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  Where fraternities are not allowed,

  communism flourishes.

  —Barry M. Goldwater, misquoted

  by a reporter at the

  Baltimore Catholic Review

  From the Editors

  This book has been fictionalized for the sake of narrative. We assure you, though, that variations of everything you’re about to read are taking place in fraternities across America each and every semester. The photos that end each chapter are real. Identifying characteristics have been blurred to protect identities.

  Join or Die a GDI

  WHEN I WAS GROWING UP MY DAD ALWAYS TOLD ME, “Townes, college will be the best four years of your life.” He was rarely wrong about anything, so I couldn’t have been more excited to head off to school. High school was the minor leagues, and I was ready for the big show. Ready to walk onto the field under the lights, throw up on home plate, kick the catcher in the balls, and charge the mound. My parents made the trip with me to see that I was properly set up in my dorm, and to put a small buffer between unpacking and the start of a long binge-drinking career. They rode in my dad’s Suburban, equipped with a trailer that contained everything I needed to recover from a hangover in comfort. I followed them in my truck as part of my dad’s strategy to delay my mom’s inevitable emotional breakdown.

  I was rooming in Manor Hall, the most sought-after dorm for incoming freshmen due to its prime location and reputation for employing lenient resident advisors. It housed over a thousand first-year students, which made moving in complete chaos. Luckily, the female scenery was enough to make it bearable. If the prospect of being freed from parental shackles wasn’t enough to get me pumped about college, the hundreds of eighteen-year-old slampieces who were now my neighbors definitely did the trick. They scampered back and forth with boxes from their parents’ SUVs to their rooms, eager to start their lives as independent young women. Their fathers trudged back and forth despairingly, carrying suitcases filled with clothes that would eventually end up on the floor of some sexually inventive male classmate’s bedroom.

  While my dad and I carried my dresser, flat-screen, mini-fridge, and boxed-up belongings from our trucks to my room, my mom, Debbie Prescott, lounged in the dorm lobby reading brochures about student organizations and the health center. After an hour of unpacking it was finally time for goodbyes. I walked my mom to the car with my arm around her while she rambled about getting involved in student government and shoved pamphlets into the pockets of my shorts.

  “I know you’ll do great things here, honey. Your father and I love you very much and know you’ll make good decisions. I miss you already.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Mom, and I’ll be fine,” I said. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  Before leaving me to confront my destiny, my dad shook my hand, looked me square in the eye, and left me with some words of wisdom.

  “Be good, kiddo. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Yes sir,” I said as our prolonged handshake struck an agreement between father and son.

  Before getting into the car my mom swelled with sentiment, and as she fought back tears she whispered some emotional lyrics she stole from a bad country song.

  “I hope you dance, Townesy.”

  She held me at arm’s length and made high-pitched crying noises as her eyes watered, then turned without a word and slumped dramatically down into her seat. Before departing, my dad honked the horn and said, “Check your golf bag. I left you something in the side pocket.” Then he peeled off into the sunset. Once they were out of sight I walked back inside and took the elevator to my room, sat on the polyester prefurnished couch surrounded by boxes, and took a deep breath. I knew I had just crossed the threshold into a new world. It was as if God had opened up the heavens, shot me a thumbs-up with a wink, and said, Go forth, my son, and spread your seed, for I have instilled a spirit of triumphant rage within you. I reached into our still unplugged mini-fridge, grabbed two warm Keystones, and tossed one to my roommate, Monte.

  Monte was a six-foot-five man-child, whose Christian name was Peter Montgomery. He was an all-state middle linebacker our senior year of high school, but had always been too smart for his size, so he turned his back on the pigskin to focus on his education after getting a full ride to college. We had been best friends since sixth grade, when our dads started a law firm with a few other lawyer buddies. Monte’s longtime high school girlfriend, Sarah, had gotten into some out-of-state school, and like all young couples who think they can make it work, they were determined to maintain a healthy long-distance relationship. Fucking stupid.

  The beer I tossed his direction thudded against Monte’s chest and rolled into his lap. He looked at me, disgruntled, and I offered a resolution.

  “Let’s get shitfaced.”

  “Shouldn’t we unpack first?” he asked.

  I pretended not to hear his question and chugged my beer before spiking it to the floor, unknowingly starting a trend that would lead to us having the filthiest dorm room in the history of civilized domiciles. Monte followed suit.

  “All right, that was a good start, but I’m unpacking and calling Sarah before we do anything else.” He wiped his mouth and took out his phone.

  While he unpacked and called Sarah, probably to vow undying abstinence in her absence, I checked my bag to see what surprise my dad had left me. I reached into the side pocket, rustled through the customized Pro V1s with my TP3 logo, and pulled out an envelope. Inside was an American Express card and a note.

  Townes,

  College is a time for great personal growth. These are significant years you’ll hold dear for the rest of your life. You’re a Prescott. Carry our family name with the same respect as the generations before you. The Alpha house is a great place, and you’re going to make a lot of mistakes there that your mother can never hear about. I made friendships and connections during my stay that helped shape me into the man I am today. Remember, above all else, you’re there to learn.

