It took Dean Gregory Daniels five minutes to unlock and open the door to his office. Between the uncontrollable shaking in his hand as he tried to fit the key in the lock and the buckets of sweat pouring down from his brow and all over the arms of his overcoat, he cut a pathetic figure. Finally, he managed to enter the office and shut the door quickly behind him, locking it and leaning a chair up against the knob for added protection from possible intruders. Flipping on a small light atop a file cabinet, he sat behind his desk for an hour in the near-dark, plotting and cursing his stupidity.

The current status of his life? BULLSHIT. Hot college football star Ricky Reynolds was sitting unconscious in a ditch somewhere, drunk and bleeding in the passenger seat of his Jeep Cherokee. Some girl had been driving the car, and while it didn't look as though she was seriously injured, she certainly wasn't in top health at the moment. He had been in the passenger seat of the police car which engaged Reynolds' Cherokee in a high-speed chase from Reynolds' apartment at 999 Foster Street. He had left the scene immediately while police attended to the crash victims because he, the Dean of Discipline at a major and prestigious American university, had stolen a policeman's gun in order to fire shots at a speeding vehicle containing the very students he was hired to guide.

"But that's bullshit," thought the Dean. "They're the ones who are wrong here. I TRY to guide them, but they fail me at every turn. And that Reynolds kid...he's had this coming for a long time. A LONG time. It serves him right and he got just what he deserved. He thinks he rules the universe because he can catch a football and run. I showed him. Now, if only I could be sure that neither of the victims had seen me leaning out of the car and firing shots at the vehicle..."

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRING!

The ring of his telephone scared the living shit out of Dean Daniels. He mopped his damp brow with a handkerchief and picked up the reciever.

"Dean...looks like you scored big time," said a familiar voice on the line.

"Well, the tip certainly helped," replied the Dean to the mysterious voice who had tipped him off earlier that night on the big illegal party at 999 Foster Street. He didn't know who the hell this person was, but he had been feeding him useful information about the lives of top campus targets for the past few months.

"I know it helped. Now I'd like a little payback, big time."

The Dean greeted this statement with silence.

"I think I've earned a bit of payback for my contributions to the war effort," continued the mystery man.

"That depends on what it is you want." The Dean picked up a second phone and quickly dialed the campus police, his personal Gestapo in the fight against irresponsible, misbehaving college kids. Tapping a predetermined sequence of tones into the phone using his touch-tone keypad, he communicated the situation to the officer on the line: their "mystery voice" was on the line, and the call needed to be traced.

The Dean followed a simple philosophy of operations: the only thing more dangerous than a powerful enemy is a powerful ally. He had been glad to take the anonymous tips, but there would be no way he would become embroiled in a blackmail scheme with an unknown entity. He was the top man on the totem pole, and he aimed to stay there. Their business arrangement would have to be terminated, hopefully with the death of the mystery informant.

"I want some clout, some power of my own..."

"Well, from the way you've been talking to me over the past few months, you seem to have plenty of power already," replied the Dean, trying to keep his informant on the line long enough to complete the trace. "Why should I give you more?"

"Because I DESERVE it, fuckface," said the mystery man. "I'm sick of getting shit on. I only gave you this info because I want to see these privileged, snot-nosed assholes go DOWN. I want to see Ricky Reynolds suffer as much as I have suffered. I want them to be mocked and reviled, to have their books knocked out of their hands by jerkoff football players..."

"So you're a bit of a geek? Interesting," said the Dean.

"FUCK YOU! I'm a student, and a damn good one, and there's nothing..."

A beep from the other line indicated that the trace had gone through. Police would be racing to whatever pay phone this fool had been using and would eliminate the potential threat quickly and quietly. Behind the bakelite plastic of the phone's reciever, Dean Daniels' mouth slipped into an inappropriate grin. There were moments when he loved his job. The sound of sirens in the background assured him that the mystery informant would be taken care of sooner than later.

"Hear that, fool? That's the sound of your doom catching up with you," mumbled the Dean into the reciever. Shots rang out. Several screams. The crunch of bending metal. The Dean listened in glee. So what if he lost a few cops? It would be worth it to maintain control over his empire. You can't EVER make an omlette without breaking some eggs.

"Dean Dumbass? This is the guy. I'm still here...FUCK! I'm bleeding...I'm coming now for you! You ungrateful bastard! Watch your back! I'm not a geek..."

His face ashen, Dean Daniels slowly and quietly hung up the phone, and vomited in fear and anguish all over his desk. Monday morning was gonna be a bitch.

Haze. Darkness slowly fading into light. Eyelids slowly gliding open.

"Ms. DeVrie?" Veronica sat up slightly in the emergency room of County General, dazed and confused. "I'm Dr. Ross, your attending physician. You were involved in an auto accident."

"Yes, doctor," replied Veronica in a daze. "You're very cute for a doctor."

"Heh...you should see me in a cape," replied Dr. Ross. "There are some police here who want to speak with you, but I've told them to wait until you're a bit more aware of things..."

"Are they campus cops? If they're campus cops, get them out of here."

"They're local cops, but not from the campus. But more importantly, I wanted to give you word on your boyfriend."

"He's not..." Veronica stopped herself for a split-second. Why not fake it for a bit? What bad could come of it? "He's not badly hurt, is he?"

"Well, he's suffered a serious number of cuts and gashes to his face. We've got him all stitched up. And he banged his head in a dangerous way. But we have reason to believe that he's suffered amnesia. We've called his parents, and they're on their way. I wanted to keep you posted since it's obvious you care about him a lot."

"Oh yeah, a lot," replied Veronica. A plot hatched itself from a tiny mental egg within her devious mind. What was that movie, with Sandra Bullock...While You Were Sleeping? If it worked for her, then why not for Veronica DeVrie? If Ricky Reynolds wasn't going to remember anything from his former life, why couldn't she become his girlfriend?

"Can I see Ricky?" said Veronica to Dr. Ross. "I'd like to let him know how much I love him."