Animal House: The Story That Inspired It

[PhiPsiRuss]

The Night Of The Seven Fires
by
Chris Miller



The moment he woke up, Pinto discovered two terrible things. The first was that he had a hangover. Not one of his usual ones, though these were bad enough, but a veritable Hiroshima among hangovers. His stomach felt like a swamp; his tongue like a small dead animal, bloated and putresced; his forehead as if it had been struck by an ax. He made to bring a hand to his forehead, to see if perhaps it had been struck by an ax.

That was when he made the second discovery: His hand wouldn't move. In fact, his arm wouldn't move. Nor would his other arm. He couldn't move. Below the neck, he couldn't move a thing! A terrible sense of dread took him. What had he done last night?

He opened his eyes. Light speared them like hatpins, but he squinted, blinking away his tears, and. . . wait, this wasn't his dorm room! He was lying on a bed, a raggedy army blanket thrown over him, in what appeared to be one of the small bedrooms on the third floor of his fraternity house ....

And then he remembered: The Fires! Last night had finally been the Fires, his fraternity initiation . . . and now he was paralyzed from the neck down? Become one of those poor assholes you read about each year, maimed during hazing?

He repressed panic. He had to keep his wits, piece together his fragmented memories of last night, figure out what happened. He remembered pushing off from the house around ten o'clock, having been paired with Stu the Jew ....

By ten-thirty, the road north of Hanover was deserted. The civilized quaintness of Dartmouth College, with its green-shuttered dormitories and stately halls of academe, lay well behind them, and now, to both sides, deep pine forests loomed. New snow had fallen during the day and a fat, fluffy blanket of white covered everything, augmenting the winter's several previous snows to make drifts that in places reached five feet. A full moon lit the scene with a strange iridescent cast. The New Hampshire night was muffled, crisp, and incredibly cold.

In his hand, Pinto carried a map. Identical mimeographed maps had been handed each pair of pledges that evening, as they'd stood about the pre-Fires keg back at the house earlier, hurling down beers for courage and against the cold. According to it, he and Stu had almost reached the turnoff that led to the first fire, and the start of their fraternity's legendary initiation rites.

There was much that was legendary about the Adelphian Lodge. For one thing, it was the only house among Dartmouth's twenty-four to which the freshman class each year at the nearby girls' schools were actually warned not to go. On the other hand, when a party weekend came along, everyone who was anyone had at least to make an appearance at the Adelphian, which was to Dartmouth social life what the Yankees had been to the American League pennant for the last fifteen years. The principles for which the Adelphian Lodge stood, and which had brought about its fame, were stated in their Credo, a large, hand-lettered sign that hung behind the bar: Sickness is health, blackness is truth, drinking is strength. And if there was a single event which embodied the entire Adelphian zeitgeist, it was the Night of the Seven Fires.

Pinto didn't know everything that would go on at the Fires, but he knew the main thing. It was booting, a process of drinking and throwing up, drinking and throwing up, until no one could stay on their feet anymore. In this fashion, they would be transformed from pledges into brothers. What was more, the pledge who threw the overall most colorful show of the night would be awarded the pledge prize.

Pinto was after that prize. He had been in training for it since October, when he pledged the Adelphian Lodge, spending hours by the keg nightly, learning to quaff multiple beers and then accurately boot them into the concrete gutter that ran the perimeter of their basement barroom. After four months of this, he felt ready.

His only serious competition, he figured, would come from Mumbles, La Pic, or Bags. Certainly not from Stu the Jew, trudging along beside him. Ordinarily, competing with tall, muscular Stu -- in anything -- would have intimidated Pinto. But not tonight. Stu's training time had gone into sports and booking rather than booting and one look at the half-scared, half-defiant expression he now wore showed that he was looking forward to tonight's activities about as much as he would to a hernia operation. In fact, quite a few of the pledges had looked scared shitless back at the house earlier. But Pinto didn't feel that way. He whooped and slid giddily on the snow, hardly able to wait.

