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“Where'd you get those?” I asked.

“We searched your clothes in the pledge dorm. That's why we had you change into what you're wearing now. So we could check your pockets for evidence to prove it.”

Somebody handed him the tuna-can ashtray. Without speaking, he lit a green Bic and one-by-one, held all the prints and all the negatives under the flame, letting the ashes fall into the ashtray just like he did with the other set I gave him a few days ago.

His eyes riveted into mine as he spoke with real hatred in his
voice. “Any threat you might have against us is now gone.”

I didn't answer as he continued.

“Stafford, you're like a pit bull. Good while you're protecting the owner except the owner never knows when the dog will attack him.”

He flicked the Bic again and picked up the photo envelope.

“Don't burn it yet,” I said quickly.

He flinched. “Why not?”

“Look at the envelope. See whose name is on it?”

Even in the poor light I could see his eyes zero-in on the top part of the envelope where my name was boldly printed. Then he looked up at me grimly, boring his eyes into mine again. “So?”

“The fraternity's name was on the other envelope. This is a different set I had made for me.”

His sadistic grin got even uglier. He lit the lighter again. “So what? I just burned this set too.”

“Before you do, look at the box that's checked off saying how many copies were made.”

He twisted the envelope around so he'd have better light. Suddenly his smirk disappeared. “Says you ordered two sets. Where's the other one?”

“My safe deposit box.”

A couple of seconds of tension vibrated back and forth between Christianson's body and mine while he digested my words. I stared at him and his eyes held mine for nearly five seconds. The room was absolutely silent.

“You fucking bastard,” he finally said, bitterly.

Right then, I knew for sure, without any doubt whatsoever, that they were going to kick me out. But my second set of photos was my life insurance policy. Like my dad said, always have a back-up blackmail plan.

“They're my fraternity insurance policy,” I answered smugly.

Christianson slammed his hand on the table in front of me. “Get the hell back upstairs. We're voting now.”

Hoping my rubbery legs wouldn't let me trip, I stood up and slowly walked to the door and opened it.

“Stafford,” Christianson called out.

I turned around.

“You're a cum spot on the sheet of humanity.”

_____

I joined the rest of the pledges over an hour ago. We were all sitting on the upper stairs banging our fists on the rug while mumbling that goddamn chant barely louder than sign language or Braille. The yelling and screaming sounds of people arguing heatedly continued coming from the Chapter Room.

Finally Adams walked out of the Chapter Room and up the stairs. He sat down and looked at us with a grim face. “Dung. Go in the Chapter Room.”

The fat twerp pulled himself up by the banister and staggered down the stairs, stumbling past most of the other pledges. He knocked at the Chapter Room door and a second later he disappeared inside before the door closed.

Adams' eyes avoided mine but a big smile filled his face. “You guys all made it! Congratulations!”

Everybody jumped up, screamed and cheered, slapping each other on the back, shaking hands with the secret fraternity handshake we already knew. We were living proof that the dead can rise again.

I couldn't fucking believe it! After everything I went through, I'll finally get the money!

I caught Lyman staring at me with a frown. Silently, like he did to me earlier, I smiled and blew him a kiss.

“What about Dung?” Grossberg asked, showing real concern.

Adams shook his head. “He's out of here. Being on either end of a blowjob with a guy is too weird, even for us. We told everybody throughout pledging: we don't want no faggots here.”

Then Adams looked over at me, then at Batman and Vysell. “You three, don't get so happy yet. That woman from San Diego just called again. She's got car trouble. But she's taking a Greyhound here in the morning.”

Sunday, January 26

10:45
A.M.

W
HAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE GREATEST FUCKING DAY
of my life began with more problems. Instead of the Swearing-In Ceremony beginning at eleven like it was supposed to, it was postponed to one-thirty to see if Jody's mother would show up.

I phoned Gussie from down the street. There was something I had to confirm. “Where's Jody?”

“My place, passed out drunk.”

“Where's his mother live?”

