Stephanie Haring, a student in David Larson’s freshman English class, had begun a kind of Top Knot Revolution two weeks into the semester: after she started wearing a Knot, 75% of the other girls in class were sporting TKs within the week.

David was lecturing on persuasive writing. “According to Stephen Toulmin’s theory, every successful argument requires a claim, data to support the claim, and a warrant. The warrant provides the backing to ensure that your data does an adequate job of supporting your claim. . .”

            “Could you please give us an example, Mr. Larson?”

            “Sure, Stephanie. Suppose you intend to write a research essay on heroin abuse in America and how to alleviate it. Your claim is something like this: ‘To eliminate the heroin problem in the United States, we must eliminate the English teachers.’”

Laughter from the class.

“We’re going to have a hard time proving that most English teachers in America are cooking heroin,” David said. “Therefore, if we don’t have a convincing warrant to connect the data with the claim, we don’t have a logical argument.”

More smiles. The narcotics references always worked. He turned to erase the board.

“Mr. Larson?” Stephanie again.

“Ms. Haring?”

“Isn’t that what Mr. Black did? Cooked heroin?”

David paused. “No. Mr. Black cooked methamphetamine.”

Murmurs from the class. Everyone knew who Mr. Black was and what he did.

“Anyway, let’s get back to Toulmin…”

Later that day, David was sitting in his office, about to begin a nap, when his computer sprang to life.

            “David?” There was a voice emanating from the PC’s speakers. He tried to ignore it.

            “David!”  

            He opened his eyes. His monitor was on. Benjamin Black’s face filled the screen. Is this a fucking dream?

            “Don’t be so goddamn sure this is a dream, David.” It was Ben, but he was in his “Man in Black” getup: the black hat and dark glasses he wore to look like a drug dealer made him look more like a hip Amish gangster, but his mouth and the set of his jaw were serious.

            David blinked hard. “Ben? What are you doing in my monitor? Aren’t you dead?”

            “Yeah, I’m fucking dead,” Ben replied, “but I have a message for you: don’t do it. OUCH!  DAMN!”

            “What’s wrong, Ben?” David moved his chair closer to the screen.

            Ben was in pain. “She strapped my bare feet to a freaking giant heroin spoon. That’s what’s wrong!”

            “Wait a minute… a heroin spoon? But you didn’t cook heroin, Ben. You cooked meth–"

            “I know what I fucking cooked, David! That’s not the point. The point is that whenever some junkie dies from the meth I cooked, she turns the heat up on the spoon and my feet feel like they’re on fire!”

            “Ben, who’s ‘she?’”

            “Judy.”

            “Judy? Like Judy Garland?”

            “No. ’Joudy’ to the ancient Sumerians. Ba’al put her in charge of torturing damned souls. You’re the English teacher, David. Look it up!”

            “Okay, Ben. But how could you be damned? You cooked meth to give your family some money to live on after you were gone. That’s all I want: to take care of my wife and my baby.”

            “Two wrongs don’t make a right, David. Just because I cooked meth for the right reasons doesn’t make it right. I know what you’re thinking of doing, and I’m telling you as a friend: don’t do it, unless you want to end up like me.”

            “I’m going to have my feet strapped to a giant heroin spoon after I die?”

            Ben grinned. “Oh, no, no, no. Judy will find something special for you.”

David remembered Ben’s funeral like it was yesterday.

Brady Black (Ben’s widow) was there, of course, holding little Heidi in her arms. Tears streamed down her face and stained the hood of Heidi’s tiny, yellow poncho. Ben’s son Finn stood next to his mother, clinging tightly to his braces. He wasn’t crying: he was sucking it up and being brave for his mother and sister.

Father Fernando Perez anointed Ben’s casket with holy water from a hand-held sprinkler. Perez seemed like a nice enough guy, but David had given up on organized religion years ago. Why would God allow him to come down with a rare brain disorder when he was only five years away from retirement?

            David had no compunctions about how he would deal with his disorder, which was absurdly called “Bozeman’s Simplex.” He made his decision while Father Perez was talking. He would accept the deal offered by the Animal Liberation Army: all he had to do was write a killer manifesto (no pun intended), and the ALA would pay him enough cash to supply him with Haloperidol and keep him mentally sound until his pension kicked in. That would be enough to keep Cindy and the baby solvent until David was reduced to drooling idiocy.

David’s meeting with the ALA representative wasn’t what he expected. It took place in a Starbucks coffee shop. Who in their right mind would talk about writing a terrorist manifesto in Starbucks? But that was just it: David hadn’t been in his right mind since receiving the diagnosis from Dr. Grossman. Every time David heard or read about Bozeman’s Simplex, thoughts of simpleton, Forrest Gump-like clowns inexplicably filled his mind.

As he sat in Starbucks, waiting for his contact to arrive, David thought about the second line out of Dr. Grossman’s mouth, after the diagnosis: “Bozeman’s is uncurbable, but not untreatable. Haloperidol will work for you, David. It’s a miracle drug.”

David’s ALA contact was a tall, thin, pale woman named Florence. While she was ordering her coffee, David thought about Ben’s face showing up on his computer monitor. Was it a dream, or was Bozeman’s Simplex already starting to mess with my brain? Ben’s warning coursed through his mind: “don’t do it, unless you want to end up like me.”

            Florence returned with a tall green tea. “So, Mr. Larson: will you help us write our manifesto, for the agreed-upon fee?”

            David paused. “Tell me again what you want me to write.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Okay, listen: we want to make three main points. Number one, we are prepared to go to any lengths to protect the lives and dignity of animals. Number two, we are different than PETA and the Animal Liberation Front. They are cowards. We are ready to fight, kill, and die for our cause. Number three, --”

            David raised his hand. “I’m sorry. I need to interrupt you.”

            She crossed her arms. “Yes, Mr. Larson?”

            “I have an answer for you.” He closed his eyes and saw Ben as the Man in Black. The image made him smile. Two wrongs don’t make a right, David.

            “What is your answer, Mr. Larson?”

            David opened his eyes and leaned across the table. “My answer is screw you, lady.”   

Nearly everyone was present in David’s class: even the Jerk-Offs in the back row. Stephanie Haring was sitting in the front. She continued to win the Top-Knot Revolution. Even some of the guys were wearing Knots (or at least Man Buns).

Stephanie had visited David’s office that morning. She promised never to ask about Mr. Black again.

She kept her promise.