The turn-off appeared abruptly, only a very few tire tracks marking its existence. The narrow roadway, a dirt road actually, wound up the sloping sides of Balch Hill, into the very middle of the dark, ominous woods. During spring and fall, it led to several secluded parking places where Dartmouth men with cars were wont to take their dates. Tonight, however, it was a gauntlet, the route of the Seven Sacred Watchfires of the Adelphian Lodge, each fire with its contingent of brothers waiting poised to torment them with a variety of devices and stratagems. Looking up the roadway, Pinto could almost understand the fears of some of his pledge brothers.

At that moment, a low moan escaped the lips of Stu the Jew. Pinto glanced at him, surprised. He'd known Stu was unhappy, but not that unhappy.

"Stu, you okay?" His breath made white puffs of vapor against the night.

Stu didn't answer. He simply stared up at the woods, muscles bunching and knotting in his cheeks. Pinto, trying to help, drew a flask of brandy from the pocket of his parka and held it out to him.

Stu recoiled incredulously, as if he were about to be keelhauled and Pinto had offered him a glass of water. "Are you shitting me? With all we're going to have to drink?"

Shrugging, Pinto put the flask away. The way he figured it, they'd be booting all night, so what the hell did it matter how much they had to drink? But let Stu do it his own way. "Ready?"

Stu nodded reluctantly. Stepping off into deeper snow, they started up the hill.

The first fire revealed itself to them in a shower of sparks rising from behind an upcoming ridge. As they moved closer, they heard voices, then laughter. Among the laughs was one that was unmistakable.

"Hey, that's Otter," Pinto told Stu. "Come on, this fire won't be bad at all."

Stu looked as if he doubted that, but resumed walking. The road hooked sharply around the ridge and there, primitive and terrific, was a great, crackling .bonfire. Its flames leapt and danced, casting a broad circle of light that gradually gave way to crazily dancing tree shadows. Perched on a stump was a quarter-keg of beer, gravity-tapped, and standing around the keg were several figures holding beer cups. Pinto recognized Otter, Mouse, Terry, and Pale Pete. Two other figures were obscure behind the flames.

"Hi, guys." Pinto headed excitedly toward them.

The brothers spun to confront them, their faces assuming looks of mock horror.

"What?" cried Mouse. "What did you say?"

Pinto halted uncertainly. "Uh, I said 'Hi, guys.'"

"Anh! Anh! That's what I thought he said!" Charlie Boing-Boing bounded from behind the fire, staring at Pinto as if what Pinto had said was "I eat farts."

"On your knees, pledges!" ordered Mouse, hands do hips.

Pinto and Stu exchanged looks.

"You heard him!" yelled Charlie Boing-Boing. "On your knees and call in!"

Pinto and Stu fell rapidly to their knees and began to bellow: "Most unworthy neophyte. . ."

"Hold it, hold it, one at a time," directed Terry. "You first." He pointed to Stu the Jew.

"Most unworthy neophyte, Stuart Lawrence Richman, begs to announce his most humble presence at the Adelphian Lodge!" shouted Stu.

"What? What?" Mouse was aghast.' "Did you hear that?"

"Tsk tsk," said Otter. "Appalling."

Stu looked bewildered.

"This isn't the Adelphian Lodge!" screamed Charlie Boing-Boing. "You fucking asshole!"

"Oh, right, right. Most unworthy neophyte, Stuart Lawrence Richman, begs to announce his most humble presence at the Adelphian Fires!"

"At the first Adelphian Fire," corrected Otter.

"Most unworthy neophyte, Stuart Lawrence Richman, begs to announce his most humble presence at the first Adelphian Fire!"

"Most unworthy neophyte. . ." began Pinto.

"Oh, hush," said Otter. "That's enough of that."

"All right, pledges, on your feet!" directed Mouse.

Pinto and Stu stood up and Terry handed them each a beer. Stu looked at it as if he had never seen one before.

"Now, boys," said Otter, in his friendly, cool, California way, "before we start, I'd like yuh to say hello to muh girl."

"Hi," said a voice. Pinto squinted through the flames. There, dressed in a pert blue parka with a furred hood, was Joy Tabasco, Otter's girl friend. A girl . . . at the Fires? Otter was amazing.

"All right," said Otter, "now that both you gentlemen have a beer, why don't you chug them?"

Well, this was it. Pinto and Stu exchanged glances and brought their beer cups to their mouths. The frosty fluid made a ribbon of cold down Pinto's throat.