“San Diego.”

_____

1:30
P.M.

Christianson was giving Bookie another half hour, hoping that Jody's mother or at least Jody's nude photograph would arrive. Me and all the other pledges were dressed in suits and ties, anxiously waiting in the living room, continually checking the front door.

Bookie kept pacing back and forth, staring at his cell phone
like it was a bottle containing a magic genie who might, somehow, grant his wish for Jody's appearance.

Two o'clock came and went. Finally, a little after two-thirty, Adams came out of the Chapter Room.

“We're starting now.”

_____

The Swearing-In Ceremony was more fraternity bullshit. I was standing with the rest of the pledges, facing seven actives who were sitting at the head table in the dining room wearing emerald green hoods and sheets. The other actives, also wearing suits, were sitting on the dining room chairs in rows behind us.

One speaker after another read off a prepared text, mispronouncing every other word, telling us all the stupid, unrealistic values and ideals that we were supposed to follow throughout our lives: The Golden Rule, the Ten Commandments and the teaching of Jesus.

A bunch shit but who cared? I made the fraternity and I was a millionaire!

Half an hour of dumb speeches later, Stovepipe's voice came out of the mouth hole of the guy at the end of the table.

“Congratulations! You're now officially actives!”

Then Adams pinned our big, emerald green Sig O fraternity pins circled with chipped diamonds on our left jacket lapels and the party began. Televised locker-room celebrations following Super Bowl victories were nothing compared to ours!

It began the second everyone grabbed their first bottle of champagne. Everybody was shaking their thumb-covered bottles violently, before letting the delicious contents shoot out everywhere like an erupting volcano. Endless streams and streams of champagne sprayed on every surface: on the walls, on the furniture, on the floor, on the ceiling. We even poured it over each other's head. It took less than fifteen minutes for these animals to waste three cases, leaving the living room and dining room looking like the fire department doused an inferno in there.

Who cared if my hair and face and new blue suit was soaked? I was an active! Worth five million fucking dollars!

Good thing the catering staff was smart enough to keep the food in the kitchen so it wouldn't get ruined during the champagne demonstration. They mopped up the champagne on the floor and wiped off the furniture so the place was usable again.

As I was chug-a-lugging the last of my second bottle, Lyman walked up to me, holding a champagne bottle in his left hand. His right hand was outstretched.

“Congratulations. But I don't know how you did it.”

I was shocked at his good sportsmanship. I shook his hand. I could afford to be a good sport, too, since I won. “Thanks. No hard feelings.”

He nodded, taking the last swig from his bottle. “Me neither.”

_____

The reception was set for four.

Right on time, at 3:45, my special guest arrived: Jody, dressed in last night's outfit, but his hair and make-up looked like he spent hours fixing himself up. It was important that he got here before any of the other guests arrived.

All sound and movement stopped the second he walked into the living room with me.

“That's her!” Bookie suddenly screamed out. “That's the fucking faggot!”

Jody backed up as the mob circled him.

“I invited
her
,” I announced defiantly.

“Why?” somebody yelled out.

“You'll see in a minute.”

Hasse shoved his way through the crowd holding the pictures of Jody posing with me and Batman and Vysell. “It's her! No doubt about it!”

“It's a fucking guy!” Bookie screamed like a lunatic. “Stafford tricked us again!”

Jody looked at me for his cue. I nodded.

He strutted around the room facing the anxious, curious crowd before he walked to the side wall and stood there with his back to it. “Hi. I'm Jody,” came his rehearsed line.

He turned around and slid off his jeans and the same ripped,
purple panties as he wore yesterday, mooning everybody and getting a lot of laughs and applause.

Then he swirled around, flashing us the envy of every guy's fantasy!

“I TOLD YOU IDIOTS HE'S A GUY!” Bookie shrieked like a psycho. “I TOLD YOU WE COULD'VE KICKED OUT STAFFORD LAST NIGHT BUT NOBODY'D LISTEN TO ME!”'

