My Students Hired A Hitman

Dear Diary, 

You may recall I teach design at a private college to affluent kids who pay big money to attend our esteemed institution, many of whom failed to get the marks required for local universities. Never wanting to fail any students, especially if I need to teach them again, two students that we’ll call Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche were exceptions because they were so obnoxious that they literally ruined the learning experience for my beloved students. The class was screenplay writing and storyboarding; the task was to design a character complete with a written profile and clay model. The school loves this project because the students produce heaps of these characters, which the marketing department showcases around the school to seal the deal with prospective students. It’s an easy project, but Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche did a horrible job so I gave them the grading template to complete all by themselves. They got to fill in their very own makers, comparing their work to the most exemplary classwork that received the highest grade – 100%. Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche did a horrible job at this too because they gave themselves 50% in the grading template even though they knew a passing grade was 60% – they failed themselves dumb-dumbs. Once they pieced this together they grew extremely agitated. Turd Sandwich was especially mad, probably frustrated with having to explain that he failed his parents, who would need to pay again to retake the class.

Two weeks after Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche failed themselves I received an ominous warning from a student we will rightfully call The Prince, who overheard a conversation between Turd Sandwich, The Giant Douche and The Disgruntled Computer Technician who apparently doesn’t like me, your humble narrator. They were sucking back smokes when Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche were complaining about their failures, the conversation turned nefarious and The Disgruntled Computer Technician offered to hire a hitman to break my legs. Their diabolical plot was to lure me out one night with a pretty face and then BANG!, their man would strike, breaking my little legs. Luckily, The Prince overheard everything and I was in the know.

I was not concerned at first. Yes, they were disgruntled but they’d get over it and wasn’t hiring a hitman a prosecutable crime? Weeks went by, nothing out of the ordinary transpired until their plan sprang into action and a pretty face popped into view. It started with phone messages, a girl claiming we’d met at school; over the course of a week she developed a rapport and then requested a rendezvous at the exact location where the diabolical plot was to unfold. I played along, “a night on the town sounds delightful – let’s do it.” 

When the night of our planned meeting arrived and she messaged to confirm our appointment, I replied “I’m on my way.” 

Forty-five minutes later she messaged again: ‘I’m here, wearing red. Where are you?’

“I’m on my way.” 

Ten minutes later she messaged again ‘where are you?’ “I’m on my way.” 

Fifteen minutes later, the suspense building, she rang my mobile. ‘Where are you?’ “I’m right here, can’t you see me?” 

‘What are you wearing?’ “A hot pink jumper.” ‘Where are you?’ She demanded. 

“I’m right here, can’t you see me?…” 

Her fervor climaxed and she began ringing non-stop. That was crazy, my students hired a hitman to break my legs…

Panic set in and I wondered, what if I disappear? I decided to inform my manager at the design institute in case I did go missing, so they would know who done it. My manager was initially receptive and shocked to hear of my report. He was ready to respond by ‘calling the police’ and ‘arranging to have Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche disciplined by the dean.’ The following day he called and said ‘it’s all been taken care of, don’t worry.’ When I asked what had become of Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche, he responded with a mouthful of roundabout-speak that didn’t amount to anything. I pressed him “what exact steps are being executed?” Finally, he sighed and admitted nothing was being done, the dean couldn’t risk losing their tuition cash. My manager then informed me that the school thought it best if I ‘just stay inside and don’t go out – you’ll be okay.’

Feeling alone and hopeless I didn’t know where to turn but The Prince who had overheard the plot and first sounded the alarm. This was very wise on my part because The Prince was wildly-well connected. I told The Prince that the school wasn’t going to do anything, explaining that “they were more concerned about lost revenue than my broken legs.” The Prince asked ‘would you like me to ask my uncle for help? He works for The 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 Police?’ “Yes please, call your Uncle Policeman.” And so he did.

The following Monday I arrived at school and was first face-to-face with Turd Sandwich and The Giant Douche. To my delight both were visibly furious but restrained. Unwilling to make eye contact I wondered what had transpired with the police. Later I met The Prince and asked him what happened? ‘My uncle sent some detectives to their houses and talked to their parents, telling them that if anything happens to you they are going to jail.’ Oh sweet justice, I thought and gave The Prince a high-five.