Our fraternity is playing Assassins: with teams of big and little brothers, each team eliminates their target, another big little team, and takes that teams target. The one team left in the end wins. It has been a heated, controversial, and at times colorful competition. I recently received this email from one player who was contesting his death. You might call this a guest blogger:
I would just like to pass on this story to you, because, regardless of the outcome, it was a glorious battle for my life, with multiple parties taking hits on both sides.
For the past three days, I have avoided my house like the plague. Only randomly dropping in to grab essentials, I make my visits at unannounced times. Tonight was no different, and I made my nightly stop about an hour after step show practice was over. During a brief chat with three of my roommates, I let slip that I was heading to the library to work on a lab report with some people (Mistake numero uno). But, it was just my housemates. Right? Would they sell me out? Wrong.
There we are in the library, vigorously working on our lab reports (peopleofwalmart.com
), and none other than the venerable Jordan Difani walks up and taps me on my shoulder. Fear gripped my insides like ice. I glance down at my watch, only to realize that it was 12:15. For those of you who aren’t familiar with David W. Mullins Library protocol, it is open until 2:00 a.m. However, after midnight, the only door open is the one on the Union side. Hence, only one door to freedom.
Quickly calculating and realizing my predicament, I begin to weigh my chances. Knowing there is a underground entrance to the library into the Chemistry Building, I proceeded to have a flirty conversation with a wonderfully rude beast of a woman named Michelle, who happened to be working the main desk at the time. She very kindly informed me that under no circumstances would I be able escape my prison through that venue.
As I stared at the door, I saw the growing masses of assassins grouping at the one exit, preparing to do unspeakable evils to me.
I made the call, and rallied in the troops. Mike Turner, Jon Braschler, Tim Yopp, and four of my friends from the BCM answered my call to battle. They came armed with a large blanket and ingenuity, and together we hatched a brilliant escape plan.
We placed the tallest one of them, which happened to be a girl, under the blanket, and the rest of them crowded around it. As we creeped up the stairs from the basement to the Golden Doorway, I hung back, biding my time. As soon as they reached the main floor, they were seen. They broke off at a sprint (or as much of one as the blanket-covered body could manage) for Maple Drive, not making it very far before Matt Chappell quickly and concisely blocked their path. What continued was much grappling and water-squirting, with the biggest of the Allies grabbing the psuedo-me and attempting to carry her off to the BCM and safety.
In the ensuing confusion, I took my chance. I bounded off towards Dickson Street, nearly measuring my length on the stairs. I made it a good five steps before they realized what had happened. As I was sprinting away, the Axis powers-at-be chased after me. Being a good twenty yards ahead of them and already running, I very easily made it into the welcome open door of Jon Braschler’s truck outside of the Music Ed building. With the windows up and the doors locked, they jumped, pushed, and squirted futilely.
We drove off in victory, but it wasn’t long before we realized that the screaming we were hearing was more of the Nazis having launched themselves onto the top of Jon’s truck. We slowed down to let them off, and Josh took his leave. Before getting back up to speed, we wanted to make sure that there was no one else on the car, not knowing that Tommy Hughes was still clinging on for dear life. We slowed down, and I cracked my window (Mistake Number Two) to yell at whoever that they needed to jump off then or most likely be subject to much Road Rash.
Tommy wisely hopped off, and as we were speeding up It happened. The Shot Heard Round Dickson. Running beside the accelerating truck, Tommy made two valiant squirts into the cracked passenger side window. They missed. They hit. Both sides could have sworn on their momma’s grave the opposite outcomes. We will never know the truth.