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Blood, Sweat, And Tuna: A Testament To The Human Spirit

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I saw a small dollop of goop fly in slow-motion and land on the bridge of my nose as a whole bullet-tuna was violently flung past me by a naked man cackling manically. He had a fully grown mullet flowing underneath the AC vent and “Pledgemaster Rodney Farva” shaved into his chest hair.

360 seconds left.
 “Be the bottle cap,” they said. “You’ll feel the pain less when you aren’t focusing on it,” they said.

So I looked at the little pools of blood my elbows were swimming in and immediately winced harder. I could feel myself breaking.

Last resorts are a beautiful thing. See, I’m a simple man and usually pass off meditation as liberal mumbo-jumbo adopted by a Beverly Hills hippie trying to get it on with another delusional fitness babe. You do you Guru Ramasomething you old horndog, but that’s not my life. Until now.

I took a deep breathe to zone out and focus in on what was happening around me. This was when I saw it all for what it was –- like a majestically drawn-out Don Draper speech.

I saw a white rooster with a single large garnet speck on its back slowly spread wings and take flight across the room. I saw the token nationals pledge leap over me chasing it while brandishing a shiny black dildo. I could hear the crippled pledge loudly hum along to the Rocky theme while violently fist-pumping the air. “Holy fuck Brad, you can’t sing for shit.”

I saw my pledge brothers in their red skirts and black hoods, scrambling around to protect me while simultaneously dealing with the assault of the flying fish. Some got away with sheer athleticism, others were lucky because Sir Farva thought there were bigger fish to fry. Regardless, they were all determined to make sure I got through 10 minutes of bows and toes untouched and unharmed.

100 seconds left. Deep, clean breaths. Remember that if you hit 10 minutes of this, Sir Farva will let all of us leave.

“Do it for the brother next to you Marc. You’ve got this.”

WHSISISKSKKKKK.

A decapitated tuna was ruthlessly flung in my direction. This was it. I was done for. I could see my short train-wreck of a life flash before me. I closed my eyes anticipating my impending fishy doom when I heard a loud smack and a thud. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up.

Pledge ‘Ahab’ Justin had courageously taken the hit for me. 


“Glad I could whale-hunt for you one last time, PCP,” he said with bated breath as I shed a tear.

“Your efforts will not go wasted Ahab, you magnificent fat fuck.”

It was now down to the last eight seconds.

Five.

“Could I actually pull this off?”

Four. Three.

“Holy fuck, did I actually pull this off?”

Two.

I was rudely awakened from my meditative concentration with a hard-kick in the groin by Sir Hazewell and fell to my side grimacing in pain.

“What the fuck? Sir, with all due respect, I had that under wraps.” 


“Whoops. Was that unfair, shitstain?” Hazewell had a broad smile creep across his face.

“
When you’re right, you’re wrong. When you’re wrong, you’re fucked. Assume the position and start over.”

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