Yale University

16 Nov 2009. In my road atlas, Montana, our fourth largest state, takes up two pages. But so does Connecticut, our third smallest. So while the page of Bozeman to the border may take most of a day, blazing through the Connecticut centerfold barely takes two hours. Two hours, ideally. If only the state weren't chock full of universities, including the alma mater of George Bush I, Jodie Foster, George Bush II, and Joe College.


"What do you think it was like to lick a dinosaur?"
Otter again resists turning his head. "...What?"
"I think it would be like licking a damp radial tire."
"Let's get back on track here, please."
"It is not so off track if you think about it. Examining our handsome bulldog's throat, mouth, and tongue, I can't even begin to imagine the people and things he has licked through his years. And they are all gone! He may have even licked the dodo! So that got me thinking about other extinct animals."
"If we succeed here, he will be able to lick all the dodos he wants."
"That is if somebody, somewhere, has a dodo reasonably intact."
"Of course."

A steady rain fell outside, though Otter and Dr. Li wouldn't know. They were holed up in the sanitized fluorescent basement of West Campus Hall, wiring up a recently-thawed bulldog. Yale's Life Science department had this particular animal on indefinite loan from the Smithsonian Institution. It was rumored to be the 'Vocal Specimen' that dusty old fables had described as capable of primitive speech. The Smithsonian had no more room for a dead dog when Jerry Seinfeld donated various artifacts from his '90s sitcom. It proved to be a coup for the foot-traffic-starved tourist attraction.
Otter had choked, "They can't decide whether to be Ripley's or Access Hollywood. Idiotic museum is no longer an oxymoron; it's the sad reality."

Back in New Haven, Dr. Li studied an MRI scan of the canine's skull.
"It really does have a highly-developed Broca, responsible for..." Li trailed off. His gut suddenly tightened. He felt nauseous. A sudden emotional urge flew up from his stomach, up his torso, and out his mouth. He had to introduce the gorilla in the room.
"Otter, this is playing God. I cannot attempt this. I am sorry."
Otter put down the mini-electrodes and stood straight. "You say that like it is completely horrible. Your friend Professor Lee - the other Professor Lee - didn't have a problem with it. We're just playing God. We're not actually being God. I agree no human could handle that. If there is a God, he gave us these gifts, this opportunity, this mummified bulldog. We are this close! It might not even work."
"But if it does work..."
"If it does work? Longevity treatments, medical breakthroughs, threatened species no longer threatened, not to mention massive academic endowments and the most luxurious tenure ever. Let's make this specimen vocal again."
"But - "
Otter dropped the lighthearted tone. "No more buts."
He made a quick injection into the dog's sternum, re-aligned the electrodes on its chest, and tapped out a few commands on the nearby workstation's inlaid keyboard. The generator beneath the stainless steel dissection table hummed to life. Four small lights on the generator lit up in succession.
Red. Red. Red. Green.
The hum crescendoed into a harsh buzz. The generator emitted a frightening pop. Otter and Li jumped back. The dog had been shocked onto its side. Its cute squat legs dangled over the edge. They began to twitch.
Li whispered, "The specimen is moving!"
Otter whispered back, "I see. Watch."
Li and Otter were facing the dog's golden hindquarters. They could not witness the blinking eyelids or the emerging tongue.
But they heard the cough.
The revived dog coughed weakly at first, then with more vigor. The last cough definitely had an unsettling human quality to it. Otter and Li exchanged looks, each with the same question on their faces. They clearly had spent too much time discussing the urban legends of the Vocal Specimen. The stories had finally got to them.
Dogs cannot speak.
Dogs cannot speak English.
And most certainly, dogs cannot speak English with a New Jersey accent.
Yet here was Jethro.

"PLAAAAGKH! I'm gettin' reeeal sick of the taste of formaldehyde."

Princeton University

13 Nov 2009. You know how every campus has that one 'centerpiece' building? The building designed by a famous architect, or resembles a Gothic cathedral, or is cut from expensive rock? The picture postcard, bulk mail brochure, website banner building?
Every building on Princeton's campus is like that.

Technically, Rider was added to the collection an hour or so before Princeton, but it fits the story to have Princeton go first. Sorry, Rider. You're second banana here too.


