Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  I nod, motioning to my head and grinning when I say, “I know it well. What are y’all waitin’ for? Bag this shit!” I say with a smirk, motioning toward my head.

  Sarge smiles and slips the bag over my head gently, and then they guide me into the SUV, carefully seating me in the back.

  “Watch your toes,” Sarge says, nudging me in a bit and closing the hatch behind me. After a few moments, I hear him ask, “You alright back there?”

  I turn to look at the back seat where he sits, but can’t make out much of anything. I only know it’s him by the orange glow of his cigar.

  “Not too bad. Though, not too comfortable either.” I chuckle. “You really did this shit?” I ask as the vehicle starts moving.

  “Yeah. I didn’t really give a fuck. I was down for anything at that point. Just wanted to be a part of something. Probably the same reason you’re here now. Needed that taste of brotherhood again.”

  “How long were you in for?”

  “I did a little over six years. Got sick of deploying, so I got out and came here. I’m from Pittsburgh originally, so I figured I’d go somewhere close to home seeing as I had been gone for so long.”

  “MOS?” I ask, the first of my veteran confirmation questions. These are questions veterans ask each other to verify service. They’re basic questions any true servicemember could answer, but it trips fakes up expeditiously.

  “Eleven Bravo. Ended up going through sniper and Ranger school after OSUT.”

  One Station Unit Training. In order to describe OSUT, I’ll use the words of my drill sergeant when we graduated basic training and moved on to AIT (Advanced Individual Training) school to learn our new jobs: “Congratulations, motherfuckers. Nothing fucking changes. Now get on your faces and give me fifty!”

  Pass.

  “Nice. I was a Ranger too. Been overseas?”

  Test two.

  “Yeah, I was with Three-Seven-Five in Kandahar back in ’01, and again for the Iraq invasion in ‘03. And my last one was with the Two-Seven-Five in Helmand.”

  These aren’t numbers just pulled out of one’s ass, and any Ranger could decipher them upon listening.

  Pass.

  “Fuck, those were some nasty places. Wild fuckin’ West-type shit.”

  “Yeah, you’re telling me. It’s why I ended up getting out. Just too much fighting.” Sarge hesitates. “The guys told me about your eye. Where’d that happen?”

  “End of a tour with 1st Ranger Bat. out of Baghdad. Fuckin’ saw that shit coming too. We had just been talking about it a few days before it happened. Too many close calls. Too many idiot fuckin’ chiefs. Too many insurgents with hate in their hearts and a taste for blood.”

  Sarge nods. “You remember much of it?” he asks as the vehicle stops, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

  “Just blood. The taste of it. My teeth broken to pieces, spitting them out as best I could. This terrible sting that took up the spot where my teeth used to be. I couldn’t see anything. My ears were fucked. Ringin’ like a bitch. It was all just kind of a blur at that point. Docs put me in a coma for two weeks once we were rescued and I made it to the main combat hospital in Balad. I woke up in Germany, not rememberin’ what the fuck happened.”

  “Fuck, man. Well, glad you’re still here with us, fighting the good fight.”

  “You too, brother. You too.”

  Trevor clears his throat. “Sorry, guys. Don’t mean to interrupt, but it’s time to start,” he says, reluctance in his tone.

  “No worries. We’ll talk more later, Bishop.”

  “Definitely.”

  I feel a rush of cold air as the hatch opens, and then someone grabs my arm.

  “Alright bud, you can take this shit off now,” Trevor says, pulling the sandbag off my head and tossing it aside as he helps me out of the vehicle.

  “Thanks. That shit was hard to breathe through,” I say as my feet meet the gravel road. Barren trees surround us, dotted here and there with dense pines, as do about fifty guys with the Delta Iota Kappa letters on their chest, shivering hands in their pockets, and a stillness in the air around us.

  Trevor points toward the edge of the road, where I notice Carter, Mac, and Jeremy stand side by side, their arms linked together.

  “Head on over there, man, and link up with Jeremy.”

  I nod, approaching Jeremy and linking arms with him.

  “Good to see you here, brother,” I say.

