“Welcome to McGinnis Manor, my humble abode. I’m yer host fer today’s festivities, JD McGinnis. The JD stands fer Jack Daniels on account a’ I drink it so damn much.” He grunts, draining the last of the beer can and crumpling it. He tosses it to the ground and lights another cigarette.
“Does JD really stand for Jack Daniels?” Mac asks.
JD shakes his head, letting the smoke exit his mouth in little circles. “Naw, my given name was Jameson Decker, but ain’t nobody allowed to call me that.”
“Well, if you liked Jameson, that’d really work out well, huh?” I say, cracking a smile, and he shoots me a glare.
“Jameson?!” he barks. “I don’t drink that distilled horse piss!”
“It’s actually pretty good,” I argue.
“No, no, no … it’ll be JD to y’all, or Señor Advisor. Or Marky Mark.”
“Oh, were you an early nineties pop sensation?” I ask, smirking.
He shakes his head, taking a long draw from his cigarette, and looks at me through the smoke. Abruptly, he jumps up and does a full body twist. Landing unsteadily, he starts to grind his hips. “No … but I got his moves though. Ow!” He grabs his crotch with one hand and runs his other hand along the side of his head like he’s Fonzie. He then turns on his heel and motions for us to follow. “C’mon inside, boys. We’ve got some Jack to drink and some Principles to recite.”
Entering the trailer, I find weed is most definitely to blame for his fucked up eyes as the smell clings to the air.
After making each of us stand side by side to recite the Declaration of Principles—only Mac fucking it up, of course—he squeezes the four of us together on a musty couch across from him as he lounges in a recliner with his sandaled feet propped up. Trevor and Damian sit on the edge of his bed at the rear of the trailer, and well, isn’t that just cute.
The interior of his glorious single-wide looks like a museum for the fraternity. The official seal, color, and letters are everywhere, from the throw rug by the front door, to the lamp beside his recliner, to the wallpaper that lines the walls.
JD tilts his head, nodding toward me. “You the vet, I reckon?”
“That’d be me. Bishop.” I put my hand out and he leans forward, shaking it firmly, and then passes me a quick salute.
“88 Mike myself. Served in Desert Storm ’fore I came here. Yer in a long line of Army brethren here in DIK.”
“Happy to be a part of it.”
“And we’re happy to have ya.” His eyes trail the four of us. “All y’all. Welcome to my home, and to this night in the process. By the end of this night, y’all will’ve killed this bottle a’ Jack with me and told me all about DIK history. Tell me like I still got shit stains in my drawers.” He snaps his fingers toward Trevor and Damian. “One of y’all grab us some shot glasses. Top cabinet next to the fridge.”
The two of them argue in whispers before Damian huffs his way toward the kitchen.
“Delta Iota Kappa is a way of life, gentlemen. It’s a brotherhood,” JD continues. “It’s a family. We have each other’s backs—” He’s interrupted by Damian setting four shot glasses onto the coffee table. “Y’all are on the cusp of greatness. Ya gotta finish strong. Work together. And the whole world is at yer disposal.”
I fight the urge to scan his small trailer, judgment burgeoning.
He fills each of the shot glasses, and I wonder if he’s forgotten one for himself, but then he holds the bottle up in a cheers. “Grab yer shots, boys.”
We retrieve them from the table and meet the bottle in the air.
“I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole till I die. But I’d rather be an asshole, than a goddamned Beta Chi,” he chants, tossing the bottle back. We down our shots, and I fight the urge to vomit it back up as I slam the shotglass back down on the coffee table.
Nope, I haven’t missed Jack one bit.
“Let me tell y’all a story, boys … an important one,” JD says, leaning back in his recliner with the bottle, after filling our shot glasses back up. He waves toward them with his free hand. “Take yer time with those. We got plenty more waitin’ on ya.” He lets out a heavy breath and then continues, “I was stationed in Korea, back in ’89. On leave one time, I went down to the Philippines. Beautiful place, if ya ever catch yerselves around the area, but goddamn, is it hot. Hotter than the devil’s taint. I’m talkin’ sweatin’ like a whore in church, gentlemen. So, in the Philippines, they got these special kinda bars. Nice places. Cheap beer. Topless bitches. Great place for us military folk.”
