Riot Juice, pt 1

Riot Juice

         Considering that my newspaper editor won't even finish reading this before he rejects it, I should get some credit for starting this piece, let alone finishing it. Well, we'll see if I finish it. But the truth must be told, even if it has to come from me. And for the record, I still think it was the police who acted like children, not us. But getting tazed has a way of blurring objectivity, as well as vision.

         Let's start where it starts, otherwise I'll get confused. It was the Friday before the final exams of the Fall/Winter semester, so we the students needed to get shit faced, either to celebrate our hard work or to ignore our impending doom. But that rat-bastard Chancellor Grundle had suspended all on-campus social activities due to a misunderstanding involving four fraternities, five sororities, and three and a half improvised fireworks displays. No one got hurt permanently, and nothing burnt down all the way, but facts like those don’t matter to our dear Chancellor. As the head of the university, he had a reputation to protect—mostly his own.

         Thus, with the usual epicenters of debauchery shut down, hoards of thirsty undergrads roamed the campus, desperate to drink away their tedium. Adding wind to the fire, our basketball team had beaten the number one team in the nation, and fans were ready to rage as hard as possible to celebrate. To quote one red-faced fellow I met at the game, the plan was to "have a few beers, light some shit on fire, and enjoy the evening." But the people depending on Greek Row parties had to turn elsewhere, as with the actual Greek system members.

         Yet the real catalyst, the fuse and perhaps a few of the kegs of the gunpowder, was that a contentious student election had just finished, and the results would be released at midnight. The election was essentially between two main campus parties, CARE and LEAD, who were both throwing election night parties to celebrate—or forget—the results. These were the only parties of the night, and within easy walking distance of campus.

         I must point out that this election has been anything but clean or fair, and the newspaper I write for has been complicit through incompetence. Unbeknownst to readers of our campus rag, I too have been covering this race, even if most of my analysis isn’t printable according to my editor. But no political analysis can ever be as hideous as the truth, and this campaign has been a scorched earth, lie-then-deny affair. The election has been defined more by gossip than by issues: we all remember the Ugg boots and Crocs rumor, and some readers might still believe it to be true (which it isn't).

         That's why I, being the journalist I've been accused of, volunteered for a feature story that my editor assured me he wouldn't run. That might deter less committed journalists, but unlike them, I have a ton of time on my hands. My vision was to cover both election night parties from CARE and LEAD. If luck blessed me, I'd be able to laugh at the sobs of the losing side.

         Because of my devotion to the environment (and my reckless driving record), I decided to walk to the parties. It was a balmy 52 degree December evening, unduly warm for this time of year. Looking back, I wonder if this burst of tolerable weather didn't beget the shit-storm that this night would morph into. There's no way that the hundreds of students who showed up would've come out if it had been ten degrees colder (Note: I believe it was only hundreds, but the police report says thousands. It's funny: the police bloat the numbers for a riot, but downplay the numbers for a peaceful protest). And hey, it wasn't raining, so this was a beautiful night in this part of the country. My jacket was full of flasks, so I'd keep warm no matter what. I know alcohol only makes you feel warmer, but after a few dozen sips, the illusion becomes pretty comfortable. I mean, nobody ever looks away from a mirage.

         I began my walk, and could smell winter's arrival. The fragrance of family fires filled the air, warming my nostrils along with my soul. Or maybe that was the Hot Pocket I was chomping on that warmed my innards. As I walked past the cookie-cutter homes of my neighborhood, a black cat passed before me. It scurried from the street to some bushes, then eyed me from them. I could barely see it, not because of the dark, but because it was so thin. I took a last bite of my Hot Pocket, and tossed it down. There’ll be food at one of the parties, and the cat looked like it needed something warm and delicious more than I did. Even still, considering the actual ingredients of a Hot Pocket, this might be closer to animal cruelty than goodwill. I mean, what if the cat has a gluten allergy? I might be feeding it microwaved poison.

         I didn’t have time to see if the cat had low enough standards to eat what I had already touched. I had to keep moving, lest someone report me for littering. Even though this was a university town, most of the houses were occupied by families, families who were tired of scoundrels like me coming and going each year. With the holidays near, the houses occupied by families stood out like virgins at an orgy. Families used festive lights to contrast themselves from the nomadic herds of student residents, who couldn't be bothered to decorate their dwellings. I only noticed this since I've lived both of my junior years on this street. Most students leave town to be with their families during the holidays, so student houses are left dark this time of year. Why hang up Christmas lights on a house you won’t be in?

         I'm not the only one who’s noticed this, since numerous break-ins and robberies ring in the holiday season. During winter break, thieves figure that the unlit houses are empty, and they help themselves to whatever is left inside. My house was broken into last year, but since I sold all my meaningful possessions to buy Burning Man tickets the summer before, the thieves must've left my room feeling like they wasted their time. I often do the same.

