by Chai Karve
USC — C.L. Max Nikias burst into the wood-paneled room where USC’s governing body, the Board of Trustees, was holding its monthly meeting. He had a hunch. There was a rat in that very room.
“I’ve gotten far trusting my instincts,” explained Nikias. “And let me tell you, I feel a tingle in my jingle. I know one of youse wealthy bastards is backstabbing me and the Family.”
The board members shared glances, well aware that the C.L. in Nikias’ name stood for “Certifiably Loco”, among other things. Nikias was one bad motherfucker. One you did not cross.
“Fess up now!” thundered Nikias as he pounded the long oak table made from an endangered tree. “If you fess up now and admit to working with those sons of bitches across town or those Irish micks in Indiana, you’ll only lose of your fingers!”
The powerful, wealthy members of the board trembled in their seats. Steven Spielberg turned to Ronald Tutor and Wallis Annenberg to make a joke and diffuse the tension until Nikias locked his laser-like gaze on him.
“Got something you wanna share with the class wiseguy?” inquired Nikias.
The billionaire slinked further into his opulent chair and promptly “shat the fuck up”. Then, Nikias snapped his fingers without looking in the direction of his boy Tony “Muscle Milk” Lazzoni. Lazzoni pulled out a large, long plank of wood, walked out of the room, and could be heard jamming the plank into the door handles.
“Nobody leaves. We do this now. We do it right,” muttered Nikias.