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The other four guys joined them. Me and the rest of the pledges were getting dressed, hanging on every word that was spoken.

“You're all expelled from school,” O'Neill said in a controlled, seething voice, but doing a poor job of concealing his pleasure.
“Again, this fraternity is officially closed down as of right now.”

Christianson's eyes got big as silver dollars and his mouth jerked open. “But I graduate next semester,” he murmured weakly.

“Me too,” Adams said.

“Me too,” Hasse mumbled.

“Too bad,” Buckskin sneered. “Not from here you won't.”

“Can't we talk about it?” Christianson pleaded in a sing-song voice.

Buckskin beamed. “With these pictures, what do you need to explain?”

Christianson pointed to the Chapter Room at the end of the hallway. “Please let's go in there and talk. Please. I'm begging you. For only a few minutes.” He sounded pitifully desperate.

O'Neill shrugged his shoulders and shot a fast look at the frown on Buckskin's face. “Very briefly.”

He and Buckskin followed the officers into the Chapter Room. Somebody closed the door from the inside, leaving everybody outside silent with shellshock while we got dressed.

Nobody cleaned up Zoom's piss. He disappeared somewhere which was nobody's loss.

Less than five minutes later Buckskin had a cocky smirk on his face when him and O'Neill walked out of the Chapter Room alone.

Buckskin's .35mm Minolta hung from a black strap around his shoulder. “Too bad you pledges wasted your time with these losers,” he said smugly.

Both men headed for the front door when I tried stopping them. “Wait a minute!” I cried out. “Something else you should know!”

They both stopped.

“What?” O'Neill asked, sounding annoyed.

I pointed to the Chapter Room. “Come back in here, for a minute, please. It's important to both of you.”

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Why?” Buckskin asked suspiciously.

“Kicking the officers out of school and closing the fraternity
is pretty drastic, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” O'Neill answered. “But you deserve it.”

“I'm not arguing with you. Just want to talk with both of you for one minute only. Sixty seconds. In private. Please. That's not too much to ask, is it, considering you're putting us out of business and expelling the officers?”

“All right,” O'Neill grunted. He looked at his watch. “No more than sixty seconds though.”

“Thank you.”

I rushed to the Chapter Room and opened the door. “They want to talk some more,” I hurriedly said to the surprised actives. “Let me deal with it.”

The five of them were silent as me and O'Neill and Buckskin walked inside. They sat down and I was the only person in the room still standing. The actives were exchanging puzzled looks with each other, obviously wondering what brought me and these two assholes back.

Learning from the lady rape cop, I started with a real attention-getter. I looked directly at O'Neill. “There was a detective here asking about you. Something about a hit and run case involving your car and a motorcycle.”

That fucker immediately flinched like he got jabbed in the ass with an ice pick.

“What about it?” he asked guardedly.

“The officer said that the rider was injured and there was paint on the motorcycle that looked like it came from your car.”

Only one of O'Neill's eyeballs clanged into Buckskin's but both men remained silent as I quickly continued innocently.

“Supposedly there were witnesses that said you were both drunk and that's why you drove off after you injured the guy.”

O'Neill's left eye was riveted to my nose. His other eye flitted around like an annoying bumblebee buzzing in my face. He started to say something but stopped.

“That's bullshit,” Buckskin snapped. “He's a fucking liar.”

I stayed calm. “Maybe.”

I stared back at O'Neill. “Guy claims he was seriously injured. Said he's got lesbian lawyer that's a real cunt
who's going to sue your ass.”

“How do you know?” O'Neill asked.

“He was here twice. Delivering telegrams.”

“So, what's that got to do with anything?”

“Well, there's a lot of guys here, including these fraternity officers, who could help your case against the motorcycle guy.”

“How?”

“If our guys heard the motorcycle guy admit faking the accident and wasn't injured and filed a fake police report only to sue you with a bullshit lawsuit, would it help you?”

The tension in the next five seconds of silence was electrifying. One of O'Neill's eyes continuously looked at me while the other one stared for a second at each of the other guys. Finally he twisted his neck around and faced Buckskin who nodded.

“Did the motorcycle guy really make statements like you said?”

“Yes sir, he did.”

His left eye sternly kept the stare, calculating and assessing, as he tried to read my mind. His other eye was making like a ping-pong ball crisscrossing the net in a championship tournament. More awkward silence passed. I knew I had to speed things up fast.

I turned toward Buckskin. “Also there's a complaint by a girl against you.”

“For what?” he screamed.

“Indecent exposure.”

He almost leaped out of the chair. “What?”

O'Neill smiled a little, proving at least that he was alive.

“Girl at the AA-drug house yesterday said that you exposed yourself to her, telling her that you wanted her to see your big, new dick. That you just got a penile implant.”

Instantly his face flushed crimson. He started to speak but only bits of spit shot out from between his lips.

O'Neill's faint smile got broader, displaying his Bug Bunny-size cap job. I guess Buckskin forgot to tell his boss that his dick size recently got increased.

Buckskin finally exploded. “She's full of shit!”

I was silent until he calmed down. “Maybe. But what will the school do when this hits the papers?”

“It's a fucking lie!”

“Was it also a lie when you told her that Hitler knew what to do with degenerates like her?”

Jeremy Hasse's eyes flamed. “You anti-Semite bastard!”

Bingo! I just discovered one of the two Jews!

I don't know how I stayed so calm but a green, neon, five-million-dollar-sign kept flashing on and off in front of my eyes.

“Maybe we can help you with that indecent exposure problem,” I suggested.

“How?”

“Maybe she told us she accidentally opened the bathroom door while you were taking a piss and is trying to hold you up for money with her lying story.”

“She say that?”