"Two more beers for the boys," said Otter agreeably.

Terry had them waiting. That they were in sixteen-ounce cups, twice the volume of the glasses with which he'd been training, wasn't bothering Pinto at all. He chugged his second beer rapidly down and a moment later Stu finished his. They were immediately handed two more. They chugged. This time Pinto overtilted a bit and twin rills of beer made icy lines on his cheeks.

"You're supposed to get it all in your mouth!" Mouse darted about making small jumps, like an angry cartoon character. "Asshole! Asshole!"

"Now, Mouse." Otter placed a hand on either side of Joy's hood, as if to cover her ears. There was general laughter.

"Well, time we got down to some serious booting," Otter said. "Hope yuh made it down to the Italian restaurant okay. I'd hate for yuh to be chokin' on lumps in front of muh girl."

The brothers had solicitously warned the pledges to eat nothing more solid than spaghetti that day. "Sure did," said Pinto, and Stu nodded.

"Good," said Otter. "Terry, give Pinto a fresh beer."

Dependable Terry appeared with a fresh beer.

"Now, chug!" ordered Charlie Boing-Boing.

Pinto swung the cup to his mouth and began swallowing deep draughts. He wished he could just open his throat and pour the stuff down, as he had once seen a fat hood he'd known in high school do. He really wanted to drink and boot well for these guys. Cold as he probably was, he felt warmed by a sense of imminent belonging. Otter was terrific. Terry was terrific. They were all ter . . .

Glorp! Something thick and gloopy slid into his throat and caught there, like a giant wad of phlegm. Pinto gagged . . . and booted! He booted everything he'd had to drink since seven that evening, a gallon at least, in a single great arc of roaring foam and twining pink spaghetti strands that narrowly missed Charlie Boing-Boing's left ear and splatted spectacularly against the trunk of a tree.

"Power boot!" exclaimed Mouse.

"Fantastic!" cried Charlie Boing-Boing.

"What form!" enthused Terry. "Did you see how it held together?" He shook his head in connoisseur-like respect.

"Uh heh heh heh heh heh." Otter laughed his peculiar steady laugh and looked at Joy, who managed a restrained giggle. She had gone quite pale.

Pinto spat several times, clearing his mouth. "What the hell was in that?"

"A raw egg," said Pale Pete, smiling shyly. He was the house nice guy, always ready to lend a hand or clear a confusion.

"Now Stu the Jew!" announced Otter jovially. Everyone turned to face Stu.

Stu went paler than Joy. "Uh, an egg, huh?"

"That's right." Otter bobbed his head forward and back on his long neck, grinning his otter's grin. Everyone else nodded and smiled too.

"Well . . ." Stu took the proffered cup and began to sip it delicately.

"Drink!" yelled Mouse.

"Chug!" howled Charlie Boing-Boing.

Stu tried, but his mouth had made a tight, protective slot and beer began running down his cheeks.

"Open your mouth, asshole!"

Stu shuddered visibly, but opened his mouth. Instantly -- he froze -- dropping his beer cup on the ground.

The brothers leaned forward expectantly. Stu's face wore a horrible expression, like a mask of tragedy, only with foam. He stayed that way for what seemed like a long time, then slowly closed his mouth . . . and swallowed.

There was a pause. The brothers held their breath. Joy peeked between her fingers. Gradually, Stu's body relaxed. He opened his eyes and managed a shaky smile.

"Anhhhhh!" Charlie Boing-Boing turned his back disgustedly and walked into the woods, where he could shortly be heard taking a leak.

"No boot?" said Terry. "Gee."

"Boooo." Everyone looked at Otter. "Boooo," he repeated. "Bad show."

"Booooo," said the rest of the brothers. "Booooo, hissssss."

Stu looked halfway between crying and punching someone out.

"You were supposed to boot, Stu," explained Pale Pete helpfully. "Like Pinto."

"That's right," said Terry. "Here, Pinto, have a gentlemen's beer."

The brothers raised their own glasses in toast and Pinto, swelling with pride, took the cup and drained it easily. Terry beamed and slapped him on the back.

"Aw, well, shit," was Stu's comment.