  “Yeah, you too,” he replies. “Now I reckon the real fun begins.” He lets out a chuckle that’s quickly snuffed out by Trevor’s projected voice.

  “Alright, pledges,” he says, pacing in front of us. “First, congratulations on receiving bids for the Spring 2011 class of Delta Iota Kappa-Rho Chapter. We have nearly seventy years of existence at BSU, and over one hundred years of existence for the fraternity as a whole. Many great men have come before you, have stood where you’re standing, committing themselves to this chapter and the fraternity. This is a sacred place for DIK-Rho. This is where you start the journey. And this is where you will hopefully end it in two months, as a new DIK brother.” He pauses for a moment, stopping in his tracks and looking as if he’s gathering his thoughts.

  “This will not be an easy process,” he finally continues. “You will be tired. You will be annoyed. You will be pushed to your limits. Trust in the process. Support each other. Understand that this process is in place so that we are certain this fraternity consists of the best men BSU has to offer. Being that it’s the spring semester, there are much fewer of you than there would be in the fall. That means you’ll have to lift a heavier load. You’ll have to put more in. Are you ready for the challenge?”

  There are a few quiet “Yeahs” and nods between us, but Trevor isn’t satisfied.

  “Let’s try that again. Say it like you fucking mean it. I want to hear a ‘Fuck yeah’ from every swinging dick in line. Pledges, are you ready for this challenge?”

  “Fuck yeah!” we yell at the top of our lungs, our voices echoing throughout the woods, which is void of vegetation outside of the enormous pines scattered throughout. I can’t help but feel foolish at hearing my own voice echo. I’m taken back to when I was freshly nineteen, standing in formation for the first time, and allowing another man to ridicule and shame me. It feels even more emasculating now that I really am a man and my Army days are behind me.

  “That’s better.” He looks back at the large group of brothers behind him. “VP, you ready to lead this thing?”

  “Fucking right I am,” an African-American guy—six-foot-ridiculous and muscles exploding from his tank top, a tank top—responds. He runs a hand over his head as he approaches our line. Somehow, even as cold as it is, sweat beads speckle his bald head. In a loud, confident voice, he continues, “What up, pledges. The name’s Damian, and I’m the Vice President of DIK-Rho. I’ll be your point of contact for all things pledge-related. Your pledge class president will be your first in line. I am your second.” He points to Trevor. “Prez here is off-fucking-limits. Understood?”

  There’s a brief hesitation before we respond in unison, “Fuck yeah!”

  “Good. Now, follow me.”

  Damian saunters past our line and motions for a group of brothers at the woodline to make room. They spread out, and he passes between them. We follow behind him down a dirt path leading into the woods, toward a thick patch of pines that look as if they were strategically planted in a spacious circle long ago. Through the pines, I can see the flicker of flames from torches stuck into the ground, mimicking the pines’ circular pattern. Damian passes between the trees and we follow in after him. In the middle of the circle stand three men, cloaked in velvet robes, side by side. I feel like I’m in the middle of a fucking ritual sacrifice here, and we’re the unlucky virgins.

  I recognize Brady holding a skull at the far left of the line. The one in the middle wields a dagger, and the last one holds a book.

  “Are we gonna die here today?” Mac jokes as we stop
abruptly with Damian.

  “Hey Red,” Damian snaps, narrowing his eyes at Mac. “This is tradition. Respect it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry man,” Mac stammers.

  Damian motions toward the three robed brothers. “Line up and link up in front of ’em,” he says.

  We do as we’re told, facing the three robed officers, about three feet away from them. The brother on the far-right steps forward. He holds out the book in his hands to show it to us.

  “The bond of brotherhood is sacred,” he begins, his voice touched with a rasp, naturally quiet. “You are standing where thousands have stood before you, taking the oath that has echoed throughout these woods for seventy years,” he continues, his piercing blue eyes scanning us as the hood casts a shadow over his movie star features. “I’m Zane, the secretary of DIK-Rho, and one of my responsibilities is ensuring you not only repeat our sacred bond after me, but that you understand what it means and represents. The bond you are asked to assume contains three promises. A promise to maintain our principles, a promise to the brothers within this fraternity, and a promise to yourself. Listen carefully as I read this bond, and together repeat it after me: I promise to be guided by the Delta Iota Kappa principles, loyalty, charity, and honor in my fraternal relationships throughout my lifetime.”

