Read Online Lookaway, Lookaway by Wilton Barnhardt - Free Book Online
Authors: Wilton Barnhardt
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ancient and secret society going back to the days of the fraternity’s founding in Tulane in the 1800s, when French aristocrats, uh, you know, down in Louisiana where they’re French—French aristocrats laid out the initiation rites that we practice today and have practiced through the centuries. A society with a special name and coat of arms and, um, the seal of Côte d’Agneau…”
Scrotum was sniggering, trying to hide it.
“Something funny there?” Joey squinted to read the name on the sweaty forehead. “Scrotum. Something strike you as amusing?”
“No, sir.”
“Assistant Pledgemaster Baylor!” Joey D called out, surprising Skip who wasn’t aware he had a title. “Bring forward Shelly.”
The pledges exchanged anxious glances.
Joey D explained that the University of North Carolina has a mascot ram and Zeta Pi has Shelly, a ewe, hence the Society of Ram and Ewe. Skip pulled the sheep into the room, its four legs rigid and stationary, its hooves sliding evenly over the linoleum. Shelly, née Furball, having shed itself in the back of Justin’s mom’s van of every fluid and solid a sheep could manufacture, was remarkably passive after its being fed a ground-up Valium in a bowl of water. It stared at them unblinking and the pledges could have been forgiven for wondering if Shelly was stuffed.
“Blindfold these gaylords,” Joey D continued, as Kevin and Cory obeyed. “Everyone has, in the Zeta Pi archives, an incriminating photo which is your passage into the Society of Ram and Ewe.” Joey D, who had taken a Valium himself, after a six-pack and two Red Bulls, was having trouble focusing. He had thought of making everyone bestialize the sheep or having green feed pellets eaten by the sheep from their buttcrack but Skip reminded him that a simple nude photo, with the sheep tactically placed to cover the genitals, was traditional and incriminating enough. If anyone ever betrayed the Society of Ram and Ewe, this picture would then haunt them for eternity.
Scrotum cleared his throat and announced his jockstrap was not coming off, he was going into pre-Law and might run for office one day and he was not interested in this photo being sold to The National Enquirer and then shown on CNN.
“Assistant Pledgemasters!” Joey D screamed, not used to being defied. “Take Scrotum away and begin the ceremony of … of depledgerization!” Scrotum was shuffled away, mumbling, “You can’t throw me out. My dad paid for the building of this house.”
And then two others said they also did not want a picture with Shelly. “Okay, you pieces of shit, there’s the door! You see it? You walk out that door and … you walk out and there will never—don’t you go and think that—there will be another…”
They were walking out the door.
“Does nobody,” screamed Joey D, “wish to be part of the fraternity’s most sacred obligation, the Society of Ram and Ewe?”
“Sir yes sir!”
“Drop that jockstrap, Smegma!”
“Sir yes sir!”
“You wanna be a Zipperman, don’t you?”
Skip was laughing and he could barely hold the camera.
“Sir yes sir!”
Now Joey D noticed, too, that the pledge was completely aroused.
* * *
The party upstairs was in full tilt. At least two hundred people spilling out on porches, verandahs, in the back by the pool, crammed into every room, with music loud enough to shake the foundations of the whole edifice.
At first Jerilyn was a little shocked to see the pledges running around in jockstraps with matted hair and other caked-on indignities, but then she got used to it. Layla had shared a line of cocaine and, eased by several beers, she was, as promised, feeling good about everything, as her eyes followed two strapping pledges’ bare rear ends down the hall to the kitchen where other Zetas and Sigmas were filling a giant industrial-sized trashcan with every liquor known to man—cheap vodka, cheap gin, cheap tequila, 7UP, Hawaiian Punch, box wine. A frat
Scrotum was sniggering, trying to hide it.
“Something funny there?” Joey squinted to read the name on the sweaty forehead. “Scrotum. Something strike you as amusing?”
“No, sir.”
“Assistant Pledgemaster Baylor!” Joey D called out, surprising Skip who wasn’t aware he had a title. “Bring forward Shelly.”
The pledges exchanged anxious glances.
Joey D explained that the University of North Carolina has a mascot ram and Zeta Pi has Shelly, a ewe, hence the Society of Ram and Ewe. Skip pulled the sheep into the room, its four legs rigid and stationary, its hooves sliding evenly over the linoleum. Shelly, née Furball, having shed itself in the back of Justin’s mom’s van of every fluid and solid a sheep could manufacture, was remarkably passive after its being fed a ground-up Valium in a bowl of water. It stared at them unblinking and the pledges could have been forgiven for wondering if Shelly was stuffed.
“Blindfold these gaylords,” Joey D continued, as Kevin and Cory obeyed. “Everyone has, in the Zeta Pi archives, an incriminating photo which is your passage into the Society of Ram and Ewe.” Joey D, who had taken a Valium himself, after a six-pack and two Red Bulls, was having trouble focusing. He had thought of making everyone bestialize the sheep or having green feed pellets eaten by the sheep from their buttcrack but Skip reminded him that a simple nude photo, with the sheep tactically placed to cover the genitals, was traditional and incriminating enough. If anyone ever betrayed the Society of Ram and Ewe, this picture would then haunt them for eternity.
Scrotum cleared his throat and announced his jockstrap was not coming off, he was going into pre-Law and might run for office one day and he was not interested in this photo being sold to The National Enquirer and then shown on CNN.
“Assistant Pledgemasters!” Joey D screamed, not used to being defied. “Take Scrotum away and begin the ceremony of … of depledgerization!” Scrotum was shuffled away, mumbling, “You can’t throw me out. My dad paid for the building of this house.”
And then two others said they also did not want a picture with Shelly. “Okay, you pieces of shit, there’s the door! You see it? You walk out that door and … you walk out and there will never—don’t you go and think that—there will be another…”
They were walking out the door.
“Does nobody,” screamed Joey D, “wish to be part of the fraternity’s most sacred obligation, the Society of Ram and Ewe?”
“Sir yes sir!”
“Drop that jockstrap, Smegma!”
“Sir yes sir!”
“You wanna be a Zipperman, don’t you?”
Skip was laughing and he could barely hold the camera.
“Sir yes sir!”
Now Joey D noticed, too, that the pledge was completely aroused.
* * *
The party upstairs was in full tilt. At least two hundred people spilling out on porches, verandahs, in the back by the pool, crammed into every room, with music loud enough to shake the foundations of the whole edifice.
At first Jerilyn was a little shocked to see the pledges running around in jockstraps with matted hair and other caked-on indignities, but then she got used to it. Layla had shared a line of cocaine and, eased by several beers, she was, as promised, feeling good about everything, as her eyes followed two strapping pledges’ bare rear ends down the hall to the kitchen where other Zetas and Sigmas were filling a giant industrial-sized trashcan with every liquor known to man—cheap vodka, cheap gin, cheap tequila, 7UP, Hawaiian Punch, box wine. A frat
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