         I grew up in a middle class suburban labyrinth, so I was used to streets illuminated with flagrant festivity. But in this town, with only a fraction of the houses decorated, it seemed more a cooperation than a competition between neighbors. Back in my hometown, holiday lights were a contest to see who could blind whom first, and I suspected that some blocks could be seen from space on Christmas Eve. But in this town, I could imagine each dad thinking less of showing up his neighbors, and more of joining them. In most cities, Christmas lights are put up to blend in. Here, Christmas lights are put up to stand out. "We're here to stay," proclaimed the lights.

         But enough about the commercialization of a proud pagan holiday. Back to what you're really interested in: campus politics. Indeed, if there's anything more vestigial and symbolic than Christmas decorations, it's student government.

         The two political groups vying for control over the little authority sneezed onto student government were opposites, sort of. They both agreed that colleges should be run by students, not politicians, and that rising tuition costs were creating a generation of indentured servants. That's where agreement ended. One wanted more scholarships, the other wanted lower tuition. One wanted more campus busses, the other wanted a new parking garage. One wanted to prohibit campus security (campo) from carrying weapons, the other wanted to allow students to carry concealed firearms. One wanted more child daycare services, the other wanted to defund campus birth control support. One wanted to ban hate speech, the other wanted to ban burning the American flag. One wanted to decriminalize cannabis on campus, the other wanted to drug test scholarship students.

         Naturally, some of these goals clashed. The stakes were high, and every vote counted, since student elections average only 15% turnout. In a place designed to prepare the next generation of citizens, not even two out of ten students could be bothered to vote online. It took all of thirty seconds to register and vote: trust me, I'd streamlined the process by voting dozens of times in place of my friends. All I needed was their email and their student ID number, and bam.

         Perhaps the low turnout was actually a vote itself, as in students refuse to participate for fear of validating the system. Maybe they hope their passive aggressive non-participation will revolutionize the system, and that since most of life is showing up, their absence will make everyone else stop and think.  I'm sure this has worked, somewhere, sometime, right? Right? Exactly. Good luck finding a politician who'll give back power because turnout was too low in the election he won.

         In the interests of bipartisanship, I wanted to attend both election galas, and luckily, the two candidates running for student body president lived in co-ops across the street from each other. For those who don't know what a co-op is, imagine a fraternity mixed with a sorority except without the penicillin and mandatory charity work. Co-ops are student run apartments for groups with similar majors or common interests. Thus, there was a co-op for environmentalists, a co-op for socialists, a co-op for atheists, a co-op for anarchists, and a co-op for feminists. In the other co-op lived the capitalists, the gun enthusiasts, and the Christians.

         The first co-op is where Libby lived. Err, Libby Parker. I shouldn't use just her first name, since it'll sound like I know her as well as I do, and as she has made clear to me numerous times, the worst smear campaign is being associated with someone like me. The truth hurts, and she should know: she's a budding politician. In her future, maybe campaign contributors will anesthetize the agony of honesty.

         Speaking of anesthetizing agents, I would never claim to sell illegal drugs to one candidate, and prescription drugs to the other. And it would be wrong of me to claim to be the secret love interest of one of the candidates. So I won't. It would also be inappropriate to mention my editor is my favorite customer, since he'll no doubt cut this paragraph anyway. But it can't be that bad to sell prescription drugs, since they're approved by the government, and it would be discrimination if only sick people could use them.

         Yes, that's right. I sell contraband, just like many of our Founding Fathers. I tried fighting my addictions, but hey, if you can't beat em, join em, and it's only American to make a profit doing it. Just kidding, I don't sell drugs: I trade them for cash. I don't know why I just wrote that, since all drug use will be struck out by my editor, a painful reminder that even though he's my fourth best customer, business comes before pleasure, and let's never forget: journalism is a business first (unlike drug dealing, which is humanitarian at heart).

         I turned the corner on University Terrace, and was able to see the two co-ops, which I will sometimes be referring to as "houses" from here on out. You have been warned. Was that sentence really needed? Forget it, skip the rest of this paragraph.

         It’s easy to distinguish between the two during any season, let alone the Christmas season. The house across from my side of the street had a Nativity Scene in a manicured lawn which was lit up by eye-scorching Christmas lights, complete with a Santa Clause on the roof in his sled waving out with his right hand at a disturbing angle. The house on my side of the street was bereft of any decorations, but did have a compost pile the size of a Volkswagen Bug near the side of the house.

