You’ve heard of the locked Vatican vaults that house Mary Magdalene and Jesus’ His ‘n Hers Bathrobes and the warehouse where the Ark of the Covenant got stashed after Indiana Jones went through all that. This is even more heavily guarded incendiary material. It sits in College Football Coach Bjorn Borgensen’s locker behind a fifteen year old tub of Whey Hey Protein, a locker that has absolutely no way never nuh uh not been opened in thirty five years, to which the combination 58008 has been lost.

Ben St Drummond Mater College in Ohio thought they were employing a nice Christian boy in the popular evening Radio BSDM Study Time slot. At first, Jack Orff seemed just the breath of fresh yet predictable air the college wanted to boost morale after the latest unfortunate incident in the library involving a ladder, Kit Maxwell, a copy of Ben Johnson: Poetry, and three Beta Kappa Phi togas all tied together.

Jack had just apperaed, people mused later, like something out of a story, smoke billowing out of his old ice cream truck van, when he opened the door. He said with a wimming smile that it was Holy Smoke, incense like the Pope uses in Rome, and who was to argue with that, not when he offered to DJ for free, with rent and cafeteria meals tossed in. He just knew that’s what the College needed. Jack hailed from the exotic and urbane state of Illinois, and his smooth patter interspersed with relatable parables from the Good Book and wholesome tunes sure contributed to a drop in student suicides. There were the usual ten the first week he started, then five, and by a month in, only one, and he was a known Communist sympathiser. He liked wearing red a little bit too much, and thought that Dostoyevsky ought to be in the library.

Many students went to see Jack, for chats, and always came out smiling, wreathed in Holy Smoke. Let me do my thing, he said to the Dean, when Dean dropped by to check concerns about fire safety, with a kind of hypnotic charisma reserved for the truly righteous. OK, said the Dean, and wandered off snapping his fingers to the tune Jack had been playing.

A month in, on a Friday night, Jack played the Discs That shall Not Be Named. Clockwise from top right:

Keep it Gay: 5 pm Jack introduced this one first. Wisps of Holy Smoke started to seep out the ventilator ducts, everywhere. Highly suspect. It was French, for starters, the album. That should have been a dead giveaway something was up. Coach Bjorn Borgensen would play BSDM Radio after practice, every night. Him and the lads would sit around in the sauna, or in the locker room, or maybe the pool (the speaker system went everywhere, even into the woods for five miles in all directions with speakers wired into trees) and bond. They’d share stories of their childhoods, read books about war aloud, and draw plays like Aristophanes’ The Frogs. Keep it Gay was ten tracks that by the end had every man on the team asking uncomfortable questions about which way to the station, and do you like leather chaps or sailors?

Rudolph Rock und die Shocker 5:45 pm was a kinky Berlin mess of the classic fingering technique and then the girl singing a long series of songs basically about “Die, Shocker, Die” after the fact, because he didn’t trim his nails, which the Simpsons ripped off in that episode where Sideshow Bob’s Die Bart tattoo is questioned. This disc caused seven pregnacies and one murder and that was just amongst the resident canteen ladies. The football team almost as a one man decided to go to the local bar and drink. With playoffs the next day. Coach Bjorn went with them, trying to do damage control and also having persistent thoughts about men on bikes with baguettes that he hoped a nice lemonade and beer would take the edge off.

Next, 6:30 pm, The official bump ball record. This had students all over campus trying it out and if there wasnt a ball, they improvised with anything they could get their hands on. Cabbages, other people’s tits, a cat. The music was just so infectiously fun.

Jack’s Holy Smoke by the point was pouring through all the ventilator ducts, entering every space, purple and sparkly and far out. The bar was also rigged with a radio speaker, and ducts, and so the football team played bump ball with whatever came to hand, glasses and hats and nothing at all, just pretending.

6:55 pm: The Yiddish are coming. Pirate Jews. The student body started to burn things, anything, as this was what the record was all about, a crack squad of jewish pirates who were so badass they made every student want to be just like them. These sheltered kids had no resistance, you see, none. If they’d know Elvis, or the Beatles, or even Liza Minelli things would have been fine, but a track like “Oy Gevalt Arrson!” was incendiary. One of the football team lit the pool table on fire, while the rest of them danced around it. The bartended called the cops, and Bjorn left, heading for the radio station.

7:30 Swingin’ School Songs This one was not so much a hit with the students, who continued to basically riot, but many the faculty rather enjoyed it.

and this, Music for Playboys to Play by. with Bjorn and the Dean and seven cops hammering on the studio door, this one. 8:10 pm. All the lights went out. People screamed. People moaned. Someone lost their virginity in a shocking turn of events. It was found later, thank goodness. Someone saw Jesus. Someone looked a little too hard at the devil’s crutch and never recovered speech. The door caved in, the studio so thick with smoke nothing could be seen in the dark, just little lights flashing, like devil’s eyes and no Jack, just an empty pile of clothes and a book of matches from the Holiday Inn, Spokane.

Bjorn scooped up the disks and ran with them to his office in the locker room, going by instinct and the lights coming back on. He stashed the disks and made a killing copying them for underground terrorist groups he’d lost contact with since he left Norway in 1975. These disks were behind the Faulklands War, for one.

When order was restored, it was discovered that Jack had made away with some valuable items, the Dean was not sure what, just valuable. And all this goes to show it’d be nice to wrap with a moral that’s also a pun, but there aren’t any pithy moral sayings about DJs and the power of music being a terrible thing that I can think of.