Manager “Son, I think it’s time you and your friends left.”
Tucker “Yes Sir, I agree wholeheartedly. Let me just get them together, and we’ll promptly leave.”
I huddle everyone together, and explain the situation. We are getting kicked out. As I herd them toward the door, Hate walks up.
Hate “Hey guys.”
Tucker “What are you doing here? You just got kicked out.”
Hate “It’ll take more than that to keep me out of here. I paid my two dollars, I’ve got a bracelet, and I’m getting my goddamn money’s worth.”
Fine, I tell him we’ve been kicked out anyway, it’s time to leave. I get everyone moving towards the door. El Bingeroso is one of the first outside, and as he waits for the rest of the group, he sees a truck parked right next to the door. He rears back and kicks the front grill of the truck. Twice. I am still trying to round everyone up, when a large redneck comes out the front door, and walks up to El Bingeroso.
Redneck “Hay boy…hay, did-jew juss kick dat truck?”
El Bingeroso is unsure how to answer. The redneck is large, and El Bingeroso knows he’s guilty of the offense charged, but he doesn’t seem to want to admit this to the redneck. So he just glares at him.
Redneck “I asked you a question, boy, did you kick that truck?”
El Bing “Who the fuck are you?”
That was apparently the magic phrase, because the redneck immediately open-fist slapped El Bingeroso right in the face. Thomas, who was standing there watching, throws his beer bottle on the ground, takes a little crow hop, and swings at the redneck. His aim is not good, and the fight degrades into a poorly choreographed dance, where El Bingeroso, Thomas and the large redneck are each swinging at each other and alternately moving away so as to not be struck by any counterpunches.
Before I can even intervene (I was a good ten yards away when the first punch was thrown), ten more rednecks pour out the door. Brownhole and I successfully pull El Bingeroso and Thomas away from the increasingly large group of rednecks, and manage to settle things down for a second.
Tucker “OK, we are leaving. Sorry about any problems, but we’re going.”
The group of twenty to thirty rednecks crowded around the door are staring and yelling at Brownhole, Credit, GoldenBoy and I as we try to pull Thomas and El Bingeroso away from the door.
A few seconds later Hate pushed his way through the crowd of rednecks, emerging on the other side just as one of them yelled something derogatory at El Bingeroso. Hate, being both loyal and drunk, immediately tackled this redneck, pinning him up against the very truck that El Bingeroso was kicking three minutes prior.
The events of the next minute are somewhat unclear, but I do remember these images:
Hate with his head buried in someone’s stomach, waling at his ribs, as other rednecks descended upon him.
GoldenBoy and a redneck trying desperately to strangle the life out of each other.
El Bingeroso and Thomas, back-to-back, swinging at anything that came close.
Credit standing in the street debating.
Me and Brownhole trying to pull Hate off of his redneck punching bag.
Then, the defining words of the night rang from out of Brownhole’s mouth: “DUDE, HE’S GOT A FUCKING GUN! GUN! GUN! GUN! A FUCKING GUN!”
The word “gun” can do strange things to a fight. In this case, it ended it immediately. At those few words, El Bingeroso and Thomas were immediately out in the street with Credit, and GoldenBoy and Hate began retreating, hesitantly, with me and Brownhole, into the street.
Brownhole and I succeed in pulling everyone down the street, towards the first safe place we can find, a bar called the Oak Room. We walk up a flight of stairs, and there are three girls standing at the top of the landing. Hate is the first one to make it to them.
Girl “Hey guys, welcome to the Pi Phi Fall Philanthropy Event. It’s two dollars to get in. Which fraternity are you guys from?” Hate “Two dollars? I just paid two dollars and got into a fight, what the hell is this? Tucker? Take care of this, I’m not paying shit. Where’s the damn beer?”
He pushes his way past the girls towards the bar area.
Girl “Hey! You can’t do that! It’s two dollars to get in. Um, excuse me!”
I really don’t need this right now. I try to walk past the Pi Phi police, but she grabs me, “Excuse me, you have to pay two dollars, and two more for your rude friend.”
That was my limit.
Tucker “What are you, fucking kidding me? Do you even work here?” Girl “Uh, no. But it’s a sorority philanthropy event; it’s for charity.”
Tucker “If you don’t work here, then get the fuck out of my way. I’ll drink to charity.”
Brownhole ends up paying for the group to get in, and throws in an extra twenty to make the girls feel better. He’ll do anything to get girls to like him.
We all get a beer, myself included. El Bingeroso buys the round, and then huddles everyone together. His speech is not entirely lucid.
El Bing “Alright guys, seriously…guns. OK? We cannot go anywhere without each other. We could die. For real. From the guns. We cannot leave this bar, except as a group. We have to stay together. We could get shot. Understood? Everyone together.”
We agree. At the time, the group, mired in a fog of drunkenness, misses the irony of this statement. I smirk and head to the bathroom. Alone.
On my way back, I smile at a beautiful girl, and she gives me a cute little acknowledgment smile back. I wrote the book on pickup lines, so I head over to her and drop one of my favorites: “Did you invite all these people? I thought it was just going to be the two of us?”
She laughed, and I spent the next twenty minutes staring into her deep green eyes, pretending I was interested in the stupid things she was saying. A beautiful house, it’s a shame no one was home.
Eventually remembering my shepherding duties, I looked around the bar to make sure everyone was OK. Much to my dismay, NONE OF MY FRIENDS WERE THERE.
I sprint off from the girl, she still in mid-sentence, and find Brownhole standing near the door, talking to the girl who wanted us to pay to get in.
Tucker “Dude, where is everyone?”
Brownhole “Oh, the rednecks came up and got them, but I think it’s best for us to stay up here.”
Tucker “WHAT!!! ARE YOU A FUCKING RETARD?!! WE’RE THE ONLY SOBER ONES HERE!!!”
I fly down the stairs, and stumble out to what can only be described as something straight out of a bad 90s remake of West Side Story.
On the near side of the courtyard are my friends, El Bingeroso, Thomas, GoldenBoy, Hate and Credit, standing up on benches, pointing, gesticulating and yelling, in a fashion similar to agitated African savanna baboons.
On the far side of the courtyard are about twenty rednecks, engaged in the same type of ritual male dominance displays. In-between this are five large bouncers, trying to maintain calm and keep the warring factions apart.
Hate chooses this point to try and charge across the courtyard towards the rednecks. Thankfully for him, one of the bouncers intercepts him and places him in a headlock. Hate does not like this