“Let's do it now!” Thurley yelled out. “Let's have a special emergency vote!”

“Can't,” Adams growled. “His father's a fucking lawyer. He'll sue our asses off and probably win. We don't need any more problems around here.”

“He got voted in fair and square,” Lyman's voice called out, almost making me faint from shock. “Let's show him the real meaning of the fraternity's motto: WE PROMOTE FELLOWSHIP.”

“He's right,” Adams answered. “We did vote Stafford in.”

Christianson's voice seethed, looking at Jody's half-naked body that had a dick hanging halfway to his knees. “Pull up your pants and get the hell out of here you fucking faggot!”

“She's staying,” I answered stubbornly. “She's my guest. Other people invited guests and so can I.”

Jody's pants were still down, standing there casually with the beginning of a hard-on that would probably tap the tip of his nose when fully erect.

The doorbell suddenly rang. Guests were arriving! Even Jody had enough sense to instantly pull his pants up.

Lyman's Flipper mother was standing in the doorway with Headlights, missing Jody's performance by seconds. It puzzled me why Lyman's mother would show up to this event, especially if he's going to be a Sig O at Berkeley or Stanford next year. Castle's parents came since his father was in town on business anyway. A lot of the guys invited their girlfriends. Rawlings' parents were there, probably to confirm that their idiot son actually finished a semester of college. The place was jumping with people. Besides Jody, I invited Jackie D and Nuppi. What did I
care if Jackie D swung from tree branches or that Nuppi slithered through oily, legal loopholes. They were there for me.

The bar, with the top-shelf liquor, was the center of activity.

The smooth sounds of the three piece-jazz combo added the finishing touch to a class event. The buffet presentation looked awesome and my new fraternity brothers attacked it like starving Ethiopians.

Little knots of people were gathered all over, eating and drinking. Jody mingled around before he finally gravitated toward Jackie D at the bar, striking up a fast conversation.

Celebration was definitely in the air. Even the strain from the Ritual seemed to be history.

After a while, Christianson tapped a spoon against his high-ball glass, getting everybody's attention. “This is better than most weddings I been to,” Christianson began, his speech much slower than normal, thanks to the booze. “And now it's time to announce the pledge awards.”

One-by-one, Christianson called out different pledge's names. “Grossberg, the Leadership Award; Rickshaw Boy, the Athletic Award; Lyman, the Scholarship Award; Rainey, the Big Man On Campus Award.”

Each guy came forward and accepted a small plaque, mumbled a few drunken words of thanks, and sat down again. Christianson stopped and sipped his drink before he continued.

“We have one more award,” he announced, looking around the room straight-faced. “We only give it out when somebody really, really deserves it. The Dogshit Award. In fact it hasn't been given for three years. But in this pledge class, there's one guy who, without any doubt, deserves this award. And it goes to Kurt Stafford, Mr. Dogshit!”

Right then, while I got the biggest cheer of my life and faked a good-natured smile, I decided to give a thank-you speech.

By this time, the champagne and four Bombay tonics already kicked in. I struggled to stand up but made it by using a table for support, almost tipping it over. With increasing applause and laughter, I slowly wobbled to the front of the room.

Christianson handed me the plaque that had a huge, brown
dog turd glued onto the front of it. I looked at it and laughed along with the idiots in the audience.

I started to say something a couple of times but the cheering and laughter continued, getting louder and louder, drowning me out. Finally it died down and I got a chance to speak. But I wasn't Mr. Dogshit; I was Mr. Truth.

“You fuckers think you're so smart,” I began arrogantly in a slurred voice, “but you're not. Nobody except Lyman knows why I put up with all your shit just to get voted into this pissant fucking fraternity. And except for Batman and Vysell, the rest of you losers eat shit.”

The smirking, the jeering, the snide, laughing comments suddenly stopped. The room was absolutely silent. Nobody moved. Every eye there was on me. The room looked like it was on freeze-frame in a video. I took another big gulp of the drink and continued my tirade.