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“We're starting the Ritual now.” He looked at Dung. “Come with me. You're first.”

As they were about to enter the Chapter Room, Adams looked over at us. “Keep marching and chanting.”

Our movement was less than slow-motion and our voices were nothing but exhausted, mumbled whispers.

_____

Finally, Dung came out of the Chapter Room and closed the door behind him.

“Time, Castle,” Grossberg called out again.

“A little after ten-fifty.”

Dung's eyes were red and bloodshot. It was obvious he'd been crying. He walked slowly over to us, head down, like he was about to mount the gallows steps.

Our sound and movement now completely died. “What'd they ask?” everybody asked anxiously.

He shook his head. “I'm out of here if I tell you anything.” He choked and swallowed before tears dripped down both cheeks. “I'm probably out of here anyway.”

Adams came out again. “Dung, we told you to tell Hymen to get in here.”

Lyman seemed glad to get off the stairs and almost too happy as he hurried toward the Chapter Room.

“Keep it going!” Adams barked at us.

While Lyman was still in the open doorway, he twisted his neck around, looked directly at me on the stairs and blew me a kiss! Then he followed Adams inside the Chapter Room and the door closed.

That slit-eyed motherfucker made no secret that he was still out to destroy me!

“On the stairs everybody,” rah-rah Grossberg called out, going to the front of the line. “Let's march and chant some more.”

We stopped at the upstairs landing and stomped on the floor a little to make it seem like we were marching. Everybody turned to Dung.

“So what'd they ask you?” Rickshaw Boy demanded.

“A lot of personal shit. Who'd I like best in the pledge class? Who'd I liked worst? What actives did I like best? And who I like worst? Shit like that.”

“So, what'd you say?” Grossberg persisted. “Spit it out already.”

“That I liked all the pledges and all the actives except Janus.”

“What'd they say to that?” Vysell asked.

Dung shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, except they laughed. They laughed at everything. It was humiliating.”

“What else they ask?” Castle demanded.

“Was Jackie D the only girl I ever fucked?”

“What'd you say?” Holmes piped up.

Dung's chin dropped to his chest. “Uh, yeah. But that wasn't the worst question.”

“What was?”

“Did I ever have gay sex?”

“What'd you say?” Rainey asked quickly.

“I asked them if they meant in high school or college.”

“What'd they say?” Rickshaw Boy asked, shaking his head a little, snickering.

“Either one.”

“How'd you answer the question?”

“I told them the truth. I had to. Otherwise they said they'd kick me out.”

“So what'd you tell them already?” Grossberg pressed.

“I said, ‘Not in college but that I let a few guys suck me in high school. And I jacked-off a couple of guys there too. But that's all,'” he said quickly, as if his stupid explanation was sufficient. “‘And nothing since college.'”

“Fucking faggot,” I answered.

“Fucking idiot,” Rawlings muttered.

The rest of us looked at each other, shaking our heads, snickering, looking dumbfounded that Dung did what he did and then
admitted it.

“They ask you anything else?” Rainey asked.

Dung breathed heavily, taking uneven breaths before he looked directly at me. “They asked me a bunch of questions about Stafford.”

“Like what?” I demanded.

He smiled a little. “Like what dirt does anybody have on you that they can use to kick you out.”

“What'd you tell them?”

“Only that I heard a rumor, that's all.”

“What?” I challenged.

“A big surprise is coming. But I don't know what.”

“Who'd you hear it from?” I demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. Can't remember if I overheard some actives or pledges talking about it.”

_____

For the next few hours we struggled up and down the stairs and mumbled the chant so softly it was almost impossible to hear. Meanwhile one guy after another took their turn in the Chapter Room. Consensus was that Dung was right; the actives were asking one stupid question after another, just trying to get humiliating answers like he gave. And most of the questions for everybody were nearly the same. Like they were reading from a script.

Rickshaw Boy was in there now. I was being saved for last.