"Wow, great fire, huh?" said Pinto, after they'd been walking for a time. He felt fantastic.

Stu said nothing.

Pinto persisted. "Wasn't that amazing, Joy being there?"

Stu stopped short. "I won't give them the satisfaction," he declared. "Fuck 'em!"

"Huh?"

"I won't boot for those guys. Why should I?"

Pinto regarded Stu curiously. He didn't understand. Why not boot for them? Shit, his only regret was that he hadn't gotten to boot more. Oh, his boot had been a five-star boot, he wasn't doubting that, but there would be many splendid boots that night and if he wanted the pledge prize he'd have to score on quantity as well as quality. So why was Stu so totally out of the spirit of things?

"Listen, Situ, I think you better boot. You're gonna get sicker than shit with all that stuff in you. What if you pass out in the snow? You're too big to carry."

Stu started to give Pinto a hard look, but then began to list to one side and had to grab a tree to stay upright. Abruptly, his angry expression collapsed, to be replaced with a look of utmost wretchedness. "I better level with you, man. I've never told this to anyone before, but I can't boot."

"You can't boot?" Pinto didn't know what to say. It was as if Stu had suddenly announced he was blind or impotent.

"I've never been able to boot. Even when I was sick with the same virus that had everyone else booting their guts out, I couldn't boot. Pinto, what the fuck am I gonna do?"

So that was it. "Jesus, I don't know, man. Maybe if you just relaxed more, let it come."

"Oh, swell. Relax more. Thanks a shitload."

They resumed walking and moments later found the second fire in a clearing behind a stand of tall pines. "Good luck, man," whispered Pinto as they fell to their knees at the clearing's edge.

"Most unworthy neophyte . . ."

"Hey, knock off the yelling, you shitheads! Get over here!"

They stood up fast and got over there. Five brothers awaited, the presiding brother proving to be Willy Machine, a quiet senior of Buddha-like imperturbability whom Pinto had never particularly imagined to be a booting specialist.. Nestling in the snow at their feet were numerous bottles of red wine.

"Pinto and Stu?" Willy looked surprised. "We thought you were Bags and Huck Doody."

Bags and Huck Doody hadn't been there yet? That was strange. They'd been first out tonight, the only ones to leave before him and Stu. He knew they'd preceded him through the first fire; he'd seen their boot craters. So where were they?

"Well, no matter." Willy inscribed a circle in an undisturbed patch of snow with a stick from the fire. "Pinto, you get to sit in the throne."

Pinto hadn't heard about any thrones. Still, with his B-9 Air Force parka and long underwear, be felt pretty well protected. He started to sit.

"And, oh yes, drop your pants first."

Oh, thought Pinto. Each fire, he was beginning to realize, took on the personality of its head brother. Whereas Otter's fire had been beneficent, casual, genial, Willy Machine's would be cool and efficient. Bracing himself, lie dropped his pants and eased his ass into the snow. Twin flowers of cold blossomed on his buns.

"Stu, you take this," -- Willy handed Stu a huge mug of wine -- "and stand right there between Pinto's legs. Pinto, get your legs open. Now, we're going to play a little game we just made up for you. What's it called, men?"

"BOOT IN BUSH," chanted the brothers.

They formed a wolfish semicircle around Pinto and Stu. Pinto checked them out in turn: Coyote, with his feral eyes; King Embryo, nudging Coyote with cowboy-like good humor; Snot, short and intense, bouncing about in place like an excited basketball; Giraffe, lanky and laconic, grinning evilly. There were no girlfriends.

"Okay, Stu, I want you to start chugging this wine," directed Willy Machine. "And when you boot, I want it to go square in Pinto's bush."

"Yeah, none of this turning your head away stuff," added Snot.

For the first time that night, Pinto felt a quease of repugnance. He repressed it brutally. He'd show these guys how cool he could be.

"When I boot, huh?" Stu flicked a helpless glance from brother to brother. He saw no mercy. Anywhere. He turned to Pinto. "Listen, man, I'm really sorry about. . ."

"Hurry up and boot in my bush!" yelled Pinto. "I'm freezing my ass off down here!"

