference?

I thought about what this meant for my place in the grand scheme of things. At last, I’ve achieved my dream of being the next Tony Montana — but at what cost? I hope I’ll be remembered alongside the great titans of drug trafficking, like Pablo Escobar and El Chapo. Maybe I’ll get lucky and go down in history as a sort of a folk hero (I’d like to think so).

Or am I just another one of the bad guys, like Bone-Saw and Tiny Terry? That question haunts me to this day. Conrad was a good guy — I’m certain of this.

Before ushering me into the back of his cruiser, the state trooper said, “Boy, you know you’re damn lucky you got out of this alive. Sorry about your friend, though. Seems he wasn’t so lucky.”

He slammed the car door shut.

The media ran wild with my story, but they got it all wrong of course.

The story was national news for a day, but a political scandal broke the next day, overshadowing it. However, the story was huge for the local news circuit. Every news outlet in the state wanted me for an exclusive interview.

It was the front-page news in the next issue of the school newspaper. They dubbed it the “College Avenue Crisis” — what a stupid name. Accompanying the lame headline was their “full shocking exposé.” Of course, it was filled with countless lies (and in my opinion was a total crock of shit).

The news fixated on the hoax bomb and wouldn’t relent. They called me a public menace, a drug-addled dope-pusher, and a psychopathic terrorist. They portrayed me as a twisted, thrill-seeking sociopath who planned to blow up the school for vague political reasons.

One headline declared: “Maniac Bomber’s Twisted Manifesto Reveals Sick Plot To Commit Series Of Heinous Terrorist Attacks.” Another headline read: “Former Classmates Say College Avenue Suicide Bomber May Have Planned Other Bomb Attacks.” And yet another headline read: “Guns, Drugs & Blood — College Student’s Drug Empire Collapses After Mass Shootout With Police.”

However, I garnered a cult following online. People on social media say I’m a crusader against the War on Drugs. I get occasional letters from infatuated women. Vice ran an article glorifying my crimes titled “WEED WARS: Meet The Charming Undergrad Drug Kingpin Who Waged A Bloody Turf War At This Quiet College.” They didn’t reach out to me for comment, but nevertheless it was still a good article.

Despite the barrage of media slander, I am enjoying all the attention.

I hope they make a movie about this whole ordeal. Criminals are barred by law from profiting from their crimes, but maybe I can sell the rights to my life’s story to a Hollywood producer. If I can’t get any money out of this, then at least I can hope for notoriety. I’ll even write the screenplay myself if I must.

Netflix reached out to me requesting an exclusive interview. They’re producing an exploitative documentary series about my crimes — it’s titled: “Underground Exchange: A Campus Conspiracy.” It’s not a Hollywood movie, but it’s the next best thing. I haven’t decided if I’ll respond — that’ll depend on whether they plan to glorify me or villainize me. Knowing Netflix, you can never be sure which angle they’re going to take.

The word has gotten out I’m writing in jail. I got a call from a literary agent about my manuscript. He asked me to mail him a copy of the manuscript when it’s finished, and he’d shop it around at some publishing houses for me. He said it’s guaranteed to top the New York Times bestseller list (and I would agree). I told him I’d think about it.

Of course, there were political ramifications too.

The mayor of [COLLEGE TOWN] held a press conference on the evening news — it was a primetime event.

He smugly announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to say today’s police raid has resulted in the biggest drug bust in this city’s history. This couldn’t have happened without our heroic police force — I commend their efforts, and I can’t thank them enough for the bravery they displayed today. And let this serve as a warning to all the criminals out there who wish to tarnish our city’s good reputation. Let this be a reminder to those nefarious individuals that the police will continue working tirelessly, day and night, to crack down on the scourge of drugs infesting our community.”

Of course, the only thing the mayor cares about is padding the numbers in his stat book before Election Day.

Who knew that the Attorney General was such a shameless media hound? He’s been giving daily press conferences to provide updates on the status of the investigation. That two-faced rat-bastard loves being on camera. His eyes are set on the governorship, and he’s using the investigation to leverage more political capital for himself.

Politicians are fucking whores.

The State Bureau of Investigation seized the cash and weapons retrieved at the scene for themselves. They were very proud of themselves for that. Greedy bastards. The money went toward new surveillance drones to aid in the War on Drugs. The weapons (even the illegal ones) were allocated for a special joint taskforce to combat drug trafficking on campus.

