The Dead Professor Clause

“My arm won’t reattach to my body, I’m afraid I’m going to have to mark you down for that.”

“But Professor, I did resurrect you.”

“And that’s all well and terrible, but I can’t use my dominant hand due to it lying on the ground.

“Could I stitch it back on?”

“Maybe in two semesters, this is barely satisfactory as it is. Be a dear and fetch the TA so I may enjoy my first and last few hours with my right hand intact.”

Professor Newman was in the graveyard, barely alive and slightly less surprised than last year’s finals. It was still a disheartening thing to have been brought back from the dead through shoddy scholarship. If that young man had spoken properly, George Newman would have a whole life in front of him. As it was, he could probably work in a round before death. All he could do is sit in his home and wait.

Professor Newman had had about enough of being an object lesson. Sure he was dead and sure he spoke of the merits of being brought back from the dead, but these kids were all utter crap at it. Not a one could roll an r, let alone fathom to speak the five unspeakable words. Not a single one of them had ever thought of using sound remixing software. If he ever got his hands on that Beatrice Lei, Professor of Philosophy, he’d bite her and eat her flesh.

As the freshman ran off, sure that he had no hope of becoming a sophomore, a woman walked back to the grave with a paper bag. This was Tiffany, a former student of philosophy and now an assistant in the field. He knew her and knew her well, in every beautiful inch and every scrumptious point of IQ. For three years, she had dug him up and resurrected him. Each time, she was more confident, more capable. In honesty, she was the best he ever had.

“Still looking for extra credit?”

“Please, it’s hard enough getting back into dry county on time.”

She plopped down next to his plot. The bag made a thud as it hit the ground.

“That’s not Pabst is it?”

“Like you could tell.”

He sighed slightly contemptuously.

“It’s Artouis.”

“Well French piss is better than goat jizz.”

“That’s the spirit chief.”

For a time they drank, Tiffany awkwardly passed beers down to his home.

“What’s it like being dead?”

That question. That god damned question she always asked.

“For Heaven’s sake girl,”

Tiffany’s back was to the plot and her braid was like a tail behind her. With just a little bit of maneuvering and a lucky jump he grabbed hold. She made her own thud as she hit the steel casket’s lid. Her neck snapped and she was bereft of life.

“get some initiative.”

He was quite happy with himself until he realized the beer was still up there.


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