Corrected for grammatical usage, that sentence now applies to the mentality of all neo-con rethuglicans.

Think about it. Harley Man (corrupter of youth by drugs) stands in for Faculty Head (corrupter of youth by mandating modernism and excluding Milton). Policewoman represents legitimately outraged authority (aka decent classicists). The innocent victim/bystander/teacher – our Ms. Graber. The bullet that kills the virginal heroine – her Annual Review, no doubt faked by the Faculty Head in an effort to distract everyone from his evil ways.

I mean, otherwise, this whole piece has no meaning at all.

“Is there anything more beautiful than a beautiful, beautiful flamingo, flying across in front of a beautiful sunset? And he’s carrying a beautiful rose in his beak, and also he’s carrying a very beautiful painting with his feet. And also, you’re drunk.” — Jack Handey

Someone please give her tenure so she never feels like she has to earn a living through her writing, okay?

Wow. Just, Wow.

“I stared up and saw the ceiling fan make a slow circle-like motion over my supine body.” ‘Circle-like’. *Not* a circle, but *like* a circle. Physicists, mathematicians and fan-owners, you’ve been warned.

“… the sound of many running footsteps …” Feet, footsteps, whatever. Missed it by *that* much.

“We’ve already got teams searching your meth labs, and they tell me there’s plenty of evidence.” It’s not a crime to have a meth lab unless there’s lots of evidence too.

“There’s not a judge in the county that will convict me on a cockfighting charge.” MarkD at 27, your prayers have been answered.

What with capacious purses, shiny guns and mirrored sunglasses, it appears Ms. Grabar was going to come up short of the required word count for this essay until she remembered Adjectives, the Writer’s Friends.

Honestly, any 45 consecutive words in this minimum opus would be good enough to win the Bulwer-Lytton prize. Let’s do her a favor and submit multiple entries.

Harley man came walking toward my direction again. He walked like he had just gotten off a motorcycle. He was wearing boots. He was lighting a cigarette with a turquoise Bic lighter, and then I saw that he was wearing a wedding band.

His wedding band chinked on the aluminum handle of the café door as he pushed it open. The boy behind the counter looked up, his mouth gaping a little in surprise. “Sir, you can’t smoke in here,” he said, as though he were addressing his father.

–That’s OK, boy. I’m not planning to stay. Just tell your manager to call Murphy this evening.

–Sure, I’ll tell her.

I could see the boy relax it when Harley man started to turn on his boot heel. At the same moment Ms. Highlights pulled a gun out of her capacious purse. When I looked at her friend, the red-eyed woman was holding up a set of handcuffs and a badge. Ms. Highlights spoke.

–Put your hands up over your head, Michael Murphy. You and your lackeys are under arrest.

I heard shouts and the sound of many running footsteps outside, but couldn’t take my eyes off the shiny gun, where my reflection was stretched around the barrel like a funhouse.

Harley man raised his arms slowly and drawled an unworried answer.

–There’s not a judge in the county that will convict me on a cockfighting charge.

–Maybe not. But we’re federal agents, and we’re arresting you on drug charges. We’ve already got teams searching your meth labs, and they tell me there’s plenty of evidence. Ms. Jackson is in custody and has admitted to distributing drugs from this café.

The boy behind the counter leaned forward, turned undescribably pale and murmured—Shawneena! He kept leaning until his head hit the counter, bounced off and his whole body slid out of sight.

The interruption distracted Highlights and Red-eyes long enough. Harley man pulled a gun from his pocket and there were three deafening crashes.

I felt as though some linebacker had run into me with his shoulder. I stared up and saw the ceiling fan make a slow circle-like motion over my supine body. Then Harley man’s head came between me and the fan. I saw the blood pulsing out of my chest reflected in his mirrored sunglasses. He spoke.

–Teach you to stare at me, bitch. Do I look like a TV?

Ironically, his mirrored sunglasses did look like two little TVs, but I could only gurgle in reply. His head disappeared from sight. There were more shouts and crashes and sounds of breaking glass. I heard an anguished wail.

–My bills. They’ve got blood all over them.

At least I wouldn’t have to grade any more badly written papers that weren’t even paper clipped. The fan beat slowly at the end of a gradually shrinking tunnel of light through gathering darkness.

In her sort-of defense, English is definitely her second language; she’s Slovenian-born. Of course, she’s been living here since 1959, so you’d think she’d have learned a little bit of the lingo. Also, that doesn’t explain the crazy.

She’s also batshit insane, and a teacher. It’s enough to make you believe in demons.