The police have sent a clear and resounding message to all drug dealers on campus: sleep with one eye open.

The accolades from their big score have only fueled their motivation in the War on Drugs. After the little stunt I pulled, the police cracked down on drugs harder than ever before. The other notable players on campus either got arrested or retired and faded into obscurity.

Word on the street now is the campus drug supply has completely dried up. You can’t even score a dimebag from what I’ve heard. It’s a damn shame.

The police eventually caught up with Mitch and busted him on a lengthy rap of charges, including drug trafficking and cybercrimes. They seized his computers in an early morning raid on his apartment. He agreed to a plea deal where he would serve sixteen months in a minimum-security prison, with credit for time served. We stay in touch — he writes me letters from prison keeping me informed on the latest news.

As for the Alchemist, the DEA conducted a midnight raid on his duplex. He was prosecuted in federal court for the manufacture and distribution of a Schedule I controlled substance. The judge sentenced him to a whopping ten years in federal prison to make an example out of him. But he’s still making drugs — he ferments jailhouse wine in his toilet (I hear it’s quite a lucrative business).

Blake got busted in a sting operation for trying to buy a bulk quantity of ecstasy and Klonopin. He faced serious time but got off scot-free because one of the arresting officers gave him a titty-twister while he was handcuffed. According to the presiding judge, this was a “gross violation” of Blake’s civil rights. I heard Blake has since cleaned up his act — stone-cold sober — and now he’s campaign manager for a congressman. Good for him.

The authorities fingerprinted me, took my mugshot, and shuffled me off to the cold, cramped jail cell where I’m currently sitting.

They had a doctor examine my clavicle, and she confirmed it was broken. She put my arm in a sling and told me recovery could take anywhere from six to eight weeks. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m getting used to it.

I’ve spent three long nights in custody, writing my unabridged witness statement. So far, it’s not that bad.

I thought it would be way worse, but the reality is I’ve never been so relaxed in my whole life. The authorities allowed me to bring the typewriter back to my cell — they even provided a flimsy TV tray for a desk. I spend all day reading, writing, and doing endless push-ups (I can do a thousand of them now).

My cellmate and I get along well. His name is Psycho Mike; he’s on trial for (allegedly) decapitating his wife and listing her head for sale on eBay. But other than that, he’s a pretty chill guy, I guess. Psycho Mike doesn’t seem to mind the noise from my typewriter, so that’s what matters.

“What are you writing?” he asked me. Psycho Mike was bouncing a tennis ball on the wall.

“The Great American Novel.”

“Yeah, right. What’s it about? How to build a bomb?”

“No, it’s about a guy who royally fucked up, and now he’s paying the ultimate price for it.”

“So, it’s an autobiography…?”

“Something like that.”

Psycho Mike eyed the thick manuscript on my TV tray desk. “That isn’t your confession, is it? That’s a whole damn book you got there.”

“The police want a statement, do they? I’ll give them one hell of a statement.”

This got a laugh from Psycho Mike.

I continued clacking away at the typewriter.

These concrete walls have given me time to reflect on what I’ve done. None of this was supposed to happen. No one was supposed to die. Where did it all go wrong?

I had apprehensions about writing this. It’s hard to put yourself out there for the world, but writing has proven to be a therapeutic experience. Writing has provided me with the clarity to put everything into perspective.

I’ve procrastinated on telling this story for too long now. I’ve been avoiding the hollow feeling of finality that follows the completion of any writing project. It feels like you’re holding the manuscript in your hands — you’ve got it safe there, your precious baby isn’t going anywhere — until, suddenly, a gust of wind carries the pages away to the heavens.

My true purpose for writing is putting my shit into words, spilling my shit onto paper for everybody to read. That’s the purpose of good writing — putting our shit on exhibition, laid bare before the cruel world.

Desperate for peace of mind, I decided I must write to find the sweet catharsis I sought. Maybe it’s because deep down I want to keep an official record of my shocking exploits with Conrad. Maybe it’s because I have always aspired to be a writer. Or maybe it’s just my own way of coping.

I got a call from Leigh asking if she could visit me. I said it’s up to the warden, but I have no problem with it. She said she’ll try to come ASAP, but it’s difficult since she’s busy with job interviews. At the end of the call, she started crying and said she missed me. Before she hung up, she said, “When I say I miss you, I mean the old you. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Sometimes I miss Leigh too. Or maybe I just miss the idea of her. I’m not sure why I broke up with her. For whatever reason, I decided it was a good idea to blow up my whole life.