Stu gulped, shut his eyes, and began chugging as fast as he could. The brothers leaned forward eagerly. Pinto fought hard to keep from flinging himself out of the way. Now that Stu was on wine, Pinto couldn't believe he'd be able to continue not booting. He could almost feel the steaming cascade blasting about his genitals.

"Yurch!" said Stu. "Blurg! Hurch!" Pinto shut his eyes and cringed, waiting for the splash. There were several more series of noises . . . but no splash. He opened his eyes. Stu was jackknifed over his groin, gagging like sixty, but all that was coming out were two long strands of saliva boot, dangling like pale, glistening worms from the corners of his mouth.

"Stu, come on already!" Pinto's ass had gone numb.

"BOOT, BOOT, BOOT," chanted the brothers.

Stu straightened in short jerks, as if he were being cranked. He resumed chugging, but more slowly now, taking several swallows, then stopping and weaving a bit, then swallowing again. Suddenly, he dropped the mug and bent violently from the waist. The brothers leaned forward. Pinto cringed. Stu made a terrible set of sounds . . . and nothing came out.

"ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE," chanted the brothers.

"I don't think you get the idea, Stu," said Willy Machine. "You're supposed to boot. In Pinto's bush."

"Pledge Adelphian, boot Adelphian," put in King Embryo.

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Stu. He wiped the stringy tusks from his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm trying, I . . ."

Abruptly, in a double bellow from the rim of the clearing: "Most unworthy neophyte, John Ellington Bagbaum/Edwin Charles Wylie, begs to announce his most humble presence at the second Adelphian Fire!" Two figures parted from the darkness and headed toward them.

"Why, Bags and Huck Doody!" purred Willy Machine. "Stop off for a few drinks?"

"On your knees, pledges!" barked Snot. "You crawl in here! You're late!"

Bags and Huck Doody exchanged exasperated looks. Pinto guessed they weren't getting off so well on the degradation aspect of things.

"Stu and Pinto beat you here!" Willy told them. "Pinto, stand up and pull up your trou."

With a gasp of relief, Pinto jumped to his feet, drawing fabric rapidly over his poor frozen cheeks. Willy Machine found a fresh patch of snow and drew side-by-side circles in it with his stick. "Bags, Huck, you drop your pants and sit your asses down right here."

"What?" rumbled Bags.

"Jesus Christ!" complained Huck Doody, rolling his eyes.

"Hit it!" roared Willy, his stick pointed unwaveringly at the thrones.

Radiating indignity, Huck Doody dropped trou and sat. "Holy shit," he said as his ass met snow. Bags dropped his pants more slowly, with an expression that coolly told the brothers he was damned if they could dish out anything too sick for him. Without comment, he settled himself into the throne next to Huck's. The snow pushed up his scrotum and his stub-like penis pointed at the stars.

"Snot, mugs of wine for Pinto and Stu," directed Willy Machine.

"DOUBLE BOOT IN BUSH," chanted the brothers happily.

Pinto was delighted at the turn of events. Now he'd show the brothers some real regurgitation. He took his wine eagerly and positioned himself next to Stu over the wide-open legs of Bags and Huck Doody. They began to chug.

"Hey, what is this?" said Huck Doody, with dawning comprehension.

"Stu," bellowed Bags, "if you boot in my bush, I'll kill you."

Pinto paid them no mind. He had almost drained his mug when the last of the wine caught in his throat, triggering a gag. A red parabola sailed from his mouth to Huck Doody's groin, where it spattered with great violence.

"Pinto!" howled Huck. "Jesus Christ!"

Stu was still chugging. Then, abruptly, his legs buckled and he simply sat down, the remainder of his wine spilling unnoticed into the snow. Bags, seeing himself safe, turned to laugh heartily at Huck Doody's lapful of boot.

Pinto saw his chance. "Snot, gimme another mug! Quick!" Seconds later, another spout of wine left Pinto's exterior, a spray-boot this time, that drenched Bags from nipple to knee.

"Good Christ!" thundered Bags. "You son of a bitch!" He began rapidly wiping himself with handfuls of snow.

"YAYYYYYY!" cheered the brothers, pounding Pinto happily on the back. Snot ran about making parade music noises, pretending to play a trombone.

"Hey, Stu," called Pinto. "Two down, five to go."

