======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
An hour after the fact, and we’re finally at the venue. I guess that’s what I get for using a cash-only bus company that has no website and a P.O. box for a business address. Pretty sure this driver is shithoused right now, too. Dude reeks of tequila and missed the exit a half dozen times. The fact that we’re still alive and well is actually a miracle. Small victories, Dan. Plus, we were treated to Travis getting in a few more ruthless lotties about Scotty hooking up with that portly goblin, Chelsea. She’s currently in the coach bathroom bawling her eyes out. We’re going to have to get her out of there eventually. I’m in no rush, though. The less my eyes are subjected to her FUPA pouring out of her crop top, the better. Thankfully, none of her sisters seem to care. Fuck. Am I going to have to talk this girl out of her piss covered safe space? Yup, the bus is clearing out. Dammit, Travis.
No answer. I don’t hear anything. Did she off herself? How would she do that? Did she drown herself in toilet water? Wait, that’s not possible. It’s dry until you flush. Oh, great. Here comes our stumbling three sheets to the wind chauffeur.
“Yo no hablo español.”
What’s the universal sign for some hysteric bitch locked herself in the bus bathroom? Sí? You understand? I’ll give myself a pat on the back for that one. I bet I could figure out the life story of a Tibetan monk solely through hand gestures. What is he doing? It doesn’t look like he has a key.
*Driver kicks the door in.*
That was incredible. But where the hell is she? Chelsea? Did she vanish into thin air? That would be the greatest magic trick of all time: making that human exercise ball disappear. Sorry…Juan. That’s actually what his name tag says? You couldn’t just be a Mike or Dave, huh? Well thanks for making me feel like a racist asshole just acknowledging your stereotypical hispanic name. I’m not paying for you spartan kicking in the door, either. I need to get to the bar to open the tab.
Awesome, looks like everyone filed in already. Except Katie. She does not look happy with me. Shocker, more brothers were being relentless dickheads to her friends. She’s definitely still pissed off about last night, too. I went halfsies on Plan B. What’s the issue? Let’s just simmer down, get a few drinks, enjoy the event we both planned, and cap off the evening with some worry free raw dog. No harm, no foul. Who are we waiting on to check in? Chelsea?
“Uh, I have no idea.”
That girl is fucking Houdini. I’ll leave Katie to it. It’s probably not happening tonight, anyway.
Why is Joe getting escorted out? We’ve been here five minutes. That’s got to be a new record.
Now this bar decides to care about underage drinking? Granted he went a little hard at pregame, but I’m paying these dingleberries to look the other way. There’s Ben. Good. His problem as president, not mine.
Jesus, this looks like a middle school dance. Hey guys, maybe interact with the women. Actually, looking around, there’s not a whole lot of talent to work with. What happened to Omega Chi? Is this an Eskimo Bros, Beluga Whale Hoes social? I need to get the booze flowing, immediately. And we’re open for business. Drink your standards away, boys.
It’s painfully quiet. Where’s that DJ I dished out an extra fifty bones to? The speakers blew? Great. No music. Let’s just turn up to the awkward silence and high-tension of former drunken booty calls gone horribly awry.
“So shots, everyone?”
Finally, some enthusiasm. Yeah, put it all on the fraternity card and keep them coming. Ben is going to murder me when he sees this bill. I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to use chapter funds on alcohol to begin with. But why would he even give me the card if that was the case. That’s just irresponsible on his end.
A few hours in, and it’s getting sloppy. At least people seem to be having a good time right now. The dance floor has become a daggering competition, and Travis just took some gargoyle into the bathroom with him. Some good ammunition for Scotty on the way home. Speaking of Scotty, where is…is that Jerry atop of the bar? What’s the big man doing?
*Jerry jumps off the bar and elbow drops through a pool table*
Holy shit! That can’t be good. Nope. Here comes security. And now the manager. We still have twenty minutes before last call. Apparently not. Honestly I’m not even upset. That was impressive. I didn’t think Bills Mafia-ing through a billiards table was possible. I’m not even going to look at this receipt. Great, Ben just walked back in. I’ll let him deal with everything.
What are the odds I can salvage the night with Katie? Has to be like 70/30 at this point, right?
*Katie gives a glaring, soul-piercing stare.*
Maybe 60/40. I still like my chances. So long as Juan doesn’t pass out at the wheel and kill us all. You got this, player. Take her by the hand, lead her onto the bus, and work that notorious charm of yours on the way home.
*Shadows can be seem gyrating in the back of the bus.*
Is that? I’m going to puke.
*The blobby figure of Chelsea riding a blacked out Scotty becomes more visible.*
And I’m done for the night. Some things just can’t be unseen..