Last semester I wrote an introduction to one of the best dark arts programs in the California State University system.

If you recall I wrote about “Introduction to Necromancy,” a class where I brought my dead cat to life.

He may or may not be walking around campus.  I enjoyed the class so much, even though I received a ‘C’ on the cat project, that I decided to take more classes in the department.

A few of the other classes include potions, time travel and underworld studies. But today, I’m going to talk about underworld studies just because a curse prevents me from writing about the other two courses in any detail.

Here’s some advice: don’t piss off your classmate when they are a level two mage.This semester, underworld studies is taught by Professor Hannigan, who is best described as an animated skeleton wearing a tweed suit and Christmas ties.

If you look into his eye sockets for too long you may actually go insane.It is rumored a sophomore gazed into his eye sockets for too long and is currently running around naked through Death Valley.

But, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Other than the fact you can’t look him in the eyes, or the void where he his eyes used to be, I have no serious problems with the professor.

He posts to Blackboard frequently and actually remembers my name. He said that I remind him of himself when he actually had skin, maybe that’s why.

He often strokes my face with his skeletal hand causing me to rapidly age and de-age with every movement.

I don’t mind though, I feel sorry for him because I knew it must be hard to miss all your organs and muscles.

The professor is one of those, “I don’t believe in tests,” kind of guys so instead of a mid-term, he had us all go on a field trip of sorts. The rest of the class and I met on the soccer field and the professor told us to run around in circles. \We obliged because if a skeleton tells you do something you don’t say “no,” as doing so would defy all logic.

After running for about 30 minutes, I starting to feel dizzy and out-of-breath.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m out of shape. I can’t stop because I don’t want to get an ‘F’ or have the professor turn me into an old man … again. After 40 minutes, a team of graduate students appeared in black cloaks and started throwing colored powder in my face. Then after 50 minutes, due to either to the powder or my diet, I fell on to the grass … and then died shortly after.

Editor’s Note: Mr. Dixon may or may not have actually died during this experience.

After experiencing an indescribable darkness and a formless void, I found myself in what looked liked a dentist waiting room, except instead of the walls being decorated with paint, they were decorated with skin. I know for a fact it was skin because the walls bled a bit when I touched them. I took a seat next to a gentleman without a jaw and an eyeball hanging out of its socket.

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“I’m a student at San Diego State and my professor wants to teach me a lesson about to inevitability of death or something,” I said. “What about you?”

“Motorcycle accident,” he mumbled, sounding almost embarrassed.

We didn’t speak much after that. In the corner there was an old television playing Conan re-runs. I guess even in death you have to keep yourself mildly entertained.

I stared at the set trying not to look at motorcycle guy too much, when the door up front began to creep open.

Out of it came a gentleman in a blue cardigan and tan pants. Other than his clothes he looked like he was made of glass, or another translucent material, as I could see his blood pass through his veins.

He said apathetically, “Your turn, Dixon.”

I got up and walked through the door. Motorcycle guy rolled his one good eye because I got called first, I don’t know what he was mad about, it’s not like he has anywhere else to go. Plus Conan was interviewing Bill Hader, I wish I could have stuck around for that. As we walked down the hallway I tried to make small talk.

“So do you like working here?” I yelled, so he could hear me over the screaming and the crying of the recently deceased.

My guide shrugged and said, “Yeah, it beats what just about every other person is doing down here.” We stopped walking at a door labeled “Dixon.”

“Okay this one’s yours, enjoy,” he said before opening the door and kicking me inside. When I recovered from the kick I saw another skeleton, this one with a baseball bat. I said, “So this is it?”

He hit me in the back.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked exasperatedly.

He hit me again.

“Why?”

He hit me.

This time I didn’t say anything and he continued to hit me. It didn’t hurt that much, but if given the choice I would have preferred not to be hit repeatedly.

After about five hours of a skeleton hitting me with a Louisville Slugger I woke up on the soccer field with Professor Hannigan standing over me.

He asked me what I got out of this whole experience and I said, “I probably should do some good deeds so your cousin doesn’t beat me for an eternity.”

The moral of the story is that if you don’t want to end up like me, please treat people kindly … or something along those lines.

I thought I would have better advice, but honestly, I am still learning how everything works myself.

Maybe it’s all just kind of pointless.