Dr. Zanzibar's Emergenze

Quietly he wickedly awaited, cruel in his intensely intricate intentions upon which he most certainly and without one slim salamander of a doubt would act upon. Given the correct circumstances, that was.

As (Head)master of his Domain, he was more a commander of the cowering souls rather an administrator of the highest realms of knowledge. A distinguished professor in his own right, as opposed to his left, the good Doctor of Phallusophy did nigh but to provoke his class full of pandering, pretentious, pinheaded, phlegm-inducing, pilfering, pillaged, putrid… students… and their wrath he quickly earn’t. Pure evil through and through, even through well down to the edges of the big and small toes which accumulate strange marks from God knows What… this much contained enough animosity and Eevuhl to crush all that is civilized claptrap.

Zanzibar was not a tall man, but he held a lumberjack’s presence – mostly due to his spectacular odor glands, which he prided himself on. His lumpy gait, slowly smearing the grime across the less-than-sterile linoleum flooring,  made his worn lab rubbers squawk like rodents being forced down the in-sink-erator. Relatedly, the sound was due to the audio chip he had installed in the faded black shoes, which replayed that very scenario – grinding bones, torn fur and skin, an evil cackle, and Fox News’ War on Terror coverage faintly in the background.

Dr. Zanzibar taught phallusophy at the university level, but college studentz were unpalatable to th1s man. His pupilz were of the more radikal type, but they were intelligent nonetheless, despite their fanciful intricaciez. You see, they were writerz of the highest order – creative sons-of-bitchez, cutting and harpooning the tapestry of literature past with their scalpel of new-age linguistikz and tonguez of beyond. These budding authorz insisted on using their own language to express their thoughtz, and it simply drove Zanzibar mad, mad beyond all comprehension or reason. So mad, in fact, that he had threatened to fail all of the students – but what would that do, anyhow? They held the upper hand, so to sp3ak. They had control of the collective opinion, which is supposed to count for something, but perhaps there are those who are out there to alter the power dynamic such that language is no longer an anodyne for those needing outlet or a place to place their past present and future polemikz. You see what I’m saying?

Dr. Z was a crook. A rotten thief because he intended to strip his studentz of the salaciousness of their sacred sputterancez. They grouped together to reZist the onslaught of Zanzibar’s oppressive lightsaber pen of death. They would make a stand for the l33tz.