As an outsider it would be easy to believe everything in a desert is designed to kill you. The sun and the land conspire to pull every drop of water from your body and geography put any easy replacement hundreds of feet deep underground. Sure, there are plants and animals that might provide you substance, but they are all outfitted with an array of spikes, claws, spines and venom that would make Mad Max seem huggable. To the desert, this casual belligerance isn’t personal, rather it’s just everything has a cost and nature keeps tighter books out here.
Kiffin learned about the desert the hard way, first in Tucson, then in El Paso, and then, finally, in Tempe. Each one is an outpost in the wilds of what Spencer (with reference to Hunter S. Thompson) calls bat country. Spencer means it lovingly, I assume, because chaos is good theater. But the bats and the chaos are just accounting tricks the desert uses to make the math work. (Also, Will Sutton, because the desert is a bastard).
I don’t know if the last year clears the red ink from Kiffin’s ledger. I kind of hope it does, because he’s a dick and his offense is a thing of dickish beauty when it's running properly. If I’m being really honest, I hope he comes to a school out here, to the desert, and the sun and the sand bake the entitlement away, leaving him with spikes and claws he'd forgotten he had. The desert always needs another debt collector and Todd Graham has run up a hell of a tab the last couple weeks.