Dean Veckors was a really old man. His hair was a wispy white that no longer grew on the top of his head but matched his caterpillar brows in wild thickness perfectly. Blue eyes nearly as pale as his hair were just as sharp today as they had been twenty years ago when he first took the position of Dean of Administrations, though they remained hidden much of the time behind thick glasses that sat atop a bulbous pock-marked nose. He was stick-thin, his voice as gravelly as if he had been smoking two packs a day from the moment he popped out of the womb though Jon had never known him to light up, and was amazingly unremarkable except for his height, which even at the age of seventy-eight managed to tower well over six feet.
Jon had learned not to cross him long ago.
So it was with trepidation when he looked up from his computer in his office to see the man standing in his doorway, favoring him with a steady glare. "You struck a student," was all he said, yet managed to get Jack to his feet so quickly Jon wondered if he'd been bit on the ass by an ant.
"I've just remembered I have something to do," Jack muttered in a quick rush, skirted around Dean Veckors as though the man had leprosy, and shut the door behind himself with a quick snick as soon as he was in the hall.
"You're not supposed to strike a student, Jon," Veckors rumbled, moving to take the seat in front of Jon's desk; muscles creaked and joints popped as he lowered himself into it, long knobby fingers tapping quietly on the arms of the chair.
"It was a demonstration," Jon said, eyes flicking back to his computer screen and the grades scrolling across it.
Veckors' blue eyes narrowed. A muscle in his forehead twitched, and he shifted slightly in his seat. Jon glanced at him, then glanced away.
"What did it feel like?"
Jon glanced back at him. "Amazingly fulfilling."
Veckors slapped his knee. "Damn, I've missed that feeling!" he said, a manic-like grin turning the deep lines in his face into canyons. "In my day there was such a thing as corporal punishment! Now, there's graffiti in the halls, tattoos and piercings, and saggy pants!"
Jon snorted. "I understand the dislike of saggy pants, but I'm not one for corporal punishment."
"Speaking of which," Veckors said, the manic grin turning into a proud smile, "How's the General?"
"Wondering why her great-grandfather wasn't at her birthday party," Jon muttered, favoring Veckors with a raised brow, the corner of his mouth twitching as a blush colored the old man's cheeks.
Veckors blustered for a moment, muttering incoherent excuses for another before Jon laughed and relaxed back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Was she pretty?"
Veckors actually growled, waggling his bushy eyebrows to punctuate his point. "Woman used to be a cabaret dancer. Legs that went from floor to ceiling, and an ass that would not quit! I think I've found my sixth wife."
Jon snorted and turned back to updating the grades in his computer.
"If he asks me what day of the week it is, I'll be sorely tempted to answer 'orange'." ~Chang WuFei,