Disclaimer: No one mentioned in this column is known to have said any of the things I say they said. This is a work of fiction. I think they’re all just swell. Everyone except the hordes of ETHSers in the penultimate paragraph, that is. The sun is still spread out over Lake Michigan like that pledge on the pong table when Lady Tisdahl assumes her position on the balcony of the Evanston Civic Center. Dillo Day. The air is ripe with the stench of gluttony and greed and lust. What tender virgins, what innocent babes will transform into Hell’s own keepers before the day expires and trample over our heavenly township? Lady Tisdahl is cloaked in a long, white tunic, a hood falling to the bridge of her nose. “Because every villain’s outfit ought to be seasonally appropriate to deflect the heat – and students’ happiness,” she says. She cackles. This year will be different, though, she first thinks, then whispers, to herself. “This year I’ll put an end to the revelry once and for all and restore our fair city to its former glory! Yes, the end of Dillo Day. How Frances Willard will smile upon us then.” She fondles a small icon of the temperance reformer hanging from a gold chain about her neck. Suddenly an alarm in her office cuts the silence, and she rushes in grinning. She picks up a red receiver in the center of her desk. “How many did we nab this time, Commander?” “Two, m’lady. They were trying to get a final run in to Evanston 1st Liquors before breakfast, but we were waiting for them. Two cubes and a fifth are being destroyed as we speak.” “Good, good work. And any sign of the 16-year-old from Winnetka?” “No. Not this morning, m’lady, but I’ve ordered a third of the force to patrol on Central Street until we do.” “Shit. OK, fine then. Commander, radio your lieutenant and tell him to ready my chariot. I have an appointment with Tom Guenther on the lakefill at noon.” “Guenther? From NUPD? But, m’lady, Tom Guenther stepped down two months ago.” “That’s what we told The Daily.” She hangs up the phone and not long after there’s a knock at the door. “M’lady, are you ready?” Evanston Police officers in riot gear escort her downstairs and out of the building. Seven deadbolts are unlatched in order and the door creaks open. Parked by the curb is another officer on a Segway with a sidecar attachment. As she steps in he pulls out a gas mask and offers it to her. “For the cannabis.” Sure enough, a thick fog has enveloped the south end of the campus, and also seeped into the minds of its residents. Here two girls cartwheel down the sidewalk, there a boy runs in flip-flops after his friends. He yells: “Brrrooooooooo!” The steeple of University Hall just pokes through the intoxicating mist. Lady Tisdahl makes her way past these clowns and the squad cars following them until she arrives at the Lakefill, that island of mischief reclaimed from the scum of Lake Michigan. At the first bag check she salutes an officer, who lets her through and then waves toward Norris. Finally, at the main stage she steps out. Cold War Kids are in the middle of their set when she wrenches the microphone away from the lead singer. Behind the stage, her EPD escort pulls the plug on the extension cord for the amplifiers. The sudden silence causes everyone to turn around and look up. “Attention, heathens!” She is still wearing the gas mask, so her words slur together in a breathy mumble. Someone asks, “Is that a NATO protestor from downtown?” She continues: “For many years now you have gradually spoilt the reputation of fair Evanston, first suburb and place of refuge north of Chicago. The debauchery has escalated and finally struck our last remaining nerve. Not a day longer will this city tolerate your vices, your brothels and power tool demonstrations. Therefore, from this day forth, all students, faculty and anyone associated with the university gone so far astray from the virtue of the Fighting Methodists are officially banned from the City of Evanston. Now get out, all of you!” The crowd is silent for a moment. Then, a bro shouts: “Party foul!” In seemingly orchestrated unison red Solo cups sail toward the stage, toward Lady Tisdahl herself, who runs in zig-zags trying to escape the bombardment. She finds shelter behind the drum set. After catching her breath and clasping the patron saint of temperance on her necklace she stands up again and turns west. “Guenther, rise!” Ripples appear on the surface of the lagoon and emerging from the depths is none other than ex-NUPD Commander Tom Guenther, leading an army of frenzied, sludge-covered ETHS goons. Once banned, hundreds traded their allegiance for admission. They lay waste to the Lakefill and send students diving into the water. Some begin swimming for North Beach, others the Wisconsin border. Lady Tisdahl looks upon all of this – this climactic baptism, this final cleansing of fair Evanston – and gloats. She is triumphant. Peter Larson is a Medill junior. He can be reached at [email protected]