“Maybe.” I didn't dare look at Christianson or the other guys for fear of bursting out laughing. I continued slowly, “If somehow we get the girl to understand that she didn't actually see and hear what she claims, that maybe she made a mistake, that would really help you, wouldn't it?”

“Would she say it?”

“I don't know. The girl is stubborn. But she's really hot for Jack Christianson, here. Maybe he could try to convince her she's wrong about you before she calls the cops.” I paused for effect. “Unless she called them already.”

O'Neill didn't seem so scared any more. “What guarantee do we have that these favorable things that you're talking about will actually happen?” he asked suspiciously.

“You can always expel these guys,” I said pointing to the officers, “and close down the house if things don't go like I said I could arrange.”

O'Neill looked interested as his right eye focused on Buckskin. “What do you think?”

“They're bluffing,” he snarled. “Let's go.”

“Are you willing to bet your career on it?” I asked softly.

Buckskin was silent for the next few seconds while his lower
teeth chewed on the bottom of his mustache. O'Neill twisted his head back and forth slightly, like he was trying to make up his dumb mind too. Finally his eyes, both of them again, bore into mine. “OK, for now.”

“Um, excuse me,” I said as we all stood up, “but can I please have the film that was taken?”

“No,” Buckskin snorted. “It's our proof.”

I raised my open palms helplessly. “Then we got no deal.”

O'Neill scratched his chin for a few seconds and looked at Buckskin. “Give it to him.”

Buckskin looked shocked. “What? You mean you're completely giving in? The film's our insurance.”

“You heard me. Give it to him.”

Buckskin had a sour look on his face as he shook his head with obvious disgust. Slowly, he unsnapped the back of his camera, and pulled out the film cartridge and handed it to me.

“Remember, this isn't a free pass,” O'Neill growled at Christianson. “Only through tonight.”

“I understand,” Christianson answered, doing a lousy job of trying to cover up his relief.

“And this conversation here better stay in this room.”

“Agreed,” Christianson answered quickly.

Buckskin looked at me. “You're the guy with the D and the F, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“What's your name?”

“Kurt Stafford.”

He snickered. “Stafford, you better clear up this mess fast because you'll be gone from here by the end of the week.”

As soon as O'Neill and Buckskin left the room and the door was closed behind them, all five actives looked at me like I just landed in the room on a flying saucer with Elvis.

“Where'd you get that shit about O'Neill and the hit and run?” Christianson asked, laughing.

“The pledges helped the motorcycle guy build a fake case against O'Neill because he's an asshole.”

“He really hit and run the guy?” Reese asked, smiling broadly.

“Fuck no. O'Neill was talking on his cell phone and wasn't watching where he was driving. He was only going about five miles an hour and the motorcycle guy slid out his bike on the grass to avoid an accident.”

“Was he injured?” LeRoy asked.

“Hell no. But his brother's shack-job is a lawyer so she's suing O'Neill.”

“What about the paint from the car onto the motorcycle?” Hasse asked.

“We told the motorcycle guy that it was O'Neill who ran him off the road and where to find O'Neill's car so he could rub the motorcycle fender on it.”

“You tell him to file a fake police report too?” Christianson asked.

“Yeah.”

“And what's this shit about Buckskin?”

I laughed out loud. “Rainey found out he had a penile implant from some mail in Buckskin's car. I confirmed it with the clinic.”

“He really expose himself to some girl?” LeRoy asked.

I laughed. “Fuck no. And you know who the so-called victim is? Jackie D.”

Everybody burst out laughing.

Adams picked up the idea first. “Since he never told anybody about the penile implant, how could Jackie D be making it up if he didn't tell her? And his purple-face reaction proved to O'Neill that Buckskin had the operation.”

I smiled. “Right.”

Christianson shook his head. “Got to hand it to you, Stafford, what you just did for us is what fraternities are all about: promoting fellowship. You saved the fraternity, at least for now. And saved us from getting kicked out of school. Jesus, thanks. What else can I say?”

“Well, there's one thing you can do for me.”

“What?”

“Get rid of Lyman.”

Wednesday, January 22
11:55
A.M
.

L
YMAN'S SCREAMS OF JOY AND LAUGHTER
were the longest and loudest. And for five million good reasons.

Adams was reading off the grades again from a newly-delivered batch of postcards. I quickly chomped down on half a dozen Rolaids but they didn't help much.

“Stafford. You got a D in Sociology.”

“You raised your .5 GPA up to a .667,” Bookie-the-mathematician yelled out laughing. “I'm not taking bets on you flunking out any more. It's a done deal.”

He was right. There was no way for me to get a 2.0, straight C average, with only one grade left. It was English, and it would take a miracle to get a C which would still keep me way under a 2.0. And even then, I wouldn't have the necessary 12 units because of the F in Man & Civ. Fuck!

The familiar gurgling of nausea stared again. My knees were wobbly and sudden flashing chills made me shiver. As Adams continued reading other people's grades, I desperately tried to make it to the downstairs toilet behind the kitchen.

But as I started to push open the kitchen door, whatever was
in my stomach leaped out of my throat like in the
Alien
movie. Thick crap that looked like a freshly-cooked Denver omelet splattered all over the linoleum floor.

My stomach was continually dry-heaving when Adams and some of the pledges walked over to me, laughing.

“Sorry about the grades, Stafford,” Adams said, sounding like he really meant it. “Especially after last night.”

None of the rest of the guys except Batman and Vysell seemed too concerned about me, no doubt doing their own arithmetic and already subtracting me from the eleven guys who could make the fraternity.

I sneaked a look at the grade chart. Zoom's name was now circled in red with a diagonal line through it, joining the other losers who were gone. The only other change was that there were more B's and C's posted plus Lyman's new A giving him three A's. My two D's and the one F were still the only grades anybody got under a C.