The wind howls outside the arts building, drowning out the sound of the approaching deans. We don’t know exactly where they are. The Porcupine and I stand guard by the west entrance. None of us uses our real names anymore.
We are forty strong, the last holdfast of humanity against the gathering administrative flood. Forty full-timers and adjuncts combined, music professors, theater professors, dance professors, game development, web development, graphic design, studio arts, interior architecture and design, and art history. What do we know about fighting deans? What are we going to do? Fend them off with all-combinatorial hexachords? Teach them about Etruscan ceremonial urns? What did the Etruscans know about deans?