Finally he came out, looking pale and exhausted. “They want you now Stafford,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

_____

The Chapter Room was almost completely dark as I walked in and closed the door. The only light was from the tiny flickering candle on a table in the corner.

“Pledge attention!” Bookie's voice barked out from the chair facing me.

I got in that stupid position, standing on my tiptoes with my elbows back as far as possible while holding my palms upward,
chest high, parallel to the floor. There was a small table in front of Bookie with another chair opposite Bookie's. Resting on the table was a purple gooseneck lamp that was turned off.

“Who're you?” he yelled. “Sound off!”

He didn't have to fake anger. He had twenty thousand goddamn good reasons to be angry.

“Kurt Stafford.”

“Kurt Stafford, sir!” he screamed like a psycho.

“Kurt Stafford, sir,” I answered matter-of-factly.

My elbows were getting sore holding them so far back so I eased up a little and lowered my palms as much as possible without being obvious. I stood there in the nearly-dark room forcing a bland look on my face. No matter what, these guys weren't going to get me riled up so I'd quit.

“You know that at least one pledge is getting thrown out tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Think that's fair?”

“Yeah. We knew the rules when we started.”

“Who's name did you write down on the card?”

“Lyman's.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yeah, but that Flipper's adopted.”

“Some family,” he snorted. “Now sit the fuck down.”

As soon as I was seated, somebody turned on the purple lamp with the bright bulb facing me, making it almost impossible to see more than forms beyond the light.

Like he was beginning a game of solitaire, Bookie laid out eleven cards side-by-side, face-down on the table.

“Whoever gets more votes on these cards is kicked out tonight. You understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Turn over the first card on the left,” he ordered.

I turned it over slowly. It was my card, the eight of clubs. Lyman's name, in my handwriting, was on the card in black ink. Somebody wrote my name in red at the bottom of the card.

“Hyman, one vote,” he said. “Now you announce the name
of the pledge written on each card as you turn it over and tell us what pledge's name, written in red at the bottom, voted that guy out.”

I turned the next card over. “Holmes votes me out.”

Bookie was his cocky self again. “It's one to one. Keep going hotshot.”

I twitched like somebody jabbed a pin in my gut as I turned over the next card.

“Rickshaw Boy votes me out.”

“All-right,” Bookie said, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Two for Stafford, one for Hyman. Keep going, buddy. You're doing great.”

The voting began as predicted.

“Vysell votes Lyman out.”

“Two for Stafford, two for Hyman. Continue.”

“Lyman votes me out,” I said slowly as my right knee started bouncing again. I tried to stop it but I couldn't.

Cheering and clapping began.

“You're winning Stafford,” Bookie needlessly reminded me, “3-2.”

I refused to be suckered into answering.

“Next card,” he snapped impatiently.

“Grossberg's card says nobody.”

“But you're still winning,” Bones said.

This was one election I desperately had to lose. I was so goddamn nervous that I had trouble picking up the next card. Finally I turned it over.

“Batman votes Lyman out.”

“Tie again,” Bones said. “Stafford, three, Hyman, three, one abstention with four more votes to go. Next card.”

“Castle votes me out.”

Bones' loud and obnoxious clapping continued except that he was joined by a bunch of other drunk hecklers.

“All-right!” Bones cried out again, “Stafford's still winning, 4-3.” He looked at me. “You're ahead champ,” he sneered.

My familiar double-time heartbeat was picking up speed as I sat there motionless and rigid.

“Turn the next one over!” Teddy Sinclair demanded, laughing.

“Rainey votes Lyman out.”

“Four to four!” Stovepipe screamed, walking over to Bookie.

My breathing was coming in spurts. My throat was so dry I could hardly speak. There were only two cards left: Rawlings' and Dung's. Dung was predictable but maybe Rawlings took the thousand dollar bait I dangled in front of him this afternoon.

I turned over the next card. “Dung votes me out.”