  There is a momentary silence between us.

  “Am I talking to myself here, pledges? I said, repeat after me.”

  “I promise to be guided by the Delta Iota Kappa principles, loyalty, charity, and honor in my fraternal relationships throughout my lifetime,” we repeat, stumbling a bit in the middle.

  “I am a DIK!” Zane says, louder now.

  “I am a DIK!” we repeat.

  “I promise to share mutual respect and understanding for the uniqueness of each brother, depend on them as they depend on me, and support the welfare and wellbeing of every brother. I am a DIK!”

  We repeat him, Mac stumbling again over the words, which garners a nasty stare from Brady. I just want to laugh.

  “I promise to respect the bond, using my individual abilities to contribute as a responsible frater within the bond, guided by the principles our fraternity is based upon. I am a DIK for life!”

  I can’t help but feel silly as we repeat him again, but I maintain my bearing. I understand that I’m a unique exception to all this. For most of these brothers, this is the only discipline they’ve ever encountered. For me, it’s a sad realization that perhaps I’m taking backward steps here.

  “Good,” Zane says. “You don’t need to repeat this next part, but listen closely, as it is the very foundation of our fraternity. The first sentence of the bond you have just recited is a promise to maintain the principles of DIK. Our Declaration of Principles states: We believe that the essential elements of true brotherhood are loyalty, charity, and honor. Loyalty that is enduring and steadfast, the beat of fraternal heart. Charity that is spontaneous to see virtues in a brother and slow to rebuke his faults, the strength of fraternal bone. Honor that is conviction without conceit, pride without ego, preparedness, not overreaction, the might of fraternal mind. These are the triple obligations of the fraternal bond. These are the principles that you will carry with you and represent for the rest of your lives as members of Delta Iota Kappa.” Zane tucks the book in the crook of his armpit.

  “You will have our bond and Declaration of Principles memorized by next Friday,” Zane continues. “And if you carry with you these principles, and you commit to this bond, your name will go into this book, and you will enter a brotherhood for life.”

  Zane takes a step back in line and looks over toward the one with the dagger. “We have a task for them to complete tonight. Don’t we, Brother Tim?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, yeah, we do,” the middle guy with the dagger stammers as he digs into his pocket with his free hand. A thick, black beard juts down his chin, ending just before the Black Sabbath logo on the t-shirt beneath his robe. He steps forward, finally locating the paper, and he clears his throat.

  “Alright fuckers, here’s the deal.” He holds the dagger in the air and continues, “This dagger represents strength in unity, bravery, and protection. Together we are powerful, our unique—ah, fuck.” He takes a look to the sky in thought, scratching at his beard with the tip of the dagger. “Uh, fuck me. I got it—our unique attributes perfectly cohesive. Work together to obtain everything on this list.” He holds the paper out toward me. “Bishop, you’re the new pledge class president, as chosen by the brothers of Delta Iota Kappa. Take the list and see to it that you and your men complete it tonight.”

  He waves the folded paper at me until I unlink from Jeremy and take it. Opening it up, I have a second to glance over it before Damian clears his throat, drawing my attention.

  “Don’t look at it yet,” he snaps, motioning toward the paper. “Put it away and link back up.”

  I bite my tongue, folding the list up and pocketing it, as he nods toward Tim, who then falls back in line.

  As I link back up with Jeremy, Brady takes a step toward us, raising the skull in his hand.

  “The skull represents the secrecy you are obligated to uphold throughout your days as a Delta Iota brother or face a penalty of death,” he says. “The inner workings of our fraternity, from chapter level to Nationals, is reliant upon unwavering trust and secrecy. You will share nothing you experience during pledging with anyone outside of the fraternity. You will share nothing that is discussed with brothers after. Understood? Give me a ‘fuck yeah.’”

  “Fuck yeah!”

