Funny stories in under 500 words.

Who I Know Here



Bass bumps louder than my rattling skull can handle. Decibels rise. Subwoofers thunder, vibrate the stilted home. B.O. and Axe Body Spray. Greenish flecks.

Swampy trap house.

Pledge Derek stands guard the worst of it as if he’s a Times Square traffic director. Twinkle of regret? Possible fear of unacceptance.

Tonight’s party theme: Clinton Trumps Corporate Hoes. Would give the fraternity creativity points, but alcohol and politics almost always equal government shutdown. Scanned a masked Hillary strangling a Trump in the bedroom. Wasn’t sexual. Trump screamed bloody murder at his opponent. Probable attempt to flex his big dick. I wondered where they purchased those masks.

Here I am, corner of the trap house. Brother Guy prances around, middle of the crowd. Mixed drink in one hand, free fingers claw any ass in his general direction. Pretends it never happens. Must not have the courage to muster up actual conversation.

Nobody talks to me. I don’t expect them to come near me. Nobody talks to the guy strapping a High Sierra backpack at a frat party.
  1. Brings beer. Doesn’t share.
  2. Barricades three “Hookup Spots.”
  3. Doesn’t bring in chicks.
Selfish sonuvabitch.

Theory: Do Greek affiliates contain special DNA immunities against stuffed crowds? That’s data for next time.

“Hey, bro!”

Shit.

My nostrils vacuum stale cigarettes. Hint of lite beer. Eyes threaten to fill pools.

“Brotha! What’s happening?” I mimic. Dap him up.

No balance. Drink spritzes my Pierce the Veil tee.

“Leaving so soon, Captain Backpack?” he questions.

“No – nah – just getting some fresh air,” I say.

His torso. Here’s my diversion.

“You might as well just lose the shirt at this point, my dude.”

Brother Guy looks down. Mouth agape. Hairy dad bod developing. Must be a sophomore.

“Thithh?” he slurs. “I loothe a button the drunker I get!”

Pledge Danny stumbles over the aux cord.

“So who do you know here, bro?” Brother Guy sways.

Total silence. Trap house stares me down.

“Brother Trey,” I say. “He invited me last Tuesday!”

Brother Guy looks confused. Even in his drunken state, he knows that I’m lying.

“Bro, you gonna stand there like a pussy,” I attack. “Or are you gonna drink like a man, bro!”

Aux cord plugged back in.

“You coming out next themester?” he asks.

I smirk.

“What’s your name, bro?” he asks.

I pause.

“I’m Captain Backpack.”

Pupils dilate. Too impressed to speak.

He watches. I whisper off into the crowd.

Brother Guy will stumble awake tomorrow. Hungover. He’ll flock to chapter. The fraternity will talk about the night before. Apologize for their actions. Promise to do better.

Empty promises.

They’ll remember the “God-Damn-Independent that snuck into their party.”

“Who the hell let the fucking Backpack GDI in without any sluts?” They’ll ask.

But I’ll be back for next week’s party. Brother Guy fondly remembers Captain Backpack. Brother Guy will say “he ain’t so bad.”

They say it takes a spark to light a match. With patience, I’ll start a forest fire.

This story was written by Rob Sperduto, an English major at Coastal Carolina University. He can be found on Twitter as @robduto and will most likely complain about the latest Hollywood movie.




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