I reminisced on simpler times. I remember a time sophomore year when Leigh and I were in the dorms lying in my twin bed together after a night out just bullshitting about life, love, and the future. I held her in my arms and made the hollow promise to never let her go. I wish I’d kept that promise.

I was staring at the ceiling when a corrections officer unlocked my cell.

“Come on, let’s go. You got visitors.”

At the visitation center, Conrad’s parents — Joe and Meredith — were waiting for me on the other side of the glass partition.

Meredith wiped tears from her face and held a box of tissues. Joe sat with his arms crossed, glaring at me. They looked exhausted and aged.

I held up the receiver and waited for them to speak.

After an uncomfortable length of time, Meredith finally spoke.

“Why?” she asked, “Why did this happen to my boy?”

“I — I tried to — I don’t know.” I struggled to maintain eye contact. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry…”

Joe snatched the phone. “Sorry? You’re sorry?” He slammed his fist on the countertop.

I didn’t know what to say.

Then Joe lunged at the partition, banging his hands on the glass.

“You little shit! My son is dead because of you!”

Meredith pulled at his arm, screaming, “Stop it! Joe! No!”

A flock of correction officers swarmed the couple, escorting them out. It took four guards to restrain Joe. As they ushered him out, Joe turned around and said, “I hope you rot in hell, you son of a bitch!”

I recalled Conrad’s last words to me: “You’ve changed, bro.”

Maybe I have changed after all.

The impact of the deaths permeated throughout the campus.

On Sunday night, the university held a candlelight vigil on Campus Green. Droves of weeping students gathered to memorialize their fallen classmates. The President of the University was in attendance; she gave a moving (corny) speech about unity in this time of crisis.

I wanted to attend Conrad’s funeral, but I wasn’t welcome there. While the funeral was happening, I was alone in my cell saying a silent prayer for Conrad.

I wondered where Mr. Mittens was now.

The families of Bone-Saw, Tiny Terry, Butler, and Chompy filed wrongful death lawsuits, but they were dismissed by the judge for lack of merit. My lawyer told me they’re appealing, and I should prepare for the impending legal battle.

On the bright side, the district attorney determined no charges will be filed in connection with any of the deaths. I have Detective McCandles and his personal influence with the prosecutor to thank for that.

How miraculous is that? I should buy a lottery ticket.

I always knew I’d get off easy in the end. As I said, my parents are wealthy attorneys. Despite the scandal they faced, they supported me, and I’m eternally grateful for that. They hired the best legal defense team money could buy. It’s not fair, but that’s how the world works.

In exchange for my testimony relating to the campus-wide drug trade, the district attorney offered me a generous plea deal. I’ll plead guilty to two counts of misdemeanor criminal mischief and inducing panic. For this, I would receive full immunity from all other charges.

The only caveat is I’ll serve eighteen months in prison. But that’s probably fair, all things considered. I’m ready for it.

I’m just glad I wasn’t indicted for terrorism.

My testimony led to the arrests of the other players in the campus drug trade. I don’t feel good about ratting, but it’s the only way to save my ass.

Matt, the Adderall supplier, was arrested in his dorm room for possession of two hundred amphetamine pills and sentenced to two years in prison. Neil, the cocaine dealer, was arrested in the Yochum Parking Garage while re-upping his supply — his arraignment in court is scheduled for later this week, and he could be facing up to five years in prison. But Parker, the “Prince of Pills,” got the worst of it — he was arrested after selling diazepam, morphine, Quaaludes, and Desoxyn to an undercover cop and was sentenced to serve five to eight years in the roughest prison in the state. Parker isn’t faring well in prison — I heard he’s someone’s wife now.

Maybe the parole board will release me early for good behavior, but that’s unlikely considering the widespread public outrage over my lenient sentencing. Turns out, people weren’t too happy about that.

I missed final exams — good thing I never wasted time studying.

I don’t think they’re going to let me graduate anymore — things are looking rather bleak on that front.

At least I can finish my degree behind bars.

Maybe I can get a job teaching inmates to read.

I’ll have plenty of time to lift weights — I’ll be in the best shape of my life by the time I get out.

Plus, I’ve heard they have some crazy parties in prison. Maybe it won’t be that different from college after all…