Call me Ishmael. Some semester ago — ne’er mind how long precisely — I thought I would sail about a little ’n see the watery part o’ the world. Aft a few months at sea, I returned t’ land in search o’ me next adventure. But the sea continued t’ wave at me, beckonin’ me t’ its shore. I longed fer the days back on the water wit’ the salty air, crusty clothes covered in seagull poop, ’n scurvy. But lo, when I heard SFU was buildin’ a sub (’n nah jus’ any ol’ sub but the SUB), I climbed her heights on a quest fer undersea glory.
“Those sons o’ a beach,” I muttered under me breath lookin’ up at the massive disappointment in front o’ me owns eyes. T’was a big hunk o’ glass ’n concrete, nah the epic submersible vehicle I expected her t’ be. She was not seaworthy in the slightest — worst o’ all she be the furthest away from the sea she could possibly get. But a scallywag ain’t made fer defeat. A scallywag can be destroyed but nah defeated.
Me dreams o’ takin’ ARR 102: Deep Sea Pirates be absolutely crushed, like the mighty kraken that swallowed me pa’s ship so many years ago. So I did wha’ any sensible seaman would do ’n made me plan t’ get this mighty behemoth o’ a sub to the oceans below. ’Twas simple: I would blow up the base o’ the buildin’ ’n ride her down the mountain into the blue depths. I would stand on her helm ’n greet me watery home wit’ open arms ’n shoutin’ me pirates cry, “FUCK OFF YE LANDLUBBERS!” Thar I would live content fer the rest o’ me days. Aft all, the earth does nah wants new SUB buildings, but new submarines!
Wha’ I didn’ expect was how capable the SFU security crew were at thwartin’ me efforts. Guess nowadays no scallywag can carry a couple sticks of dynamite without bein’ stopped, no can ye? I pay me tuition, sir! If the misery of the poor be caused nah by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great be our sin. Neigh, SFU’s power be too great. So t’ the sea I shall return. But head my warnin’ . . . that sub will be mine. No booty be too great fer the likes of me.