He motions to me, and I nod.
“Let me tell y’all, if you’d a’ told me this story without me seein’ it fer myself, I’d a’ told ya to shove it where the sun don’t shine. But God as my witness, these women put goddamn bananas in their pussies.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Bananas in their pussies, gentlemen, and they walk around with these bananas up inside ’em. They went from table to table, and if ya put yer hand out—”
“Oh no,” Mac groans.
“Oh yeah. Ya bet yer ginger ass. Ya put yer hand out, and she’d let that banana slide out just a little, and then she’d cut a piece off fer ya usin’ her snatch like a goddamn cigar cutter.”
“Oh no,” Mac repeats, shaking his head with his hands to his mouth.
“Oh yeah, Carrot Top. If ya decided to put yer hand out, you had to eat that piece of banana, no question.”
“Wait, so, like, you had to eat it? I mean, what, do they hold a gun to your head?” Mac asks.
JD leans in a little and responds, “Goddamnit, Richie Cunningham, it’s called tradition. Yer civilian ass just couldn’t understand.” He looks toward me. “Right, Bishop?”
I shrug. “I mean, I’m not puttin’ my fuckin’ hand out. Christ no. But, I can see the honor in eating the motherfucker if you have the stones to put your hand out.”
“Damn straight!” JD hollers. “It tasted like soured milk.”
Mac puts a hand to his mouth and groans.
“I can tell by y’all’s faces yer wonderin’ what the moral to the story is.”
I nod. “Absolutely,” I reply with a grin.
“The lesson learned here, my friends, is that when yer offered fruit from a woman’s puss, ya don’t eat it, or else ya may find yerself in a Filipino medical clinic fer gonorrhea of the mouth the next morning.”
There’s a still silence between us as we mull over what he’s just said before Jeremy cracks up laughing.
JD waves us off with a laugh of his own. “I’m just fuckin’ with y’all. But I sure as shit ate that banana. I don’t think I’d put my hand back out though.”
“Not that I don’t enjoy some overripe puss,” he adds, matter-of-factly. “Ya gotta enjoy the stinky stuff sometimes too. They need lovin’ just like the sweet ones do.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.” I laugh. “Seems unsanitary.”
“Let me tell ya, some of the best pussy I ever had smelled like Homeless Hank’s rotten asshole.”
“Hey, JD. Can we get some of that?” Damian asks.
JD side-eyes him. “None a’ this.” He cradles the bottle. “It’s fer me and the pledges. Y’all can grab Busch from the fridge.” He motions his head toward the kitchen.
“How nice of you,” Damian mutters as he crosses the room.
“I don’t like them two very much,” JD says, motioning toward Trevor and Damian, not being discreet about it in the slightest. “I’ve spent many a year here in Crescent Falls, gentlemen. I’ve seen hundreds of boys come through here and become men. The DIK way a’ life is a good one. It’s a proud one. It’s an honorable one. And goddamn, is there pussy aplenty!” He slaps his knee, cackling as he refills our shot glasses.
“You ever wonder how many STDs pass through this motherfucker?” I ask, laughing.
“More than ya know. I’ve had a few close calls myself. Lotta run-ins with the tainted pussy.”
I shake my head, a disgusted knot in my throat. “Is there
a line where maybe too much has been said?” I ask.
He shrugs, tossing back the bottle before settling it back in his lap. “I don’t believe there is. Ask me in about an hour when I get real filthy.”
“Oh, I can’t wait.”
“Now listen, fellas. I ain’t talkin’ about regular ol’ butt play here. I’m talkin’ straight fist in the ass. Elbow deep.” JD grunts, the bottle, near empty, wobbling in his hands. “She had these rubber gloves in her nightstand. Big tube a’ Astroglide too. Took two fists most nights.”
I shake my head slowly, my eyes wide. I shouldn’t be shocked anymore by the shit that comes out of his mouth, but I am. “That’s fuckin’ disgusting, dude,” I say.
“Ya don’t know the half of it. When ya got two whole arms up inside a chick’s asshole, ticklin’ her small intestines, ya pull back out and that asshole’s all puckered up like some alien fuckin’ pod, man. All angry like. Y’all must a’ seen some of them videos.”
