"So, you want to work here?" asked a surprised John.
"I don't recommend it," said Paul, "they barely pay us. Or what do you think, George?"
"Do as you please. As long as you don't get us fired," George said.
"So, anyway, what's the catch?" Asked John.
"What? There's no catch, said Swindle with his hands open and a "what are you talking about? You're crazy" look on his face. "I just want to take care of the educational plans. There's a lot of people wanting a degree, and there's not enough for everyone."
"Yeah, but there's not enough money or installations or teachers for that," said Paul.
"Don't worry about it", said Swindle, "I can fix the schedules, we can expand the campus, and I'm willing to invest in it."
John, Paul and George were so surprised with their brother's declaration.
"Really?" Asked John. Why?"
So, at the library I found this old man writing a thesis about James Joyce or something.
"Oh, yeah, Professor Rick Carter—but all his students call him Prick Carter," said John. "He's an expert on James Joyce."
"Sure, and if people like him can still be students, so anyone can be."
"Fine," said John, "we'll take you with the dean, but you're on your own. We are only teachers and we have no influence there."
"Don't you worry," Swindle patted his brother's back, "I'm sure everything's going to be fine."
His brothers, then, took him to the dean's office, and Swindle got in and was flabbergasted by it. The walls were full of seemingly expensive paintings, photographs, diplomas and old and full bookshelves. In a corner there were a couple chairs and sofas and, beside them, a table with bottles of brandy, whisky and tequila with four glasses. At the bottom, there was a huge window with a view of the soccer fields, and, in front of it, was a huge mahogany desk with a huge paperweight with the inscription "R. Jones, PhD. Dean" written on it, and a R. Jones, PhD. Dean. He was a man probably in his 80's, and he was checking some documents. His arms trembled while trying to keep the papers in front of his face, and, even with his glasses on, his eyes squinted while trying to read the words in front of him.
Swindle knocked on the Wall twice. The dean looked up and left the documents on his mahogany desk.
"Yes, how can I help you?" He asked.
"Mr. dean," Swindle approached him, "I'm willing to donate $1'000,000 to your college if you let me work with the educational plans."
"Excuse me?"
"The donations will get to you from different accounts form different people, but don't you worry about it. This college is prestigious enough, and the degrees I'm proposing could help it connect with old and new generations alike. Here's the list."
Swindle took some sheets of paper from his pocket and gave them to the dean. He took them and read tried his best to read the first proposals; then, he stared at Swindle incredulously.
"You're crazy. Get out of my office."
Swindle took some bill stacks from his coat pocket and left them over the desk.
"I can give you $10,000 right now."