======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
“Get this sh*t cleaned up! We have a party tonight.”
I was with McHorn, our New Member Educator, as he supervised the pledges for a deep cleaning of the basement. McHorn had them on their hands and knees, scrubbing the unholy filth off of our ancient tiled floor with Dollar Store toothbrushes.
“Oral B’s too good for you, limp dicks!” he barked. “Put your damn backs into it. I want to be able to eat pussy off this floor!”
Out of the corner of his eye, McHorn spotted a pledge sneak a glance at something in his pocket.
“IS THAT A PHONE?!” blared the Educator. “EVERYBODY, PHONES OUT!”
The pledges groaned and reluctantly took out their last connection to the outside world. McHorn tossed them in a black trash bag.
“You can have these back when you STOP BEING SUCH PIECES OF GARBAGE!”
McHorn coughed and took a long pull of Crown Tsar.
“Jesus Christ. These pledges, man. Fuck.”
“Bang up job as Rush Chair, Franz. Why can’t you get me some quality goddam recruits?”
“I mean, Johnson’s dad’s a US Senator…” I offered.
“He’s a liberal fucking Democrat. Doesn’t count.”
McHorn strode proudly to the other side of the basement with all the raw majesty of a silverback gorilla.
“When we were pledges, we made the actives shit their pants. We drank harder than them, we got with hotter girls than them, and we could wrestle any one of those fuckers to the ground,” McHorn slurred, sweeping his arm around the room. “Now look at these jizzbags.”
He swished the vodka around near the bottom of the half-gal.
“LISTEN UP!” McHorn yelled. “I got about one pull left here, and if there’s any one of you that hasn’t done 10 legit fucking pushups before I’m done, you’re all getting waterboarded with Everclear tonight. GO!!!”
It was only the fear of God and a tool of McHorn’s own design called “The Pledgucator” that got the miserable wretches through their arching, terrible-formed pushup set, but they did it. McHorn tossed the empty bottle in the corner.
“Alright! Back to work! And somebody pick that up!”
We walked over into the Chapter Room, a cold, joyless hole where the pledges had been shut in with a pallet of 40s the night before. McHorn put a padlock on the outside of the door and told the pledges that the beer had better be all gone by the time he came back in the morning or he’d randomly drop one of them in the woods to be hunted for sport.
“When we did the Lock-In, I drank half of that shit myself. Do you remember?”
One of the pledges was scrubbing the tiles behind us.
“Look at this!” McHorn wailed, pointing at a row of bottles along the wall. “They didn’t even fucking finish it all!”
He held up one of the half-full forties. The pledge stopped, his eyes locked on us.
“This is a fucking disgrace!” McHorn shouted. Then he took a massive swig.
A look of soul-clenching horror came over the pledge. I watched his face go pale white and all the blood drain from his cheeks. He was quaking, his eyes frozen and unblinking. The pledge backed away slowly, groveling on his knees.
McHorn spat the liquid on the ground.
“Fuck me. That’s flat as hell!” he yelled in disgust. “God, it doesn’t taste like beer at all. It’s…kind of soapy…”
The pledge looked like he was about to faint. Quivering, he managed to open his mouth and squeak.
McHorn’s scream shook the house to its very foundation. People walking outside on the sidewalk thought it was a fire alarm going off. McHorn ran upstairs to the nearest bathroom and puked three times, but not even a lifetime of cold showers could wash away what had happened. The foul spirit was inside him now, and his power had been broken. From that moment on, no matter what McHorn ever did, what he became, he would always and forever be the Pledge Trainer that drank pledge piss.
And that, boys, is why you never go for the assist on a morning-after beer..