Theodore Roosevelt's face reddened. His voice boomed throughout his Long Island estate, Sagamore Hill.
"That bird-beaked, four-eyed bookworm!"
He slammed a fist down on his fully stocked bookcase. The force shook the pince-nez from his nose.
"We are in a crisis! And in a crisis, the worst thing to do is nothing!"
A small, alert man sat in the corner, scribbling furiously. The man was Jacob Riis, Roosevelt's longtime mouthpiece to the press. The two had met while Roosevelt was Police Commissioner of New York City. Riis' crusade for justice through writing and photography instantly caught Roosevelt's attention. Now, after years of political climbing, ex-President Roosevelt trusted Riis to instinctively know what tirades were for his ears only.

This was not one of those tirades.

The war in Europe was escalating. It was the top issue in the presidential campaign of 1916. The incumbent, Woodrow "He Kept Us Out Of War" Wilson, was leaning on his isolationist platform. The poll numbers showed this to be a wise strategy. But the constant public attacks by Roosevelt, always popular with the American people, were threatening Wilson's reelection bid.

In the White House, Wilson looked out over the south lawn. With hands clasped behind his back, he watched horse-drawn carriages and state-of-the-art Pierce-Arrows jockey for the road. Wilson finally turned to his wife, Edith, and posed a rhetorical question: "What to do about Roosevelt?"
Edith, never one to leave any question unanswered, replied, "Idle hands are the devil's playthings, Woody. Give him something else to do. What, to Roosevelt, would take priority over his vicious ramblings?"
"He craves action. But he is advancing in age. Though it would appeal to his ego, I cannot allow him to take to the battlefields in Europe."
"Well then, maybe not physical action, but..."
Edith didn't have to finish. She adjusted the velvet drape ties while Wilson's brain silently worked its magic.

******

"Egad! Wilson! The Almighty save us from your lily-livered policies! 'He Kept Us Out Of War'? Codswallop! Codswallop I say! You led an entire University at Princeton, so you know our citizenry is capable of rational thought. Yet you assume them to be invalid flea-bitten mules with such an ignorant statement. The writing is on the wall, Mr. President. We cannot allow Germany to advance unabated. Allow me to lead a regiment if you are ill-inclined to do so. The time to act is now. ...Are you getting all of this, Mr. Riis?"
"Yes, Colonel. Though what is the spelling of 'codswallop'?"
"Hmm. Let's simplify it to k-o-d-s-w-o-l-o-p, shall we?"
"'Kodswolop'?? Is that right? Maybe I should double check..." Riis pulled from his pocket a copy of the Princeton Collegiate Dictionary. He had barely flipped to the C's when Roosevelt grabbed the book and hurled it across the room.
"Nothing from Princeton will be allotted any repute here, Mr. Riis. Least of all Wilson himself. Is that understood?"
"Why don't I just replace codswallop with poppycock then."
"Take care with the blue language, Mr. Riis. Now consider this a gift from me to you."
Roosevelt hefted a volume from the bookcase underneath and dropped it onto his desk, scattering the dust from the pages of the New Harvard English Dictionary.
"This is a wonderful resource. Unfortunately the editor did not take to my suggestion to affix Wilson's photograph beside the entry for 'spineless'."

******

Meanwhile, Wilson was busy pulling strings that only an ex-Governor of New Jersey could.

Behind these aged, storied doors lie the traditional Ivy League institutions of Quiznos and Pizza Hut.

University of Pennsylvania

13 Nov 2009. The first Ivy League entrant. Looking to go classy, I was aiming for a cocktail/martini glass, intending to save the wine goblets for the Napa schools, such as UC Davis and...hmm...just UC Davis then. Penn had a nice bookstore stocked with beanbag Quaker men but no martini glassware. The university seal is etched on the glass I'm telling you. Why won't you believe me??
Next door at Cosi bakery, a nervous manager was being meticulously evaluated by a humorless district supervisor. Was it the wrong time to squeal in horror about a fruit fly in my orange-pom juice?