“Unfortunately,” I respond, shaking my head. “For the briefest of fuckin’ moments thanks to a dickhead in my squad. I’m not a fan like you. That shit grosses me out.”
“Oh, I get off on it, man. Seein’ that gapin’ butthole after I’ve worked the fuck out of it. Shit.”
“I feel like we’ve talked about ass stuff just so much tonight.” I laugh, feeling a heavy buzz after five or six shots.
“Welcome to my world,” JD says. Whatever that means.
“Did we pass the test?” Carter asks, and JD one-eyes the bottle.
He nods. “In about one more shot, y’all are good. Mac, ya need to study more. Everybody else, y’all are good in the history department.”
“Will do,” Mac says, his drunken eyes trained on the floor as he picks at his fingernail. “Sorry.”
“It’s all good, Rick Astley.” He points his finger at us. “Y’all are a team. The three of ya need to help him out.”
“Roger that,” I respond, nodding my head. “I should’ve kept up with it.”
“Well …” JD nods toward the bottle, a drunken gleam in his eyes. He pours the last four shots and holds the bottle up. “This is the last of it. I ain’t got nothin’ else for y’all. See ya again in about two weeks. Prepare yer livers and yer come control, gentlemen. It’s gonna be an epic fuckin’ night!”
Come control?
THE BASEMENT IS EMPTY OF everyone but the four of us, linked up against the wall and impatiently waiting for something to happen, just as we’ve been doing for the past hour. Thursdays have become my new most detested day. You’re off the hook, Monday. For now.
“This fucking blows,” Mac whines.
I nod. “It’s more like basic training than I ever thought it would be.”
“What makes you say that?” Carter asks.
I think it over for a moment, trying my best to ignore the pain radiating throughout my knees and ankles. My joints are wobbly and worn from years of ruck marching with ninety pounds on my back and the unforgiving nature of the ground after one too many Airborne experiences. As a result, I feel it every second I’m left standing here on concrete that provides absolutely no relief.
I look to Carter, replying, “Just the hurry up and wait bullshit. Not tellin’ us when shit goes down, or what to expect. Just one big mindfuck.”
“You’re telling me,” Mac groans.
“They’re bound to come down soon,” Carter says, and as the words exit his mouth, the basement door swings open.
Trevor comes first, followed by Tim, Brady, and Zane in their robes with paddles in their hands, and Damian and Sarge behind them. Sarge has a paddle in his hand as well.
They line up before us and Trevor takes a step forward.
“Pledges, welcome to Big Brother night. Tonight, you will further deepen your bond within the fraternity as you accept a bid into a DIK family. Each family represents a legacy that has existed since the start of DIK-Rho in 1922. These families share a special bond throughout a DIK brother’s lifetime. The family means commitment. Commitment to yourselves, your family, and the fraternity as a whole.”
Trevor motions toward Sarge. “Sarge, can you take a step forward with your paddle, please?”
Sarge does as he’s asled, a grin on his face as I read the paddle:
DIK
Spring 2011
Big Bro
Sarge
Little Bro
Bishop
Warrior Family
I pass him an approving nod as Trevor continues, “Brother Sarge, are you prepared to recite the Big Brother Oath?”
“Roger that,” Sarge says, nodding toward Trevor. His eyes trail back to me and he continues, “I, Blake ‘Sarge’ Maddox, understand that my duties as a Big Brother are to serve as a mentor and friend to my Little Brother through the pledging process, and for the rest of my life as a Delta Iota Kappa fraternity member. I will share with him the knowledge and standards of our fraternity. I will guide and assist him through his personal development and during his lifelong pursuit of excellence in keeping with the standards of Delta Iota Kappa. I will instill in him personal responsibility through the integrity of my actions as a true Big Brother and a DIK Gentleman of Excellence.”
Trevor looks to me as I fight back the laugh that’s aching to bust free.
“McKenzie Bishop, do you accept Sarge as your Big Brother, and promise to be open-minded, loyal, and giving in your fraternal family interactions, to always give your best effort in not only being a brother to your fraternity, but by committing to the Warrior Family within DIK-Rho?”