  Brady takes a step back in line and Damian motions for us to follow him.

  “Alright, let’s get you to the vehicles, bagged, and back to the house. And then the real fun begins,” he says, laughing maniacally, heading toward the road as we trail behind him.

  We’re all hooded again and put in our respective vehicles like luggage. I link my fingers together over my knees and lean my head against the back of the seat as the hatch closes. My mind is littered with apprehension, wondering if I even fully realize what I’ve gotten myself into.

  “Well, what do you think?” I hear Sarge ask from the back seat.

  “Weird shit, man.”

  Sarge laughs loudly. “Yeah, you can thank the frat forefathers for that. There’s a lot of ridiculous shit they put in the book back in the day that we’re still doing today for some reason. Just have to play along.”

  “Sounds like another book I know,” I say through a laugh. “Shit, I feel like I’m in basic training all over again.”

  “A little bit, but nothing like what we went through. This shit’s a cakewalk, considering.” In a softer tone, he continues, “And to let you in on a little secret, once you’re done with the scavenger hunt bullshit, you’ll be coming back to a rager. First party of the year. That has to be worth getting this shit done fast.” He pauses, adding, “Nah, it is worth it.”

  “Sarge,” Trevor scolds. “What the hell, man?”

  “Ah, come on, pretty boy. The dude fought for our fucking country and he’s old as dirt. He’s owed a little insider info.”

  “Yeah, alright, but Bishop, just make sure you keep that to yourself. Part of this whole thing is not knowing what’s ahead. I know you’ve done a lot of stuff like this already in your life, so you know how important the element of surprise is when it comes to these things.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about me. I get it. And I do appreciate the info, Sarge, but who you callin’ old? What are you, like fifty?”

  Sarge laughs. “Twenty-Nine, motherfucker. Old enough to be your father.”

  “Sarge, uh, you’re thirty, dude,” Trevor says, chuckling.

  “Not for another month, jackass,” Sarge says, shooting Trevor a sideways glance.

  “Well, you look like you’re fucking eighty, so who knows.” Trevor laughs. “Oh shit, you can take that stupid bag off your head, by the way. We’re almost to the house.”

  I pull the sandbag off and toss it aside. Wiping the
sweat from my forehead, I ask, “How many more times are we gonna be sandbagged like that? Felt like a fuckin’ captured insurgent.”

  “Only one more time, on the last day of Hell Week,” Trevor replies.

  “Hell Week? What are you guys, the fuckin’ Marines?”

  “Fuck no,” Sarge says, shaking his head adamantly. “Never Marines.”

  “Not quite.” Trevor laughs. “Not even close. But we have our own version of Hell Week. That time will come, though.” The vehicle comes to a stop and the hatch starts to open. “For now, you’ve got some shit to find.” Trevor grins, opening his door and exiting, as the rest of those in the vehicle follow suit. He meets me near the back of the SUV as I stretch my back with a stiff pop and then dig my cigarettes out of my pocket. The other pledges congregate in the parking lot a bit away from us, as dozens of the brothers from the initiation now exit their own vehicles and file through the basement door.

  Likely prepping for the party. Lucky bastards. I could really use a fuckin’ drink.

  “Once you guys get everything on the list, head back here,” Trevor says. “There’s no time limit, other than it must be done by morning. And obviously, you’ve got some motivation to finish early.” He leans in. “But remember to keep that between us. And have fun, man.” He slaps hands with me, heading toward the basement door. As he passes the other pledges, he juts a thumb back toward me. “You guys get with your Prez and he’ll get you situated,” he orders, disappearing through the doorway.

  My pledge brothers shuffle toward me, as I light a cigarette and then pull the list from my pocket, replacing it with the cigarette pack. They surround me as I hold the paper out for everyone to see under the dim streetlight and take a strong pull on my smoke.

  Through a smoky exhale, I say, “Alright, looks like we got our work cut out for us. I ain’t readin’ all this shit out loud but look over it and let’s figure out where to start.”

  Pledge Scavenger Hunt

  1.Obtain one of each of the following:

  Car tire

  Traffic cone