  TPII

  P.S. Take the hazing like a man.

  If he had any idea what would transpire over the next several hours, or how crazy I’d go with that AmEx over the next several years, that letter would’ve been comprised purely of threats and curses.

  As I folded the letter back into the envelope, I heard the scamper of feet outside our door, followed by a series of unusually polite knocks.

  “Who is that? The fucking RA already?” I asked Monte.

  He was still talking to Sarah, so he put his hand over the phone and waved me off apathetically to check the door.

  I walked over and looked through the peephole.

  Darkness.

  “Who is it?” I asked loudly.

  I heard muffled giggling and a series of much louder knocks in response.

  I glanced around our room to make sure we didn’t have anything illegal visible, and cracked open the door to investigate. Four girls in all black shoved their way through, shrieking like cats in heat. Two of them bum-rushed me as I covered my ears and stumbled backward.

  “Mother of God,” Monte said as his jaw dropped and he quickly hung up on Sarah.

  The first thing I noticed was how incredibly hot
and blonde they were. They playfully pushed me to the ground, and in my confused state I chose to let them have their way with me. I put up enough of a fight to make it fun for them, but I wanted to see where this was going. One of them bound my hands with rope behind my back while the other stretched duct tape over my mouth. My mind raced to figure out what the hell was going on, and then one of the girls wiped the confusion from my face with a glorious explanation.

  “You’re being kidnapped, sweetie,” the blonde assassin informed me like a slutty psychic mind reader.

  “Can I tie you up next?” I mumbled through the tape.

  Monte had scrambled into a fortified position atop his bed. He was wildly swinging his pillow at two attackers, determined to delay the inevitable. Once he noticed my lack of resistance he laid down his defense and conceded defeat.

  “Don’t worry,” assured the girl with two trophy-worthy tits, “we’ll take good care of you.”

  I probably looked like a kid in a candy store, eyes aglow with bewilderment and anticipation. Monte looked like a man who had forgotten the safe word during an S&M sex act gone horribly wrong.

  “Welcome to college, boys,” the ringleader announced as she eye-fucked my face off. “We’re taking you to the Alpha house for the annual Paint Your Toga party.”

  I lit up like the first time a girl gripped my shaft, and nodded my wide-eyed approval. When I was a senior in high school I’d heard rumors about this hybrid toga/paint rush party, and it sounded like an orgy with multicolored lube. The girls pulled me to my feet and hit the lights as we left the room before Monte and I even had a chance to settle in.

  Other kids on our floor gasped and laughed, carrying boxes filled with Bob Marley posters and Hot Pockets as we were rushed through the hallways toward the exit. Outside, a brand-new black Tahoe with a flower lei hanging from the rearview came to a screeching halt in front of us.

  “Throw them in the back!”

  Another hot blonde. They were multiplying.

  The trunk door automatically opened, and we clumsily ducked our way in just in time before it slammed behind us and the driver sped off.

  “Okay, guys! I’m Allison Kimball and I’m a Pi,” said the girl with the immaculate set of twins as she reached over the backseat and applied a blindfold to my eyes.

  “Totally sorry for the drama, but we always kidnap rushees for the first party of the year. What are your names? Oh, silly me. Duct tape.”

  She ripped the tape from Monte’s face first.

  “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Peter Montgomery… Monte. Nice to meet you ladies.”

  I felt the tape tear peach fuzz from my upper lip.

  “Townes Prescott,” I said. “This is awesome.”

  “Oh, so this is the Townes we’ve heard so much about,” said one of the girls in the front of the vehicle.

  I’d only been there for six hours and already had a reputation, no doubt thanks to my dad’s contributions to the Alpha fraternity house.

  “Let’s get this party started!” one of them squealed.

  Suddenly an obnoxious Taylor Swift song was blaring through the speakers, and someone tugged my hair to tilt my head back.

  “Open your mouth, sweetie,” Allison said seductively in my ear.

  I opened up like a baby bird awaiting its first meal, and whiskey flooded my taste buds and dripped down my chin. I momentarily pitied the guys in their dorm rooms trying to level up on World of Warcraft. They would always be GDIs (god damn independents), and never experience the pure thrill of being kidnapped by hot sorority girls. My empathy ended when I heard Monte sputter up some liquid, and I could tell he was also being waterboarded with whiskey. Moments later my hair was yanked again and this time I tasted tequila. This process was repeated several more times before we finally came to a stop. Another masculinity-threatening song raped my ears until I was finally pulled from the car, and I accidentally head-butted Monte in the face on the way out.

  “SHIT, TOWNES!”

  “Watch your language in front of the ladies, you fucking jackass,” I snapped back.

  I stumbled without sight from the SUV, trying to find my legs, when suddenly the blindfold was pulled from my eyes. Sunlight flooded my retinas as I squinted and tried to make out my surroundings. As the foreground focused, my eyes took in an incredible, well-manicured lawn. In the background, an enormous mansion began to take shape.

