THE THOUGHT OF A BED and pillows has my head adrift in the world of the half-living. It’s not that five hours of sleep isn’t enough for the normal person, it’s that it’s not fucking enough for me. Not to mention, my desire to put an old familiar sitcom on and just lay down and chill is insatiable. I can almost see Jerry right here as I mop, red lights from the Kenny Roger’s Chicken sign painting his anguished face.
I can see Joey changing into Thanksgiving pants and Ross getting a level-eight tan.
We haven’t been able to drink during Hell Week either, which I’m sure would please Carleigh. I’ve never wanted alcohol so bad in my life. Or a therapy session for that matter. I’d do a body shot off JD’s unwashed asshole right about now if it’d get me out of cleaning and challenges.
The door abruptly opens, and Trevor and Damian enter, descending the stairs. Behind them, Brady comes, and the sight of him makes my fucking blood boil.
“Pledges, welcome to the third night of Hell Week,” Trevor says, that plastic smile of his irritating me more with each day. He motions toward Damian. “The wheel, good sir.”
Damian heads to the utility closet as Trevor makes his way back up the basement steps. He opens the door once more, and through it come brothers with plates in their hands.
Damian exits the utility closet with a large spinning prize wheel in his hands. He sets it on the bar top. Looking closer, I see these prizes are no prizes at all. Each triangle reads something different, something horrible. Bull Testicles, Raw Fish, Maggots, Worms, Sour Milk, Grasshopper, Pig Intestines, Underwear Head.
As my eyes move from the wheel to the brothers approaching us, my mouth drops open, my eyes wide. They carry plates with raw fish, worms, a cup of curdled milk, maggots, dried grasshoppers, a pair of stained underwear, and what I would imagine to be bull testicles and pig intestines, though I can’t tell the difference between the two.
“No fucking way,” Mac says, his eyes wide and face contorted in a way that makes me think he’s just been told he’s dying.
“Yes way! Welcome, pledges, to the Wheel of Death. There are two items on this list you will be eating tonight. Chance will dictate which two they will be,” Damian says, an evil smirk on his face.
“Pledge president, you’re first,” Trevor says, motioning toward the wheel.
I let out a sigh, shaking my head as I shuffle toward the bar. “I can’t believe I’m fuckin’ doin’ this.” I point toward my pledge brothers. “You’re welcome, fuckers.”
I step up to the wheel, my eyes shifting to Damian who stands just beside it. I want to smack the smile right off his face, but I’d also like to live to see tomorrow.
Spinning the wheel, the time it takes to stop feels like an eternity. I don’t even want to look, closing my eyes instead and waiting.
“Bull testicles!” I hear Damian yell, and my heart sinks.
I open my eyes, and Damian motions behind me. One of the brothers walks forward with a plate of some pinkish, brown meat cut into cubes. Shaking my head, I grab a piece, slimy and warm, and I eye it for a moment. First letting out a deep sigh, I then shrug and toss it into my mouth, swallowing without bothering to chew. I do the same with the remaining pieces and then return to my place in line, linking up with Jeremy as my stomach turns in circles. I don’t show my complete disgust on my face. I have a reputation to maintain, but I have never been closer to vomiting in my life. My mouth has gone completely dry, my throat fighting back regurgitation.
Mac is next, and he gets spoiled milk. I’ve never seen a funnier sight in my life. He ends up finishing half of it and throwing it right back up into the glass.
Jeremy pulls the pig intestines and seems to take it just fine.
Carter gets grasshoppers, and though it isn’t pretty, he manages them down alright.
When it comes back around to me, I survey the options that are left and quickly stumble on the underwear.
“Before I fuckin’ spin here, I gotta ask, are we supposed to eat that dirty-ass underwear?” I motion to the plate with the filthy tighty-whities on it.