         My walk was almost finished, and the entire time I'd been peppered with text messages requesting drugs that I couldn't sell, not for moral reasons, but since I was busy, and out of product anyway. Indeed, drug dealing taught me more about supply and demand than any economics class could. I consider myself a hands on learner, which got me into trouble during sex ed in high school. I would've responded to all the texts, but my phone was invented before the internet, meaning I might as well have been using carrier pigeon. My phone's so old I get text messages through Morse Code. Besides, they were just using me for drugs. Anyway, answering text messages distracts me from imbibing, since it takes two hands to drink from a flask: one hand to unscrew the lid, the other to flip-off any shocked bystander. I know that sneaking sips in public is a sign of a drinking problem, but sobriety is such a buzz kill. By the way, it's not that I have a drinking problem, it's that the world has a reality problem. But what can I say? I'm a man of substances.

         I was only a block away from both houses, and I could see the conservative co-op’s party had begun without me. I guess they wanted to get drunk before their bedtime. The internationally agreed upon start time for parties is 10pm, or 9pm for school nights. But since the days are short and the nights are long during winter, one starts drinking at sundown, which to me seems arbitrary, since there's plenty of reasons to drink before then.

         I walked up towards the gated borders of the Conservative house across the street, and took the last drag on my first flask. Here's where our story really begins. A good editor would tell me to start here, but *my* editor will simply tell me to shove off.

         I began crossing the street when I heard a familiar voice yell out.

         "Hey, Hunt, wait up, man!"

         I turned around and saw two dudes, one black, one white, both taller than me. "Ah, shit, no way, what's good man?" I asked while slapping hands with Phil fucking Lewis. “Shouldn't you be getting your dick wet for winning tonight?"

         "Nah, man, this is bullshit. We just beat the best team in the country, and there isn't a goddamn party around.”

         "Yeah, that's horse shit, but why are you coming out here?"

         Here, by the way, was across the street from a house with blinding Christmas lights, and with a wind chill that made me wonder why we couldn't talk about this inside.

         "I heard about two parties going down," the white dude said. "So I figured at least one would be worth it."

         "Yeah, that's what I'm hoping, too," I said. "Oh, damn, I didn't even recognize you, you're Nate Jackson!”

         "Yeah, the token white dude on the team," Nate said.

         Phil and Nate are two of the basketball players who beat the best team in the country, and now they're reduced to celebrating at co-ops. My, how the mighty have fallen.

         "Where're the other players?" I asked.

         "Just cuz we ball together doesn't mean we gotta hang together," Phil said.

         "What?" I asked. "Next you're gonna tell me you only play basketball to get into a good school."

         "Fuck you, whitey,” Phil said while Nate laughed. "Speaking of white shit, you wouldn't happen to have any—"

         "Nah, I'm out, but I sold a bunch to a dude at that party," I said, pointing towards the house with the Nativity Scene and Santa Clause striking a pose.

         "Shit," Phil said.

         We crossed the street, and I was about to enter the front yard when I looked back and saw them standing behind on the sidewalk. "You guys coming, or you need to have a huddle first?"

         Phil laughed. "I'm gonna hit up some people first. You say they got some shit or booze in there?"

         I shrugged. "If not, there's a party across the street later."

         "Ok, I'm gonna get some girls down here," Phil said. "If you're wrong and there ain't anything in this—"

         "Then I'll apologize to whatever high-class ass you bring," I said and slapped his hand again.

         I walked up to the door, trying to ignore the conspicuously white characters of the Nativity Scene. I mean, let's assume the whole Christianity urban legend is true, that doesn't explain why Jesus, Mary, and Joseph look like they grew up in fucking Finland. Whatever. The house's entrance was manned by a monster of a dude dressed in a fur coat and a cowboy hat sitting in a plastic chair, probably thinking about his truck. He glanced at me, looked back at his phone, and then snapped his head right back up.

         "Hold on, bucko," he said as I cringed. He stabbed a finger my direction. "You're that writer, aren't you?"

         This was promising. "Yeah, I know how to write, I can teach you sometime if you'd like," I said, trying to move past him.

         He narrowed his vacant eyes. "Funny, faggot. I've read your shit, and you're definitely not welcome here."

         "I don't believe this," I told him as I scratched my head. "You can read?"

         That got him on his feet. He was over a foot taller than me, hat not included.

         "I'm gonna tell you to leave, and then I'm gonna help you to leave," he said, taking off his fur coat.

         I backed up. The dude had muscles, if not wit. Indeed, one is often a substitute for the other. "Before you fondle me," I began. "I'd like to speak to your handler. I'm assuming he left you outside since you're not house-trained yet, right?"

         He stepped forward and reached his arms toward me, when one of his hands was victim to a soft slap.

         "What up, man? There's a party here, right?" Phil said in exaggerated chillness.

         The ape turned and looked at our school's star shooting guard.

         "Hot damn, you're—"

         "You mind if two ballers and our friend," he motioned at me, "kick it here? I got ladies on the way, they're gonna love you, cowboy."