"There's some hot Livin' On A Prayer action. Thank you, Percy-fone."
"It's Per-SEFFA-nee!" calls out the curly haired blonde making her way back to her plastic chair.
The MC moves on. "Next we have Mario. Mario, you're up for rooftop karaoke tonight. Step on up to the stage mic and - where's my stage mic?"
"I have it." answers a deep mellifluous voice. "Ms. Persephone stole my Bon Jovi thunder. But I made an alternate selection. I'm ready to go, if you could switch to song 5428, please."
The MC's eyes dart from seat to seat. Who was messing with him?
"Come on up to the stage, Mario, and I'd be happy to."
"I said I was ready to go."
"...You got it." The MC taps out a couple keystrokes and leaps offstage.
Mario, nowhere in sight, gets off to a rocky start. He rushes the first words of his selection to catch up.
"AndnowtheendisnearandsoIfacethefinalcurtain, my friend, I'll state it clear..."
The MC motions to the bartenders to round up security.
Mario continues, hesitant to flex his pipes. The uneasiness clearly comes through in his voice.
"...Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention..."
The two bartenders return with a tight shirted bouncer brandishing a few hefty maglites. The four of them split up, searching the roof. They scan the neighboring buildings' windows and fire escapes.
Mario's disembodied voice, strong but subdued, still does not exhibit the confidence laid out in the lyrics.
"...When there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out..."
The customers look around in confusion. No one seems to be paying attention to the song.
Except for Persephone.
The search party elbows her aside.
How obnoxious. Just let the guy sing.
The final verse approaches. She cups her hands over her mouth for amplification, never necessary for ol' Limber Lungs Persephone.
"Belt it out, Mario!"
Mario's voice suddenly loosens. The words are relaxed and powerful. Vibrating baritone bravado transfixes everyone within earshot, even the employees on the hunt.
"For what is a man
what has he got
if not himself
then he has naught
to say the things
he truly feels
and not the words
of one who kneels?
The record shows
I took the blows
and did it m- "

BSHHMMMMMMM

The last two words of Sinatra's classic are drowned out by an explosion. A hole is blown open in the old brick building next door. Smoke pours out. Masonry and glass shoots onto the rooftop club. The customers, caught frozen, are pelted with stone debris. Fallen light posts, scattered chairs, and broken wine glasses and beer bottles complicate any attempt at a quick exit. Students in the crowd cry out.
"Help me! I go to Penn!"
The employees and some of the customers tend to the injured.
Persephone emerges from underneath a patio umbrella. She peers into the smoky crater. As her view clears up, she locks on a pair of large golden eyes. They are the size of regulation baseballs, ten feet off the ground. The pupils thin when Persephone catches sight of them. Before she could blink to get a better view, they disappear.
The stage mic, melted mouthpiece and all, flies through the air and lands at her feet. She picks it up but quickly drops it. Still hot.
Mario.
It was at this moment, surrounded by brickwork and liquor, that Persephone first experiences - and understands - her parents' seemingly contradictory blend of concern and anger. She does not have time to contemplate this unsettling new emotion. It makes her move. She runs over to the edge of the four story nightclub. The fire exit is rusty. She carefully shuffles over the brick wall onto the platform. She looks down.
A puff of smoke shoots through the second story window of the next building.
Persephone jumps back onto the roof and finds a rain gutter. She launches over the wall and grasps the pipe between her hands and knees.
Just like a playground pole.
She shimmies down, and, within seconds, she is down on the ground near the service exit. The double doors fly open in front of her.
If she has no plan for stopping anyone, which she doesn't, she definitely has no plan for stopping a dragon.
He - Persephone instantly knows this is Mario - has deep blue scales, golden claws, teeth, wings, and spines to match his eyes. He is showing signs of high adrenaline aggression: wide eyes, flared nostrils, arched back. She feels stupidly defenseless; any one of those teeth could slice her to lunchmeat.
If he's going to gut me, nothing I can do now.
"Mario, you hurt a lot of people up there."
Mario averts his gaze. He says nothing for an eternal beat.
"You urged me on." Miniature flames spurt from his throat as he speaks.
"To sing louder? Like I knew you were a fire breathing dragon!"
Mario pauses to economize his words.
"Those last two notes. I should have known."
"Why were you hiding?"
Mario doesn't have to ponder this one. "Why do you think?"
Now it was Persephone's time to consider a response.
"You have a world class voice. You shouldn't have to hide it."
Mario just glares at her. She winces at her comment.
"Oh. You already...know that."
"Indoor karaoke, a disaster. Outdoor, the same. Singing to my mate in our grotto, unfulfilling."
"There's the problem! You can do so much better than karaoke."
"Suggestions?"
"I don't know. I'm sure we can think of something to keep it safe for others. Fireproof mics?"
"Very low fidelity."
"I'm just brainstorming. And you can speak in full sentences, Mario. I'll just stand to your side away from the sparks. I'm not afraid." Persephone moves to Mario's right side. He leans left.
"I am."
She puts her hand on his back knee. The scales are like cold, hard, tea saucers.
Persephone's face goes vertical. She smacks her head and points to Mario.
"I know who can help."