Stu put his head in his hands and groaned.

The next four fires passed in a surreal blur. Pinto, drunker than he'd ever been, was booting like never before. He remembered power boots and dribble boots; spray boots and tightbeam boots; spit boots and gusher boots; beer boots, wine boots, and even a warm-salt-water-with-cigarette-butts boot. He felt positive that no other pledge could possibly be putting on half the show he was.

For Stu, however, the night grew worse and worse. You had to give him credit for gameness. He kept drinking whatever was handed him, often gagging loud enough to wake the dead -- yet still nothing came out. At the fifth fire, which had involved total nudity, Pinto had noticed that Stu's stomach was distended fearfully, as if he had swallowed a helmet. By the time they left the sixth fire, Stu was in as sorry a state as Pinto had ever seen a human being, colliding with trees, mouthing wild, meaningless strings of syllables, leaning heavily on Pinto to stay upright. He seemed to be continuing only by the most incredible exertion of will, like a badly-beaten fighter in the final rounds whose pride insists he finish on his feet.

Now the seventh fire wove into view. It seemed a smaller fire, with a smaller contingent of brothers, but they were the very sick heart of the junior class-Magpie, Whit, Scotty, and Dumptruck. He and Stu were just going to their knees when they were spotted.

"Hey, cool it, you guys," called Scotty. "None of that stuff here. You made it through this far, that's enough for us. Come on over and have a gentlemen's beer."

Pinto couldn't believe it.

"No, really," assured Dumptruck. "You guys've had enough. Come have a beer with us and then I'll drive you back to the house."

They sounded serious. A sense of letdown took Pinto. He'd been ready to go on all night. Well, if the Fires were over, they were over. He'd booted brilliantly throughout and if he hadn't won the pledge prize by now, he didn't know what else he could do. Slinging one of Stu's arms over his shoulders, Pinto pulled the two of them to their feet and staggered in an S-shaped path toward the brothers.

"Hey, how'd the other fires go?" asked Magpie, handing them each a beer.

Pinto propped Stu against a tree and began an animated account of the night's events, not forgetting his single-handed double-boot-in-bush at the second fire or the simultaneous boot and piss he had taken at the fourth, that had left an impression like a huge question mark in the snow. His report was greeted by much good-natured laughter from the juniors.

"Well, sounds like you've had quite a time," said Dumptruck at last. "But it's all over now. No drinking and booting at this fire."

"Right, right," said Whit. "In fact, we figured you guys'd probably be hungry after all that booting. So we brought you a midnight snack."

A midnight snack? What was this? He looked at their faces. Something had just changed in them. The smiles were still there, but they had suddenly become leers.

"Can' eat anythin'," managed Stu. "S'impossible."

"You'll eat, you fucking asshole pledge, or you won't leave this fire!" yelled Magpie. "Scotty, where's the hot dogs?"

Scotty handed a hot dog each to Pinto and Stu. "It's okay, Stu," he said. "They're kosher."

"You mean, all we're supposed to do is eat these and then we go back to the house?" Pinto didn't quite get it.

"That's all," said Scotty, but the gleam in his eye didn't match the innocence in his voice.

Shrugging, Pinto brought the hot dog to his mouth.

"Hey, pledge, that's frozen solid. You want to break your teeth?" Whit grabbed Pinto's arm and pulled the hot dog clear before his jaws could close. He smiled. "Before you eat it, you have to warm it up."

"Drop trou, Stu!" barked Magpie. "Spread your cheeks!"

Ah, thought Pinto. Hot dogs up the ass. Cute. But Stu . . . Pinto hadn't believed Stu could look any worse than he'd been looking, but his partner had just turned gray as death.

"Hey, don't look that way," counseled Whit in a kindly tone. "I'm sure you guys keep yourselves clean. And even if you don't, if you've ever tasted shit you know it's not so bad, anyway."

"S'not that," said Stu, darting imploring looks from brother to brother. "I gotta thing about things being put in my ass. Listen, you can't do it to me. I..."

"Drop trou!" screamed Magpie. "Bend over an' spread 'em!"

Stu rolled his eyes despairingly, too sick and semiconscious to protest further. With slow, heavy hands, he dropped his trou and spread his cheeks.