         The dipshit was speechless. Phil slapped and grabbed his palm again, pulling him into an ethnic embrace that white people can only dream of executing properly. When confronted with these sorts of hand-motions, white people become more self-conscious than olympic gymnasts in trying to stick the landing.

         "See?" Phil asked Nate. "I told you this place was cool, we should come here more often."

         With that, Phil opened the door and yanked me through while Nate gave the doorman the same hand-slap and hug treatment. Nate threw in a chest bump for good measure.

         Once inside, Phil turned to me. "You're welcome."

         "I was just about to get to know the guy.”

         He laughed, and we took in the scene. Imagine a four story apartment that houses 40 people comfortably with a semi-luxurious common floor; sofas and coffee tables galore. Even though I did business with people who lived here, this was the first time I'd actually been inside. Five yards (if you're European, I don't know what this is in your fake-ass Narnia measurement system: oh, everything is divisible by ten? Wow, that's creative) in front of the door was a staircase leading upstairs, and we were forced to go either right or left into equally expansive common rooms. The house was as lit up inside as it was outside: too bright for comfort, and with holiday decorations wrapped around anything that would hold them. I felt like I had kaleidoscope contact lenses in. This conservative co-op sure loved the reef, if not the reefer, and it smelled like pine needles. If only these people knew that Jesus was born closer to June than Christmas, and if they wanted to be accurate, they’d deck the halls with bails of hay instead of boughs of holly. But you gotta have faith.

         I turned and walked left, since I didn't want to look indecisive, or remain within the doorman's reach.

         "Damn, this place is tackier than—"

         "Than a white point guard," I finished for Phil.

         "Fuck you," Nate said.

         "Chill, Nate, he's just jealous that you can get laid," Phil said.

         I nodded. It must suck to be constantly reminded that you're a white point guard. I mean, reverse discrimination will never be worse than the real thing, but it still stinks. I try to avoid racial stereotypes unless I'm scapegoating them for my own shortcomings. Ever since elementary school, I’ve told my teachers that I was "intelligently designed" to make other students look fit by comparison. Who were they to argue with God? Also there was that time in algebra class when I argued that as an American, I naturally sucked at math. The teacher didn't believe me until I showed him our country’s national debt.

         We sauntered towards the noisy side of the house. The party was still in its embryonic stages, with a few clusters of students standing or sitting, talking and waiting. We walked slowly to hide our discomfort. If it's uncool to leave a party early, it's even more pathetic to arrive before the party has started. We walked past a dining room table which had some hors d'oeuvres, but most of the space was open, perhaps reserved for booze which was hopefully coming. I saw my friend Zach talking to some couple across the room. I'm not the most socially apt fellow, but even I could tell that the guy and girl were looking around for any excuse to leave the conversation. Unfortunately for them, my colleagues and I caught Zach's eye, causing him to raise his voice.

         "So you're telling me that you two refuse to drink because you're Christian?"

         They both nodded.

         "That's shit, not only did Jesus drink, he turned water into wine, which today would make him a bootlegger, along with a heretic and revolutionary, the latter two he got the death penalty for. But I know since you're both pro-life, you're against the government playing God with life like Pontius Pilate did. Also, Jesus partied more often than he dated, so if you really wanted to honor the Dude, you'd down a bottle of wine and dump each other, then try to practice medicine without a license like He did," Zach explained as I approached him.

         I was about to add my agreement when I was preempted by the lead candidate himself, Connor Allen, who came through from another room to defuse Zach's sermon.

         "Howdy, folks, how y'all doing tonight?"

         Zach squinted. “Would be better if there were more booze around."

         "Hold your horses, man, it's on its way," he said, before turning to the cornered couple. "Also, we have apple cider in the dining room in case you're thirsty."

         They both nodded. I doubted they were genuinely thirsty as they hauled holy-ass away from Zach.

         "What'd you do that for? I was having an intoxicating conversation."

         Connor laughed and slapped Zach's back. “You were doing the preaching and they—" he broke off upon seeing me. He looked around the relatively empty room, perhaps deciding if he could speak freely in his own house. "Well, shit the bed," he said as we shook hands. "What brings you here, I don't need any product.”

         "That's cuz I sold it all to you yesterday," I said.

         Connor winced behind his smile. "Keep it down, these people still think I'm respectable."

         "It's a journalist's job to set the record straight. But I'm here out of curiosity and boredom, a dangerous combination, and I brought some friends."

         Connor looked behind me, and his face lit up. "Holy shit, is that Phi—"

         "Straight up, what's good, um…” Phil started.

         "Connor, Connor Allen. I'm running for student body president," Connor said, taking Phil's hand. Indeed, for all the hand-slapping, jazz finger bull shit, Connor was bred for politics, and he always grabbed your hand before you could snatch it away.

