SPOILER ALERT: Visiting George R.R. Martin Kills-Off Morty
EVANSTON, IL - In a shocking plot twist, George R.R. Martin – Northwestern Alumnus and author of the wildly popular Game of Thrones series – killed off University President Morton Schapiro on stage yesterday. Martin (Medill ’70, ’71) was scheduled to accept a Hall of Achievement award at Cahn Auditorium – instead, he arrived cloaked in shadow and darkness, quickly suppressing the feeble resistance of Darren Franich, Entertainment Weekly writer, and Niala Boodhoo, Broadcast Vice President of the Asian American Journalists Association. With a quick motion of the author’s wrist, Franich and Boodhoo crumpled to the floor as blood pooled where their lifeless feet had been a moment earlier. Martin then let out a cold, heartless cackle as NUPD rushed to the scene.
“I was surprised that I got a ticket, to be perfectly honest,” McCormick sophomore Laura Ryerson told Sherman Ave. “They went really fast. Anyway, I was expecting something to happen but I wasn’t sure what the twist was going to be.”
“I’ve read his books, so this wasn’t a complete surprise, but it was great to see my friends react in real time.”
Once his control of the stage was assured, Martin summoned President Schapiro out of the smoke and darkness that reportedly follows the author at all times. Sources say Schapiro had an air of steely resolve, but could not bring himself to look out at the rows of students before him. Unconfirmed reports indicate a single tear rolled down his cheek.
Martin and Schapiro shared a fleeting moment of eye contact before the Medill alumnus silently stabbed his sword into the President’s stomach. Schapiro then whispered his dying words to Martin before spitting up a mouthful of blood and collapsing lifeless next to Franich and Boodhoo.
Martin kept his acceptance speech short; he remarked on the sorry state of modern internet journalism, expressed admiration for Tolkien – author of the Lord of the Rings series - and laughed off an audience question on how his famous series will end. Without so much as a word of parting, he clambered up onto a jet black stallion, tossed his sword aside and rode silently out the dark oak doors and into the warm afternoon air. The iron weapon clattered on stage as the sirens of police echoed off the stone walls of Cahn, chasing the author as he sped down Sheridan Road.
