Under cover of darkness, on the bottom floor of a dank and poorly lit parking structure, I met a man who referred to himself only as “Cleveland Steamer.” He was an old friend and occasional informant who worked for the federal government and did not like to be called at his office. What he revealed to me blew me away.

“[Whitman College President Jorge] Ponts is going to make a move,” Steamer revealed. “The trustees are sick of all the protests. Oh, and Maclachlan’s family is dropping the murder charges.”

I was aghast. “How is that possible? There were multiple witnesses! I was one of them. And what type of move? I smell something fishy.”

“That’s because I work as a fishmonger for my second job. But that’s beside the point. You need to be prepared to write on this. All the protests on campus have the trustees grumbling. This doesn’t look good for Whitman. Plus the newspaper you work for just compared Whitman to Grinnell. Bad move.”

I grimaced. “This is worse then when Whitman elected to remove “The Odyssey”from Encounters.”

Steamer just looked the other way, and admitted, “It is.” He then handed me a folder full of receipts and papers.

Back at my office, I went through the file. They were all from the federal government. Various military contracts, but most of the documents were censored, except for one order: something called a M1 Abrams. I had no idea what that was and I was too lazy to Google it. Another paper was a letter from the Committee to Re-Elect Ponts, addressed to something called the 1033 program, where they demanded various surplus military gear to fight “hippy-communist anti-gluten activities on campus.” The committee even claimed they had uncovered a plot to blow up the Walla Walla bread company –– which I half believed. Because the students’ parents were paying an absurd amount of money for tuition, Ponts could only give them a slap on the wrist, but the committee wanted to take more preventative measures.

The next day, there was another protest in front of Memorial Hall. As usual, I deemed it “politically correct posturing by people without real politics.” This time, the ceremony was a “Dairy Divestment Deluge.” I looked around to make a boob joke but then thought better of it. The Triple-D combined various tactics from previous protests. The ceremony started with two students, both male,  who were married and completely covered in goat cheese, representing Whitman’s refusal to divest from farms that PETA has deemed “somewhere Paris Hilton would not hang out.”

The newlyweds then rolled around in a giant bed of kale and created a salad for the hungry protesters, which was delicious. Then, sorority freshman were forced to drink a gallon of milk in under an hour, and vomited on the steps. This represented Whitman’s gluttonous attitude toward financial aid. Finally, just as the protesters were about to sacrifice a cow, “Apocalypse Now” style, which represented Whitman’s lack of Hindu culture on campus, I heard a giant blast in the distance. Ponts had made his move.

It was the Board of Trustees, equipped via the federal government with surplus military gear through the 1033 program. It possessed a tank, M-16s, and multiple “Fisher-Price Power-Wheels.” The tank read “M1-Abrams” on the front.

I slapped my head into my hands  and thought, “That was obvious. I should have at least Googled it.”

Ponts, popping out of the tank’s hatch, held up a megaphone: “Tanks for vomiting on my favorite building.”

The leaders of the protest cowered in fear. He not only possessed military equipment, but also terrible jokes.

“Disperse!” Ponts demanded.

The protesters held their ground, except for a few who claimed they were “really busy” and had to get to the library to “check their Facebook.”

Ponts fired a warning shot over the protesters’ heads, which struck the clock tower and caused cement blocks to rain down on the protestors. Three were killed instantly and 14 were injured.

“That was your warning,” uttered Ponts. The protesters scattered, if they could even  move. As way of apology, Ponts had gluten-free vegan cookies sent to the library.

As I munched on a chocolate chip one, I figured, “All’s well that ends well.”