         "Really?" Nate asked. "When's the election?"

         I thought I saw Conner sink an inch or two. "The results will be announced at midnight, that's why we're having a party tonight," Connor explained.

         "What if you lose?" Nate asked.

         Zach fielded this one. "Churchill said he drank during victories cuz he deserved it, and defeats cuz he needed it. Either way, we're gonna get shit faced, right Conny?"

         Connor put his arms around Zach and I. "You guys can get shit faced, but you know I gotta stay sober until the results are announced."

         "Yeah, wouldn't want to get drunk and accidentally say what you mean, would you?"

         "It's called etiquette, you might need a dictionary for that one," Connor said. Someone put on country music. You know the type. Some people started swaying a little.

         “What're you up to before midnight?" Phil asked, looking around. "I mean, you're two and a half hours away from knowing the final score, you gotta be nervous."

         Connor looked at Phil. "Yeah, it's like tossing up a last second buzzer beater and then waiting a day to find out if it goes in."

         "You know," I began, "just cuz he's an athlete doesn't mean you have to use sports metaphors."

         Connor went pale, and Phil just shook his head. They both looked embarrassed by my buffoonery. Tonight would be fun.

         "Just kidding," I said, sensing no laughter from anyone at my joke. "I mean, if Phil was going to college to learn, he'd never enroll at this shit hole," I said.

         Connor just exhaled. "You're an asshole, Hunter."

         "If you ran on that platform, you might've gotten more votes," Zach said. "By the way, I'm getting bored."

         I nodded. "Let's find that Christian couple and convince them Jesus was a black socialist, just like Obama."

         "You think Jesus was black?" Nate asked like someone had told him basketball was a water sport.

         "Of course Jesus was black," Phil said. "Why do you think he got the death penalty?"

         "Too soon," Connor said after he was done laughing. Then came the warm, satisfied silence after group laughter. It's these moments when anything is possible, no suggestion farfetched.

         Phil broke the silence. "Man, when is this party gonna take off? This night better not blow."

         "I'm sorry we're not entertaining you, sir," I said. "But speaking of blow…" I turned and looked over at my best customer, who smiled.

         "I was saving it for later…but, you guys down with some Columbian marching powder?" Connor asked.

         "It wouldn't be the holidays without some snow," Nate said.

         "I dunno if I trust the stuff you got, I hear the dealer is a dick,” Phil said to Connor. "If it was the same shit you sold me last time, I'll snort broken glass first," Phil said.

         "That's not my fault," I said. "It was cut with salt before I even had a chance to cut it with Ritalin."

         "Relax," Connor said as he slapped my back. Always with the physical contract, I guess it qualifies as voter outreach. "We're just giving you shit cuz you deserve it. Anyway, the booze'll be here soon, and the party won't actually start for another half hour. Would you gentlemen like to join me in my presidential suite?"

         "I would love to," Zach said. "Just let me go invite those Christians first, it'd be a sin to hold out on them."

         "Bull shit," I said before Connor could react. "If they started taking drugs, I'd stop cuz it wouldn't be cool anymore."

         We followed Connor up to his room on the fourth floor. When we hit the third floor, I asked Phil for a piggy back up to the next flight.

         "Fuck you," he said. "This ain't 1850, cracker."

         "Thank God we don't live in a world where a black guy like you has to rely on physical labor to get ahead in the world," Zach said. "By the way, did you guys win tonight?"

         Connor opened up the door to his room. Nothing demonstrates status quite like living quarters. "Why is your closet bigger than my room?" I asked.

         "It's cuz he works hard, and tricks people into thinking he's important," Zach said. Connor nodded.

         "Damn man, even us athletes don't get this treatment," Phil said, sprawling out on one of Connor’s luxurious couches.

         "Yeah, the system's broken for those who don't benefit from it," Connor said, turning on some rock music. "But come on, I had to work my ass off kissing dicks to get here."

         "That explains your breath," Zack said.

         But Connor was right. Not only was he president of the house, he was one of two student representatives for off-campus housing at the university. The other lived across the street.

         Connor walked over to his bookcase and pulled out a thick book with the words "Emily Post's Guide to Etiquette" printed on the cover. He opened it up, and inside the hollowed out book, he pulled out a bag of white powder.

         “A helluva place to hide your drugs," I said.

         He shrugged. "I've lived here for two years, and not once has anyone other than me touched this book."

         With that, he grabbed a small mirror, cut up some straws, and we began. And yes, we use straws, not twenty dollar bills like a bunch of tools. Straws are cleaner, and you lose less of the coke in the process. Twenty minutes, a shit ton of lines, and a thorough basketball debate later, we headed downstairs. I know I should expand on this scene, but really, you gotta believe me: it was just a bunch of dudes, on coke, talking basketball, not giving a shit. It was amazing while it was happening, but hardly podcast worthy.