  “Thank you, God,” I said under my breath. “It’s beautiful.”

  I had seen pictures of my dad at the house, but nothing could prepare me for the breathtaking moment in which I absorbed its magnificence firsthand. In the middle of Greek Row on a sprawling lot, from the outside it looked like a massive southern plantation home with towering columns. Driving by you would never think, Hey, that’s a place where hundreds of young people absorb unholy amounts of alcohol and try to invent new sex positions, but that’s exactly what it was. A glorious mansion where dreams came true and wild fantasies were fulfilled.

  Less than an hour at college had passed. We were there. Rush had begun. This was it.

  While I was born in the greatest country in the world (America, fuck yeah), and into a great family (Prescott, fuck yeah), I wasn’t born into my fraternity. Trust me, if anyone could’ve been I would’ve been, but no man is born wearing his letters. However, being a legacy with a handshake like a fucking arm-wrestling champion certainly boosted my status as a sought-after shoo-in during rush. Fraternity recruitment can be surprisingly similar to that of a successful collegiate football program. In order to field a respectable pledge class you have to get everyone shitfaced and show them how much ass they’ll get if they commit. Much of what goes on is completely against university rules and state laws, but if you’re not cheating you’re not trying. Monte and I had been contacted by Alpha’s rush chairman several times throughout the summer to ensure our involvement. I had been looking forward to this since I saw Otter fuck the dean’s wife in Animal House when I was seven years old. Nothing could keep me from it.

  Now I was being ushered toward the back porch with Allison on my arm. After a few steps I realized I was already buzzing hard.

  “We don’t even have togas,” Monte pointed out.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Allison explained. “One of these guys will take care of y’all.”

  We were immediately greeted by several upperclassmen who looked like participants in a political debate who had gotten lost and ended up at a toga party. Their heads were adorned with ivy and they were all wearing penny loafers or boat shoes. The lankiest of the five was clad in an American flag bedsheet, and he handed me a fifth of Kentucky Deluxe before throwing a white sheet and some rope over my shoulder.

  “You’re Townes, right? Russell Atwater, rush chair. We talked on the phone last week. It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

  He extended his hand for a shake, and I gave him a firm grip. Then we squared off in a manly staredown as an unspoken shootout of confidence took place, which resulted in mutual respect. We were telepathically acknowledging, I’m not a fucking pussy and you understand that because neither are you. The agreement ended with a slight nod.

  “All right then,” he said. “Change into your togas and throw your clothes into the back of my truck and let’s go get fucking wasted.”

  We quickly changed as Atwater flirted with our female escorts.

  “Holy shit, this is going to be fucking incredible,” I said to Monte as I wrapped myself in the bedsheet.

  He just nodded, still too rattled from the abduction to decide how he felt. We tossed our shirts into the back of the truck and walked back over to the group.

  “I’ll give you a tour of the house and we’ll meet some of the other guys,” Atwater said. “The band comes on in under an hour, so I hope you gentlemen are ready to get fucking rowdy.”

  “We’re heading back to our place to change, but we’ll see you later,” said Allison, smiling back at me as she walked away with the other girls. />
  We headed up the sidewalk and up the back staircase onto a massive outdoor balcony where we were consumed by a sea of togas. Creedence Clearwater Revival was rocking through speakers positioned above the wooden deck. As we made our way through the crowd we passed several girls whose “togas” weren’t really togas at all. Instead, with any fabric deemed unnecessary having been strategically cut away, they exposed as much skin as possible. I had yet to see a single one that I wouldn’t punch Monte in the dick just to make out with. Apparently Mr. Committed Relationship was enjoying the scenery too, because I noticed him staring at a brunette who was a few centimeters of toga fabric away from a nip slip.

  “Still miss your girlfriend, you dickhead?” I asked. “Save us both the trouble, call her now and tell her you need a break for at least the next twelve hours.”

  “It’s our first night here, I think I can show a little restraint.” His eyes stayed focused on the brunette, who was clearly enjoying our attention.

  Atwater overheard us talking and stopped in his tracks.

  “Wait, this big fucking idiot has a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, we’ve been together for over two years,” Monte explained like a loyal poodle. “She goes to Vandy.”

  “HAHA!” Atwater seemed pleased with the situation. “Do you realize how much strange ass is going to get thrown at you tonight? Give in to the temptation; you’ll be a better man for it. Look around you. It’s like a buffet, for fuck’s sake.”

  Monte let out a worrisome chuckle.

  We made our way into the house, where the walls, ceiling, and floors were covered in black tarp to protect against the impending paint explosion. The distinct smell of grain alcohol and a hundred years of historic sex filled my nostrils. Everywhere I looked there was someone with a can, bottle, or cup upended. As we walked through the corridor I noticed a girl with her legs wrapped around a guy wearing nothing but a kilt, making out with a drunken passion like I’d never seen before.

  “That’s Scott McCandles,” Atwater explained. “When he blacks out he ditches whatever he was wearing and throws on that kilt.”