"Go ahead, Pinto," prompted Magpie. "And leave it up there until it's warm enough to eat."

Stu's cracked ass was not the most pleasant sight Pinto had ever beheld. Profuse hair ran its length, spilling over onto his buns, and his sphincter looked too tight and tiny to admit a knitting needle. Well.... He began to make tentative thrusts at it with the hot dog.

"That's it, that's it!" cried Whit excitedly. "Slide it right in!"

"I . . . can't. It won't go."

"Hey, Stu, relax. Your muscles are all tight."

"I'm trying," moaned Stu. "I'm not doing it on purpose."

"I thought something like this might happen," said Scotty. "So you know what? I brought along some lube."

Lube? "Hey," said Pinto, "I'm not eating any Vaseline. Shit's bad enough."

"Now don't worry your head, Pinto. This is edible lubricant." He withdrew from within his coat a large jar of Miracle Whip.

Dumptruck shook his head in admiration. "Scotty, you think of everything."

"Oh, go on with you," said Scotty modestly. He dipped Pinto's hot dog into the jar a few times. When he handed it back, it was dripping creamy white stuff.

Stu glanced at it, shuddered and returned his eyes to the ground. Taking the wiener gingerly by its dry end, Pinto returned it to Stu's bum and began probing for entry. Abruptly, it slid in a little.

"Ga!" cried Stu. His sphincter closed even tighter, stopping all forward progress.

"Come on, man," Pinto pleaded. "Let me get it over with."

"I'm trying," gritted Stu.

"Hey, we haven't got all night here," said Magpie. "Jam it in!"

"Okay, okay!" Holding it in place with one hand, Pinto swung his other hand in a long arc and smacked the hot dog hard as he could with the flat of his palm. The wiener slid into Stu's asshole like the greased plunger of a dynamite exploder. Stu began to rumble. "Gnorg!" he cried, then "Bluuuuuurrrrrchhhhhh," but before Pinto could tell what was happening something struck him a tremendous blow on the forehead and . . .

And that was all. He couldn't remember another thing. Lying now in the strange bed, drenched with sweat, he realized that he still had no idea where his paralysis had come from. So much for piecing together memories; his panic came uncorked and he bellowed for help until the door to his room flew open and Otter, Scotty, and Dumptruck burst in.

"Hey, you bastards, what'd you do to me? I can't move. I'm paralyzed!"

"Uh heh heh heh heh heh," laughed Otter. "He thinks he's paralyzed."

"Hey, man, don't worry." Dumptruck swept away Pinto's blanket. "Look."

Pinto raised his head. His arms and legs were tied securely to the mattress with sheets. "What . . . why . . .?"

"You don't remember?" Dumptruck was incredulous. "Pinto, when Stu finally booted, the hot dog shot out of his ass like a rocket and knocked you cold. We had to carry you back. You were thrashing around so much when we got you here, we decided to tie you into Otter's bed, so you wouldn't get hurt."

"Slept with muh girl last night," put in Otter.

Pinto brought his freed hand to his forehead and found a bump big as a golf ball. So that was what hit him. And he wasn't paralyzed! And . . wait a minute. "Truck, when Stu finally booted?"

"You didn't see it?" cried Dumptruck. "It was the most incredible boot in the history of the Adelphian Lodge! It must have lasted a minute and a half! It was this wide!" He gestured with his hands to show just how wide.

"I got drenched," remembered Scotty dreamily. "It knocked three of us down, like one of those water cannons they use in East Germany. It must have gone fifty or sixty feet!"

"Pinto, it was magnificent!"

Pinto was having a terrible sinking feeling. "The pledge prize . . . ?"

"Went to Stu the Jew, of course! Pinto, he actually put out the fire! That's never been done before!" Dumptruck was hardly able to contain himself. "We've been calling alumni all morning! Black Mike and T Bear from the class of '55 are sending a wreath!"

Pinto felt crestfallen. He'd tried so hard.

"But, hey, Pinto, don't feel bad," said Otter. "You were terrific last night and just so you don't think we didn't notice, we brought you a consolation prize." He brought his hand from behind his back and held out Pinto's prize:

A glass of beer.