         Heading down, Zach, Nate and myself were ahead of Connor and Phil. We hit the third flood and heard the dull roar of a lively crowd. Unlike when we went up, the social rooms on both sides of the stairs were now packed, and the dining room table was covered with an assortment of booze, chasers, mixers, and snacks.

         "I guess we got here at the right time," I said. Hopped up, my eyes darted to the flashy, neon colored cans of Quatro Crazy, an alcoholic energy drink. Liquid insanity, it had already been banned in several European countries.

         A few people had noticed us coming down, but luckily nobody knew or cared who we were. I made my way to the whiskey to refill one of my flasks, and I felt people's attention shift to the stragglers coming down the stairs.

         "Holy Gosh, is that Phil Lewis?" Someone yelled out.

         Connor and Phil, who were laughing with each other, suddenly stopped their conversation as they remembered they couldn't just hang out. Not here, not now. People started whooping and cheering as the two descended. It's always a nuisance when a crowd interrupts your conversation, except when they do so with adulation. Or so I've been told.

         "Speech! SPEECH!!!" I started encouraging at them. They laughed and Phil flipped me the finger.

         The crowd quieted down, as if they expected my suggestion to be acted upon. Boy, would that be a first. But since a politician on coke is never at a loss for words, Connor cleared his throat of drip and began.

         "Thank you all so much for coming out tonight,” he began, his arms gesturing, first widely, then towards the center of his body. “It's been a wild ride, and I appreciate each of you who worked hard and voted for me. The results will be announced at midnight, but in the meantime, we have two very special guests—"

         "Three!" I yelled, flailing my arms in the air.

         "Like I said, we have two very special guests tonight, who knocked off the number one team in the nation!" He yelled the last bit, and everyone cheered. When the crowd quieted down, Connor began again. "It's my privilege to introduce Nate Jackson, where are ya Nate?" Connor scanned around, and the crowd waited. "Oh there you are, come up here, yeah, Nate Jackson everyone!"

         Once he went up to Connor, the crowd erupted, and kept going for several seconds longer than I felt necessary. I heard someone next to me say, "Damn, I didn't think there were any white basketball players left."

         "Yeah, thank God for affirmative action, right?"

         A thick necked bro looked at me like I was trying to pet a fish, and said, "Maybe in special cases." I decided not to respond, for fear of confusing him with consecutive complete sentences.

         Connor waited for silence, then continued. "Also here, as you may recognize, is the man, the myth, the future legend, Phil fucking Lewis!" Everyone cheered, the same amount as they did for Nate, who had left the stairs and come back towards me and the booze. Fortunately for my curiosity, he was intercepted by the thick necked bro. Zach had wandered off, no doubt in search of Christians to convert to confusion.

         "Dude," he said to Nate, who winced at the idea of talking to him. "You're my favorite player," the bro gushed.

         "Thanks, did you come to the game tonight?"

         The bro paused. "Oh, I mean, no but when I tell my friends back home how chill you are, they're gonna—"

         "How the hell," I began as I handed Nate a drink, "do you know that he's chill?"

         "Shut up, faggot," the bro advised, before turning back to Nate. "Don't drink that, he's probably trying to date rape you."

         I nodded at Nate, who then burst into laughter.

         The bro was undeterred. "I just wanted to say how cool it is that people like us can still play basketball."

         Nate took a sip. "What do you mean 'people like us'?"

         The bro started stuttering, so I answered for him.

         "I think he's calling you retarded, Nate."

         "Shut the fuck up, faggot! What I meant was—"

         Phil Lewis passed by Nate on his way to the drink table, but Nate tugged at Phil's shirt.

         "Let go, I'm trying to get my drink on," Phil said.

         "No prob, I just wanted you to meet my biggest fan. He was just telling me how I'm his favorite player on the team," Nate said.

         Phil looked less than stunned when he saw the fan. "Really?"

         "Yeah, he thinks it's great people like me can play basketball."

         "What, virgins?" Phil asked while pouring himself a drink.

         Nate looked back, pretending hurt.

         "Aw, just kidding," Phil said. "But seriously man, if he's your biggest fan, you shouldn't give him shit just cuz he's racist," Phil told Nate.

         "I'm not racist," the bro said.

         "Why the hell would Nate be your favorite player then?" I asked.

         Phil took a sip and said, "Dude, just admit it, you like him cuz he's white, whatever. Do you know how many of my black friends hate him cuz he's white?"

         "All of them?" Nate asked.

         "Nah, just the ones on the team," Phil answered before he took another sip.

         "Is that why they always get pissed when I shoot?" Nate asked.

