He’s standing at the pisser and this is what he sees, scrawled on the subway tile in crude red letters:
so michel FoUCault is cRap??
He’s in the philosophy library john, on the third floor of Doolittle Hall, on the campus of a mid-sized Midwestern state university, in the middle of the afternoon. Spring semester is officially over, has been for two weeks.
The graffiti – no shocker, except that there’s not a soul around. He was in this exact same stall twenty minutes ago (he has an addiction to energy drinks and a bean-sized bladder) and he’d bet his right nut it wasn’t there then.
So who wrote it? And – Foucault? It’s weird. No way anyone round here has ever heard of Foucault. Shit, he only found about him last semester, and then he let that faggy French prof talk him into a whole fucking thesis.
Yeah, weird. It gives him the chills.
He shakes himself off in a hurry and yanks up his fly, and now he doesn’t feel so vulnerable. Who is this ignoramus anyway? Like they even know how to write like a grownup. The random capitals? What is this, ‘The Da Vinci Code’?
Back in the library, he tries to keep the words ‘visibly shaken’ out of his head but they keep popping back in. Ridiculous. But he still has the messed up idea that someone was watching him in the john… Like, big deal, he thinks, I’m used to it. I’m on the lacrosse team after all. Haha.
Scraping his chair back up to the reading desk – the place echoes like a museum – he notices a piece of paper tucked inside his pristine copy of ‘The History of Sexuality’ (Volume 1).
He throws a glance over his shoulder. Nobody. He unfolds the paper.
Pouting at him is a Playboy centerfold, and there’s a note in red ink splashed across her implausible tits.
You’re in way over your head, FUCkeR. Stick to Dan Brown.
Trifecta Challenge – 333 words – “Crude”