Bear Witness To My Glory

Yo Angel,

During my freshman year of college, I lived at a dorm called Stockwell. It used to be an all-women's dorm laid with layers of brick that emanated an air of nobility. With its fortress-like structure, it seemed as if it were guarding a strategic entrance to a valley. There was a large spire down the middle I call the Well with two long walls jutting out on both sides. Inside the behemoth were cascades of walls adorned with spruce each creating different floral patterns of dark oak leaves and vines. The wood contrasted with the vanilla white drywall and geometric carpeting reminiscent of the colors of Fall. On the ceiling of the common areas were metal chandeliers artisanally forged to give this fortress a wealthy demeanor. On the tip of each end were fleur de lis protecting the lights.  What set the mood was a grand lounge furnished with kingly furniture that embraced your body either in high-quality leather or soft velvet and an ebony Steinway piano. In the middle of the lounge is the grand entrance to the spiral staircase of the Well. There, you can see a glass pyramid that tops the building and informs us of the current weather. We soldiers feel minuscule at the bottom of the Well.

At the East wall of the fortress was the boys’ wing. It garrisoned around 30 men with amenities such as air conditioning, a public bathroom, showers, and a garbage disposal site overseen by the custodians. There, I was stationed at the very end of the hallway which was conveniently located near the bathroom. Here, the other soldiers were quite quirky. There is an odd man raised in an all-boy’s boarding school who would pound at an Armenian soldier’s door at 2:00 A.M. moaning every night away. A devout believer, singer, and bodybuilder who was stationed right next to me. He was a great singer as I would hear him sing his prayers waking me up gracefully with the lord every morning. Our commander, the RA who so happened to look like Michael Cera. Moroccan Royalty who was chill for real no cap. An Aryan mercenary from the mountains of Caucasus. A metal guitarist who would boost our morale with sick riffs. Finally, a warrior who was a head taller than me standing at 6’11” 450 pounds of muscle the whole hall would call the Egyptian King. The Egyptian King had shoulders as broad as an eagle's wingspan. His hands could crush any stone. He had a full beard black and sprawling across his face flooding like the Nile. His kindness could even bring back someone in the clutches of Anubis. Unfortunately, the only downside to him was that he had the stench of an embalmed body. 

The hall had a number of problems such as the illusive piss bottler, a drunk break-in and exiting—random guy broke into the dorm and fell out of the window next to my room—, the loud angry gamer whose rage shakes the earth, but what takes the cake is the pervasive smell of the Egyptian King. He had a scorching aura around him. Every place that he walked would turn into the desert. You could feel the heat and smell of his skin. Your eyes would water, your nose would burn, and your lungs felt like they were being attacked by locusts as he drew nearer. You’d experience the Pharaoh’s Curse as your head would split in pain if you were to arrive near his tomb (room). He truly lived a sublime lifestyle. Everywhere he would go, others would make room for him and leave. The bathrooms were private, the lounge was empty, and the halls were clear in his holy presence.

The worst part is how he’d claim his territory. It would not have been a problem if the Egyptian King’s smell were to only be experienced transiently; however, he left his spirit in every object he touched. The patterned carpet turned mushy in funk, the bathrooms became unusable, and his room produced foul aromas. One of his neighbors couldn’t take it and was reassigned out of the garrison to Markley. The custodians would send my RA weekly emails explaining about it. Everyone in the hall complained about it, but no one did anything about it. No one had the gall to tell him except for me. 

After strategizing for a few weeks (seeing him go out of his room and checking the time), I found out about his schedule and room number quite easily. My first knock was a failure as no one responded, but one dreary night as my fellow soldiers were stationed at the hall (talking), we saw him walk to his room. That was when I knew my time had come. Everyone fell into formation where a dozen of my men became quiet. They silently supported me as I trekked down the dunes to his room. As I approached, the air became thicker. As if I were walking towards a furnace, my steps grew slower. My heart started pounding and my knees grew weak, but I knew what I had to do. I knocked on his door in rhythms of threes. There was no initial answer. I knocked again. Suddenly, the door opens and I am attacked by a wave of hot air. He had set his room temperature to 80, and the cool air of the hallway exchanged with the musty wet steam from his. I felt pins and needles all over my body as the Pharaoh's Curse had started. I knew I didn’t have long. It was like David and Goliath, I was ready to use my sling.

I told him about the issue. He responded quickly and adeptly, insisting that the issue was not of great importance. The awkwardness was palpable. He kept on deflecting and insisting that it must be something else. It forced me to dance around his words dexterously. I avoided slash after slash from his sharp thoughts. After what felt like months of negotiation, I plundered his email and offered actual advice on how to treat it. Ultimately he got the idea. I had an army behind me.

He shut the door kindly and that was when I knew I was free. I had routed the enemy and was allowed to return home from my dangerous conquest. I came back to my soldiers who celebrated and thanked me. Many came out of their rooms to embrace me and give thanks. I felt as if I parted the Red Sea, defeated King Ramses II himself, and freed my people from the clutches of the Egyptian King.

From that Moment Onward - People Witnessed him Shower.