         "Sure, that’s the reason,” Phil said as the bro retreated back into the crowd.

         They both looked around for a second before I made my opinion known. "You know, Nate, around here, you're a celebrity. I mean, you're probably the first and last white basketball player that these pricks will ever meet. Phil's just another run-of-the-mill black, first-round draft pick. You should live it up, man."

         "Speaking of living it up," Phil said as he saw a throng of people making their way to him. "I'm not sure how much longer I can stay. It's whiter than an avalanche in here."

         "As opposed to those other places on campus?" I asked.

         "You know what I mean, man. When's that other party starting?"

         “Have you no etiquette? You can't just do blow and go, it's criminally rude.”

         On cue, Connor came down after shaking many hands, and slapped Phil's back. "It's good to have you here man, the party should really get going now. You guys enjoying yourselves?"

         Never missing a chance to be the instigator that I am, I was quick to mention that we were all about to leave. This gave me the rare opportunity to enjoy a look of absolute dejection on a man who's high on coke.

         "So you're just gonna do my coke then ditch?"

         Phil looked down at his size infinity shoes. Nate looked at the duo of coeds eyeing him from the corner.

         "Don't be silly," I said. "We did my coke that you just happened to have cuz I sold it to you. Besides," I said, gesturing around us. "You have plenty of well-wishers itching for you to talk to them. We don't want to distract you from your night."

         "I dunno, man," Nate said as I saw one of the coeds wink at him. "I think I like it here."

         Phil and I laughed. "Of course you do," Phil said. "For once in your life, you're a basketball star.”

         "You can't bring me down, I think I'm gonna score tonight," he said, motioning towards the ladies.

         "Sure as shit won't happen on the court," Phil said.

         While we were boosting Nate's self esteem, more well-wishers had surrounded Connor, who was eager to enjoy them.

         "See? He's busy on his own, let's jet," Phil said. Before we could go, Connor grabbed me.

         "You better be back for the victory celebration. We have more snow to blow."

         "You're as subtle as a politician," Phil said. "But yeah, we'll come back for your victory celebration. We might be late by a few days, but we'll be back."

         With that, Phil Lewis left the building, and I followed.

         Out we walked into the cold, past the tall hat on top of the tall man. He was talking to a girl who must've been a high schooler since she appeared interested in what he was saying. He took one look at me and soured, as if wondering "Who let him in?"

         "Thanks for the good time. Have someone read you my column next week," I said as Phil dragged me out of the mongoloid's reach.

         Even before we cleared the Nativity Scene strewn lawn, I could hear the other party cranking up. Across the street, it was clear that Phil and I were right on time to be fashionably late. While devoid of Christmas decorations, the liberal co-op's front lawn was crowded with, well, a crowd. It seemed prescient of the liberals not to clutter their yard with holiday adornments, since the front lawn was teeming with students trying to get in.

         "Shit, we should've left sooner," Phil said.

         "What, and miss the bonding session we just had?"

         "Whatever man, I just wanna get outta the cold," Phil said, zipping up his jacket. I forgot that being a recruit from warmer regions, 52 degrees was frigid to Phil.

         We walked across the street to Libby' co-op, and I could make out the amateur sounds of a DJ pretending to be a musician above the roar of the talking.

`         That sounds like Dubshit. Man, how you gonna fuck up dubstep?" Phil asked. I had no answer, since the idea of messing up dubstep was like littering in a landfill to me.

         In front of the door was a line that stretched anywhere it could.

         "Fuck this line, where are my press credentials?" I asked.

         "Fuck your press credentials, I'm Phil Lewis!"

         I gestured forward. “By all means, lead the way, oh great one."

         Phil told me to fuck off with his eyes and pushed onward. True to my hunch, Phil was able to plow through the line, with occasional surprised gasps piercing the air. Things like:

         "Holy shit, is that Phil Lewis?"

         or

         "Omigod, that's Phil Lewis!"

         Undistracted by acclaim, Phil modestly surged forward, blocking out other party goers, with me close behind. “You’re a great lead-blocker, Phil.”

         He turned to me. “I’m used to people riding my coattails.”

         It wasn't long before we found ourselves at the head of the line, face to face with another very tall man.

         "Hey! Good game tonight!" The broad shouldered, heavily bearded man said.

         "Thanks, can my friend and I get in?"

         The dude wore a trucker hat and red flannel shirt, along with black jeans. It looked warm, in contrast to his complexion. I thought I recognized his even though I’d never seen him before. "You can, but I'm not so sure about your friend,” he said.

         "What?" I asked.

         "Sorry man, it's not my call," he said without remorse. "Go on in, Mr. Lewis."

         Phil looked at me and shrugged while grinning.

         I was outraged. I wasn't just another random party goer. Didn't he know who I was? Oh shit, maybe he did. "You're manning the door, how can it not be your call?"