“No, no, no,” Damian says, waving me off. “That’s the cool part. It’s the one thing you don’t have to eat.” By his tone, an idiot would assume he has good news coming. I know better by the evil smirk tugging at his lips. “You just gotta wear them on your head,” he says.
My eyes go wide. “Are you fuckin’ shittin’ me?”
“Nope,” he responds smugly.
I shake my head. “All I can say is, if I land on that, I’m sorry guys, but I’m outta this motherfucker.”
I spin the wheel, and look this time, knowing that this spin will determine my continuation with this fraternity.
The wheel slows, stutters, and eventually stops on raw fish, and I’m not quite sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed. Taking the raw filet from the plate, I dispose of it quickly, and without much trouble. I eat enough sushi for the texture not to bother me. It’s the warmth that brings those familiar feelings of naseua, along with the bull nuts that still sit heavy in my stomach.
I go back to my place in line as Mac walks toward the wheel cautiously, his bottom lip between his teeth and a serious wrinkle in his brow. He moves his hand to the wheel, but hesitates a moment before he spins. When the wheel stops, the only person in the room not laughing is Mac.
Underwear Head.
Mac turns toward us, his mouth agape, eyes wide. “This is so fucked!” he whines, throwing his hands in the air.
“This is fucking Hell Week, bitch!” Damian howls. He starts chanting, “Underwear head! Underwear head! Underwear head!” and before long, everyone in the basement is chanting along with him. The brother with the plated underwear holds it out for Mac. Mac eyes it, and then us, his head shaking slowly.
“On with it!” Trevor shouts, motioning toward the dirty undies.
Mac reaches out, but hesitates, his hand trembling just inches from them.
“Put it on, pledge, or we’ll put it on for you,” Damian threatens with an evil little smirk on his face.
Mac pinches the underwear by the band with two fingers, lifting it from the plate, inspecting it with a curled lip. “This is so completely fucked. Whose underwear even is this?”
All eyes fall on Tim as he lifts his robed hand into the air, flashing the rock on sign. “Ran a mile in that pair two years ago when I was pledging.” Tim grins, his eyebrows doing a little wriggle.
Mac gags, dropping the underwear to the ground. “Fuck this, I can’t.” He crosses his arms and shakes his head.
“You don’t and you’re out,” Trevor says bluntly.
Mac’s eyes trail to the underwear wadded up on the floor, and then back at us.
I shrug. “It’s now or never, Red.”
He squats, lifting the underwear with two fingers again, and shakes his head before he pulls it over his face in one swift movement. The basement goes crazy, brothers cheering and whooping it up as Mac removes the underwear and throws it to the floor. It meets the concrete about the same time as his mess of vomit does. It splatters across the floor and the brothers closest to it jump back, though some still makes it onto their shoes.
The basement gets even louder, the cheering deafening.
“We got a puker!” Trevor yells, and he’s met with more raucous shouting.
Mac shuffles toward our line, still hunkered over with hands to his gut.
“Uh-uh. Where you going, Mac? Grab a mop,” Trevor says, shaking his head.
Mac turns slowly, a pitiful look on his face as he shuffles toward the utility closet.
Trevor points to the wheel. “Jeremy, you’re next.”
Once Jeremy effortlessly takes down some maggots, he strides back to the line.
“Jesus, dude. You got an iron gut,” I say as he links back up with me.
“Country boy, brother. I grew up eatin’ every goddamn part of the pig!” he responds as the brother with the last remaining plate, worms wiggling away on top of it, approaches Carter, holding the plate out for him.
Carter takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he takes the mess of worms and tosses them into his mouth. He tries to swallow, but gags. Tries again. Gags again, and then finally takes them down and keeps them there. He holds a tight hand to his stomach as he makes his way back over to us, shaking his head with shame written on his face.
“Pledges, congratulations on successfully completing day three of Hell Week. Get some rest. It’s going to be another early morning,” Trevor says, sending a shiver down my spine as the raw fish and bull testicles form a nauseating slurry in my stomach.