“What if I say ‘no’ here?” I ask. Damian doesn’t like it very much, but Sarge chuckles.
Sarge shakes his head. “You don’t got a choice, buddy.”
“So do I say ‘I do’ or somethin’ like I’m marryin’ your ass?”
Sarge laughs again.
“Just respond with ‘yes,’” Trevor interjects.
“Yes, Sarge,” I respond, looking at him with googly eyes and holding back the laughter in my chest. “I do.”
“Welcome to the Warrior Family,” Sarge says, giving me a bro hug.
“What does that even mean?”
“I’ll tell you about it after,” Sarge responds with a mischievous smirk.
“After what?” I ask, and he slaps the paddle into his free hand a few times.
“No fuckin’ way,” I say. “That’s some homoerotic shit, man.”
“It’s tradition,” Sarge corrects me, his eyebrows dancing. “Bend over and pull down your panties. I get a hit and you get a hit.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, so I get to hit you, too?”
“That’s the only way it works in a fraternity. A hit for a hit.”
I think on this for a moment, shrug, and then bend over, exposing my bare ass. “Well, alright. Let’s do this shit.”
“He’s got about fifty pounds on you,” Damian says with a chuckle. “This ought to be rich.”
I shoot Damian a sideways glance as I say, “Sarge, do your worst, man, so I can pull my fuckin’ pants up.”
“Now that’s some shit you don’t hear one vet say to another every day,” Jeremy says, laughing.
I spot Sarge backing up a few paces through my peripheral, and I turn forward in response, letting out a heavy breath. I focus on a distant point through my mind’s eye, doing my best to shed the anticipation. There’s a stillness in the room for a few moments until I hear Sarge’s heavy boots meeting the concrete floor in quick steps.
I take a deep breath.
Whack! The slapping sound echoes throughout the basement as the wood meets my bare ass. On the inside, I’m dying, the pain radiating from my ass cheeks and down my thighs in burning trails, but I don’t let it show. I keep my face even keel. I pull up my pants and stand up straight.
Turning back around, I nod slowly and pass Sarge a grin. “Meh. Not too bad, old man.” I point to his chiseled biceps. “Though I guess those are just for show, huh?”
Sarge shakes his h
ead as everyone else looks on, baffled.
“Jesus Christ, dude,” Trevor says, his eyes wide.
“I should’ve expected as much,” Sarge quips as he hands over the paddle reluctantly. He turns, unbuckling his jeans. Then he bends over and slips his ass out.
I don’t give him a running start as he did for me, but I don’t have to; I played baseball for years when I was younger. With that in mind, I rear the paddle back and slowly return it to within a centimeter of his ass to get the aim down. After doing this a few times, I bring the paddle down as hard as I can, and it cracks against his bottom.
He crumples to the floor, catching himself on his knuckles as he grunts in pain. Then he stands up straight, steadying himself, as he turns back around with a grin, rubbing a stiff hand against his ass with a grimace.
“Probably the worst one I’ve had,” he says with a shake of his head as he buttons his jeans back up.
“Appreciate it,” I reply, smiling wickedly.
“Alright, Bishop. Link back up with your pledge brothers. We’ve got three more to get through before the real fun starts.”
I link back up and watch as Mac and Tim exchange hits—Mac nearly crying from his—then Zane and Carter, and finally, Brady and Jeremy.
As the four of us are linked back up—the three others shifting uncomfortably where they stand, grimaces on their faces—Trevor and Damian head to the bar for a moment, digging in the refrigerator and coming back with four bottles of liquor. Trevor hands Patron off to Brady and Jim Beam to Tim, as Damian gives Zane a bottle of Jack Daniels and Sarge what looks like moonshine in a large mason jar. I take a thick swallow, my saliva becoming thick, as I eye the jar in his hands.
“Pledges … Big Brothers …” Trevor announces. “Now comes the easy part of the night. Family bonding. Each Big Brother has chosen a bottle of liquor that he will share with his Little Brother, and you will both have it finished within the next three hours. You’ll spend that time getting to know each other better. Pledges, unlink, and let’s have some fun.”
Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel) Page 12