text: I’m half-way through my final year at McMaster University when the biology program chair announces Mr.Robertson, my plant pathology professor, will not finish teaching the semester. His replacement is Mr. Jenkins. I’m furious. Jenkins is known as a GPA killer amongst biology students. As a student who prides himself on having a 4.0 GPA this is terrible news. By priding myself on having a high GPA I mean no socializing, clubbing, snapping, or fratting. School is life, and I won’t let a heavy-handed marker ruin my prestigious GPA. Mr. Jenkins is a pasty man. Translucent. His thick brown hair with grey streaks is slicked back like a 50s greaser. His eyebrows are filled and paired with a five o’clock shadow. He wears golden yellow tweed jackets to every class, with fitted clean white dress shirts, matching his skin, charcoal pants, leather loafers, and no tie. His dark sunken eyes never heard of sleep. His velvet voice is suited for a viral ASMR video, not a 9AM lecture. Each class is clockwork. He opens with a monologue about relevant research he read during the week, breaks out his Powerpoint presentation he designed in 2003, and finishes with a brief question period. I hang on his every monotone word in lecture, and I study six hours a night for his course, double what I spend on other courses. I’m the only student to ace the final exam. Not shocking. What is shocking is the email I open from Jenkins inviting me to his house for dinner to discuss my paper on the rise of *hybrid fungi.* Dinner with a professor? If I have to schmooze my way to an “A,” I will. I arrive at Jenkins’ residence fifteen minutes before our scheduled 7pm dinner. His house is large and made of golden brick matching his tweed jackets. A burgundy interlock driveway leads to a double garage with firetruck red doors. Emerald hydrangeas edge the elevated cement veranda. He opens the white oak door, as if he’s been standing there since sunrise for my arrival. He wears a familiar outfit. *Does he own different clothes?* His molasses voice pours into my ear. I’m wearing the most formal navy blue hoody and khaki pants I could find paired with a set of brown sneakers I cleaned earlier with *Tide* and hot water. Jenkins rambles about his admiration for my paper and complements my succinct writing skills. I’m counting the rings around his eyes. In the dining room stands a thick gothic table. Plain white plates, burgundy napkins, and sharp silverware rest on top. “Are you a drinking man Stewart?” Jenkins inquires. “No sir, water will be fine.” Jenkins reaches into his wine rack and slips out a bottle. “I thought this Cabernet Sauvignon would pair well with our fillets this evening, it’s savoury with a bitter end,” Jenkins describes. “Sure, I’ll have a glass.” He grabs a corkscrew and stabs it through the cork, twisting. “You know Stewart, I haven’t come across students as bright as you. I know I hold the reputation around McMaster as being an unfair professor, but I simply expect the best, from everything.” The cork makes a squeaky thud as it escapes the bottle. Jenkins pours blood red wine into smooth glasses before handing me one. He raises his glass in cliche fashion. “To plants, and all they do for us.” We clink and drink. I fight the urge to frown. Jenkins slips on a white cloth apron to protect the one outfit he owns. He pulls fillets from the oven. Burnt rosemary and garlic fills the air. “Mr. Robertson was one of the brightest professors in our department, it’s a shame he left us so unceremoniously,” Jenkins states. “It’s true, he was a great professor,” I add, starring at the charred filets soaking in their oils. “You’ll have to excuse me Stewart, there’ll be no vegetable dish tonight. I’m practicing a carnivore diet. You should really try it, it’s invigorating,” Jenkins suggests. I look down at the sizzling fillet. First glance reminds me of the shoe leather steak my grandmother served me in her later years. Jenkins takes the head of the table, I sit on his right. “Please Stewart, dig in.” I grab the serrated knife and cut into the fillet. Jenkins tucks his napkin into the front of his dress shirt. I chew a small piece meat. A strong rosemary flavour punches me. “This is basic biology, I assume you know, through photosynthesis, plants harness energy from the sun and transform it into chemical energy,” Jenkins mentions as he tears into his fillet. “Of course,” I say. “Mr. Robertson had a brilliant paper on the environmental regulation of photosynthesis, it’s truly fantastic, you’d enjoy it. Again such a shame.” Jenkins frowns before hacking off more fillet. I take another bite. The meat is tough. The rosemary continues to overpower. Jenkins points his knife at my plate. “You know I have a theory of my own, much like photosynthesis,” Jenkins throws a larger hunk of meat past his teeth. “Would you like to hear it?” “Absolutely sir.” “We humans can consume intellectual energy, much like how plants consume the suns energy.” Jenkins smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “How so?” I ask. “You’re doing it right now.” I look down at the deformed chunk of motionless meat staring at me. I can feel the blood filling my cheeks like a toilet after a flush. “What is this?” I ask, as I trap a sliver of meat between my teeth. “This is a dish I like to call...Mr. Robertson,” Jenkins declares. I rip the white napkin from the table and spew debris into it. “Stewart, we are consuming the intelligence of Mr. Robertson. That big beautiful mind and all its power is becoming ours,” Jenkins grins as pieces of Mr. Robertson fill the gaps of his crowded teeth. I push myself up from the table and race to the front door. Jenkins rises and shouts, “Do you think I invited you over here tonight to befriend you Stewart? To make your acquaintance? You’re on my next dish!” I glance over my shoulder and see Jenkins pursuing me with a serrated steak knife. I reach the door and notice the five gold locks trapping me. He grabs my hood and tosses me to the dark hardwood floor. His grey hairs hang forward as he drives his knee into my chest. A vacuum of empty space fills his eyes. “The sad part is Stewart, no one will miss you...no one will know you’re gone...no one will look for you...and your mind will be mine.” He raises the serrated blade and drives it through my shoulder. My scream echoes through his foyer. I feel the knife wiggle in my flesh. I grab hold of Jenkins’ knee and twist it off my chest, forcing him to the ground. I sit up with the knife lodged in me. I stumble to my feet and introduce Mr. Jenkins’ face to the sole of my right sneaker. His hooked nose bleeds onto a cheap welcome mat. I open the locks as Jenkins screams in agony. I scramble down the burgundy driveway towards my car. The next meal Jenkins consumes will be in prison.