Dr. Marsh had an injection of what can only be described as a reason to live. In his morning class, he deviated from the curriculum.
“What do you do to stay alive? Write a 5-paragraph essay and have it completed first thing tomorrow morning.”
“What do you mean by that?” A student asked.
“Figure it out; use your minds.”
Dr. Marsh left class and traded in his Volvo for a Harley Davidson. He installed a leather shotgun holster and bought a cowboy hat.
Marsh cruised down to the beach to check out the babes when he noticed a black car following him. He had to lose them, so he rocketed his bike onto the beach like Evel Knievel. He pulled up to his house to park it when a fire inside blew all the insulation and drywall into the driveway.
“I’m a marked man!” Dr. Marsh cried.
“No, we’ve just faked your own death!”
Dr. Marsh turned, noticing Dr. Johnson holding a detonator.
“But I thought we weren’t going to do that plan. I was going to fight the mafia!”
“Are you crazy! You wouldn’t last a day. I just needed to get you in the right psychological frame of mind. Now, here is the location to the safehouse. Your wife was committed earlier. Don’t ask how I pulled it off. The road is yours. Race to freedom.”
Marsh saluted Johnson and burned rubber.
The sun set as Johnson slowly rode his bicycle back to his apartment. His legs were sore, so he rested them on his hassock. And he read and reread the murder essay he graded the night before.
“A+,” he said.