Lucky number 13.
Wondering why you didn’t just check a map earlier, you take the elevator up to floor 13, where Ryerson president Mohamed Lachemi’s office is not hidden at all. It’s right there, just waiting to be found. In fact, there are even signs leading to it.
You knock on the door. “Who is it?” Lachemi yells from inside. You state your name and purpose. “I’ve been expecting you for quite some time now,” says Lachemi.
You hear the sound of roughly 13 locks being unlocked and his two-foot thick bomb-proof door opens. His office is opulent. There are stacks of money everywhere—money is even the fuel for his fireplace, which is burning bright, casting an oddly seductive shadow on his face. Beside Lachemi’s desk you can see Mike from your first-year economics class on his hands and knees with duct tape over his mouth, serving as what appears to be a coffee table.
“Sit down, have a drink,” Lachemi says, pouring you a glass of vodka & student tears. “I call this the screw-you-driver.” Lachemi lights up a big ol’ juicy, thicc, delicious-looking blunt and asks you for the letter.
Your past decides your future.
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