“Five to four, Stafford,” Stovepipe announced excitedly, laughing through his puffy lips again. “You're on your way out of here! Might as well quit now!”

My fate rested with that thick-necked, moron, Rawlings. I felt the beginning of paralysis in my right arm. My fingers were so taut it was almost impossible to bend them to pick up the last card. Like if I had rheumatoid arthritis.

“Keep going!” Christianson ordered. By now, my right hand felt useless so I gingerly picked up the last card with the fingers of my left hand. But I was in no hurry to turn it over.

Bookie got up and walked around the table and stood over me. His breath smelled like he just eaten sweet-and-sour chicken. “Bet you the twenty grand back that you can't tell me what pledge's name is on this card.”

I was too nervous to speak. Instead I shook my head.

“Then turn it over,” Bookie demanded.

I could feel the sweat on the back of my neck. Then I could feel sweat forming on my forehead and down the side of my temples.

“Look at his forehead,” Stovepipe said laughing. He lifted up the lamp and stuck it right in front of my face. “He's got good reason to sweat!”

He put the lamp back on the table and pointed to the last face-down card again. “TURN IT OVER, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!” his voice thundered.

I felt like I was announcing my own death sentence. Unless this card had Lyman's name on it — anybody else's name didn't matter — unless Lyman's name was on the card, I was fucking
history! And after all I did for these ungrateful guys!

I never thought I'd play Russian Roulette again for five million dollars after Bookie made me flip a coin on Pledge Pin Night about four months ago; but here again, I had no choice. I felt more sweat dripping under my arms as my left hand crept along pinching the card. Sweat from my forehead ran down into my right eye, making me squint.

I held the card by my fingertips in the left bottom corner and flipped it over slowly.

“Rawlings votes out Lyman!” I screamed. “It's a 5-5 tie!”

“You only got a temporary reprieve,” Bookie snapped. “But since you're tied with Hyman, one of you will be gone.”

“Who's it going to be?” Stovepipe said lightly. “You or him?”

“Lyman. I saved the house and the officers by getting O'Neill out of trouble,” I said in a garbled voice.

“You mean, you blackmailed O'Neill,” Christianson said ungratefully.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Made him a deal.”

“Who else you scam since you got here?”

“I don't know.”

“Buckskin?”

“I guess so.”

“You cheated your way into school too, didn't you?”

“Yeah.”

“And paid somebody to do all your assignments, didn't you?”

“Mostly.”

“How'd you get that F turned into an A?” Bookie growled. “Who'd you bribe or threaten?”

A bunch of guys laughed.

“Nobody.”

“How'd you get one of the D's turned into a C?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Just a lucky news tip.”

“Probably bribed or blackmailed that professor too,” he correctly guessed.

“Wrong,” I lied evenly.

“Something we want to know, Stafford,” Bookie growled.

“Yeah, what?”

“What the hell you really here for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You've made a mockery of school, so obviously you're not here to learn anything.” He paused and I didn't answer so he continued trying to bait me in the same snarling voice. “But what we really want to know is, why you want to be in this fraternity?”

“What do you mean?”

“With the exception of Batman and Vysell, none of the pledges can stand you. We just proved that. Excluding you, five of the other nine pledges who voted, voted you out. And with maybe one or two exceptions and only-God-knows-why, all the actives hate you too.”

I stood there silently.

“Aren't you going to answer?” Stovepipe screamed.

“Answer what?”

“Why you want to be in this fucking fraternity?”

“So I can be friends with guys like you.”

Before the laughter stopped, Christianson stood up and walked over to me. Fire was in his eyes. “Let's cut the shit. We know if we kicked you out, you were planning on blackmailing us.”

I was genuinely surprised not only by his sudden anger but that he could read my mind. “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.

Christianson's eyes were glazed and glossy, like the eyes of a maniac! From his back pocket, he pulled out a yellow photo envelope. Sheer hatred shone on his face as he removed a set of Buckskin's incriminating photos.