By Silence Doless

Warning: what you are about to read in this column is absolutely true. It is real, and it happened. I know I make up a lot of crap in this column, but the following account adheres strictly to fact. If you don’t believe me, just ask President Rabinowitz. But before the facts, here’s some made up stuff about pirates.

I train my pistol on the bow of the golden yacht. The ship is abandoned and I tell the Captain so.

“I can bloody well see that!” he bellows, “The varmint’s probably hiding below deck. There’s only one thing to do, Doless.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Fire the cannon!”

I scramble across the stern to the only cannon on the ship, light the fuse and cover my ears. There is a sound of thunder. A dinosaur pops out of the cannon and plummets into the ocean with an enormous splash. The wave rocks the ship tremendously, dumping gallons of water on the Captain and me.

“Not this confounded absurdism again!” cries the Captain, “Rabinowitz’s power must be strong” (see the April 3rd issue of The Chronicle).

“I don’t think it’s absurdism, sir. I must have accidentally loaded a Stegosaurus into the cannon.”

“Well, then why the cat-crapping blazes am I made of soap?”

He had a point. White foamy bubbles bloom from his boots and I can see him getting shorter.

“You’ll have to defeat Rabinowitz in a duel to dispel his power. And hurry, before anything else weird happens.”

I nod gravely, placing my hand on his shoulder. It slips off, clean. I turn to the golden yacht, pistol cocked and ready. I’m going in.

Back to the facts: on the morning of April 30, 2008, I personally met with President Rabinowitz. My reason: to challenge him to a duel. I had challenged him in this newspaper over six months ago, an engagement which he never showed up for (read: chickened out). This time I was going to make sure it happened.

I put on a nice shirt, went to the back of the Axinn Library and rode up, I kid you not, a golden elevator. The doors opened to a large antechamber lacking any decoration, save for a statue of a Greek goddess with her left breast hanging out; an inspiring monument to see before meeting the most powerful man at Hofstra. I walked through two glass doors and into the secretary’s office.

The head secretary asked me my name, confirmed my appointment and then opened an enormous set of double oak doors. I was parallel to the doors, so could only see the secretary, and none of what lay beyond in the president’s office. The secretary announced me, and I could hear a muffled voice tell her to send me in. And then, honest to God, the secretary beckoned me in like a royal herald. Feeling like this was the most important moment of my life, I walked up to the secretary, almost bowed and turned into the office.

And there he was, all five-foot-six of him. I could see my reflection in his head. Standing next to him was a tall businesswoman wearing a crisp business suit and a well-rehearsed business smile. We all shook hands.

The office was luxurious, with mahogany this and gold-leafed that, and a vast and expensive-looking desk with plenty of elegant chairs around it. We sat at a round laminate table in the corner of the room.

We started talking, and the first thing Rabinowitz says is a joke! I know what you’re thinking. Rabinowitz? A joke? Impossible! But as weird as it sounds, it’s absolutely true. Rabinowitz was a genuinely nice person.

I discussed concerns about various issues at Hofstra (see all my other columns), and he blatantly lied about almost every one of them.

Yet he was so earnest and passionate about it that I couldn’t help but find new respect for the man.

Then Rabinowitz stood up and was halfway through saying, “It was a pleasure talking to you,” when I said,

“Wait.” I was standing not more than three feet from him. “President Rabinowitz, I challenge you to a duel, sir.”

“What?” he asked, frozen in disbelief. I repeated the challenge. He cocked his head to one side.

“What is this for?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh nothing, just an idle challenge.” I answered slyly.

“What do you mean? What kind of duel?”

“Well, with any weapon of your choosing.” Rabinowitz threw up his hands.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I don’t do weapons. But here, I’ll do odds or evens.” Not quite as epic (or lethal) as I had hoped, but I did give him the choice. I agreed and choose odds, figuring I’d throw in some symbolic irony while I was at it.

“Best out of five.” The two of us squared off and pulled our arms behind our backs while Businesswoman registered as much shock and confusion as her business face would allow. And then the battle began.

I whipped out two fingers; he whipped out one. He whipped out two fingers, I whipped out two, and on and on until the last round when he whipped out two fingers and I whipped out one and I beat his presidential butt!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I won a duel against President Stuart Rabinowitz.

I swagger from the cabin of the golden yacht, grab a conveniently placed rope and swing back to the ship, my smoking pistol in hand.

“I am victorious!” I cry.

“Well done lad, but don’t get cocky,” the Captain, made of flesh and blood once more but smelling better, says.

“So, where to next?”

“Well, there’s that legendary treasure of Greek goddess statues with the left boob popping out to discover.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” I say. Adventure calls.

The masks are off. I am…Christopher DeLuca! There’s a slight chance you know me from TNL or class, but most of you have probably never heard of me. To these masses, I can only hope that this big identity reveal has been satisfying.

This will also be the last Silence Doless, as I’m graduating this May. I’ll miss writing the column. Thanks so much for reading; it’s been an absolute blast.