Rusty Venture, alias Dean Craig Pelton, sighed inwardly as Jeff Winger smarmed his way into his office. Jeff was hot in a confusing-feelings-at-all-boys'-summer-camp kind of way, but Rusty still thought he was a dick. A dick whose hair stood up with just the right amount of bed-headed perfection, but a dick, nonetheless.
"So I think you know why I'm here."
Rusty steepled his fingers. "And I think you know that I can't just give you an 'A' in a class that you haven't even taken yet."
Jeff spread his hands placatingly. "And I think you know that you'll decide you can when you hear what I have to say."
"Winger, you do this every semester. What makes you think your fake-lawyering skills have gotten any better while you've been slumming it at Greendale?"
Jeff's mouth opened in a dramatic show of surprise. "I'm wounded, Dean Pelton. Or," he smirked, "should I say, Dean Venture."
Rusty deflated slightly. "Do I even want to know how you found out about that?" he queried.
"One bottle of tequila and a copy of the Beatles' White Album performed entirely by a keytar-featured cover band."
"That dick." Rusty made a mental note to make Brock give him a neck massage later. He eyed Jeff dubiously. "In the spirit of academic dishonesty, how much do you know?"
Jeff ticked facts off on his fingers. "Your boys both go here, and a good portion of Greendale's faculty positions are currently being filled by former child-adventurers." He flashed Rusty an annoyingly toothy smile. "Hey, how's your dad, by the way?"
"Fuck you." Rusty rubbed his temples tiredly. "Can't you just get your Organic Chemistry instructor drunk and make a blood pact or something?"
"Where's the fun in that when you're so readily available for blackmail?" Jeff drawled.
He had a point. By the time Jeff danced out of his office, all leather jacket and smug, Rusty was pretty sure he'd have to look up some old mafia ties in order to fulfill his end of their bargain. Still, at least, for now, his secret identity and day job were safe from the Guild of Calamitous Intent. His neck throbbed. Wincing, he dialed Brock on his wrist-communicator. "Brock, come in here, I need you," he whined.
Brock's gruff face belied little emotion besides the faintest hint of annoyance. "We're right in the middle of Dean's cooking class," he intoned. "We're making quiche."
"I don't care. Am I paying you to follow my boy around while he shames the family name irrevocably, or to service me?"
"You don't pay me at all," Brock muttered.
"Just get in here," Rusty rasped. The communicator screen darkened. He opened the top drawer of his desk and fished out the bottle of Adderall that he'd confiscated from Annie Edison. "This job is killing me," he yawned.