Marauding Maintenance

In the velvet darkness of the blackest night, a single light shines from the Facilities Operations & Management shed. As the campus lies silent, the soft purr of the engine on a miniature vehicle reverberates off brick walls. Creeping along the sidewalks between buildings, this shadowy shape disturbs the puddles of melted slush with subtle ripples that will freeze solid by morning. But lo, what could this apparition be? Surely not the product of a late night partying and stumbling home in the wee hours? What lore speaks of its actions? For, in the snatches of starlight and LED security alarms, metal joints glimmer and an ad for Boloco is revealed. A set of sinister, sneering, glowing eyes hover at a medium height above the ground, full of the rejection proximity to the accepted has pickled to hate and sadistic malice. For this is no ordinary Dartmouth employee!

A streetlight illuminates the twisted features of Randolph T. Smyth, denied admission to this fine institution, whose sanity fell along with his ruptured dreams. For years he has worked his way into the establishment, to a position in which he may wring his revenge upon those oblivious preps and future leaders whose very existence torments his every day. For the blocky vehicle Smyth drives is nothing other than a modified Zamboni, spreading repetitive thin layers of water over the cobbled stones of walkways  every freezing night, and cackling in glee every morning at the sprawling figures undone in their commutes by the slippery sheets of ice, ignorant of the lack of responsibility Mother Nature had in their misfortune. If you know the right location, this next moonless and freezing winter night stand on the corner and listen for the faint cries of triumph echoing over the wind, strive to catch a glimpse of a black shape stirring in the lonely alleys, its scarlet taillights illuminating the night and the puddles behind it.