         "Because,” I heard a female voice say from the doorway. “I told him not to let you in.”

         All three of us turned to see Libby Parker standing in the doorway. My heart fluttered, along with some other parts of me. "Libby, you'll catch a cold dressed like that. Now let us in."

         Phil stepped forward, but I was held back. "Not so fast, little fella," the flanneled giant said.

         "First things first," Libby said. "I think I deserve an apology."

         "And I think there's room for debate on that one."

         "Wrong answer,” the giant opined before pushing me to the ground. Luckily, my parents forced gymnastics on a younger me, so I landed gracefully without breaking any flasks.

         "You're a dick, Hunter," Libby said before turning to Phil. "Come on in and grab a drink, Phil."

         "Wait!" I said just before they walked in. "I'm sorry."

         Shit, that wasn't good enough. "For?" She asked.

         "For…what I said," I guessed.

         She looked at me and snorted. "Apology accepted."

         It worked!

         "I'll see you later. Come on Phil, you must be cold."

         They turned again to go inside, with the bearded beast blocking my way.

         "Wait!"

         "What?" Libby almost yelled.

         "I have some stuff that'll warm you up," I said, getting to my feet and pulling out a small glass perfume bottle.

         "We already have alcohol, dumb ass," the doorman said.

         "Yeah, but do you have this?" I scooted towards Libby while the gorilla was distracted by people behind us. A bro was finger-banging his drunk date in line, which was stirring a commotion. I opened the bottle and poured a bump on my wrist, then snorted it for dramatic, therapeutic effect.

         "Jesus, Hunt," she gasped (and not, I hoped, for the last time). "Put that shit away and come inside."

         Never one to respect authority, I made an exception as I walked in and closed the door behind me.

         The inside was set up much like the other co-op, except this one was way more crowded, and way less decorated. I always said Libby's was the party of the people.

         "I thought you were out of drugs?" Phil asked.

         "Yeah I am. I'm out of drugs to sell."

         "Why didn't you break that shit out at Connor's?" He asked as we meandered past people.

         “Why do your own product when your can do your customer's instead?”

         Phil shook his head and muttered something about never trusting white people.

         "The real festivities are downstairs and in the backyard," Libby explained to Phil as I slowed a step behind. "But let's go upstairs before Hunter get's in trouble."

         "I thought that ship had sailed," I said as we moved for the stairs.

         But before we made it six steps up, we heard a loud crash and muffled yells behind us. Several shrieks later, I identified the hubbub as a fight, and not just any fight. No, this was a proper cat fight, complete with hair pulling and torso tussling.

         Phil and I laughed while Libby said something unprintable. Several large guys were moving less-than-urgently to separate the two girls, one of whom was getting the better of the other.

         "This is my kind of party," I said right before the blond girl ripped the redhead's shirt in half, revealing a pink bra to the cheers of onlookers. I was tempted to high five Phil.

         "Come on," Libby said over the applause that had erupted. I felt her hand grab mine and pull me upstairs. "Come on!" Libby repeated. "I don't want people seeing me head up with you."

         I turned and followed. "Yeah, wouldn't want people to get the right idea, do you?”

         "Shut up and come on," Libby ordered. I followed, wondering if she staged the fight to distract people from her walking up with the star basketball player and the super-star journalist. Below, the sounds of the fight dimmed, either due to distance, or due to discretion on the part of people around it. There's a special place in hell for men who break up cat fights. Indeed, the Old Testament is clear on condemning women who break up a man-fight by grabbing their husband's balls. In the interest of fairness, the same must apply to men who break up cat fights. We arrived at Libby's room, which was the same layout as Connor's: large, because she's in charge. She flipped on the lights, revealing spartan decoration.

         "I love what you've done with the place," I said.

         "Shut up, I spend a lot of time working in here."

         "Could've fooled me," I said, trying to notice any personal touches to the room besides utilitarian furniture and a few bookcases. She locked the door behind us. "Do your sleeping in other beds, then?"

         Libby responded with a kidney punch, softer than she could have. I coughed and tugged at Phil's coat as he was taking it off.

         "Did you see that? We should report her!"

         He laughed and shook his head. "Yeah, a 6 foot black man and you vs the word of our future president. Let's see how that plays out."

         "Thanks for the confidence," Libby said while getting us beers. At least she had a refrigerator.

         "I'm a journalist, why the hell wouldn't people believe me?"

         “Didn’t you just say you were out of blow, and now you pull out a bottle full of the shit?” Phil asked.

         "Don't be silly. I always keep a backup stash for special people," I said.

         She scoffed. "Who's that? Yourself?"

         I took a beer from her. "Yes, but I'll have you know, people think very highly of me.”

         "Until they meet you," Phil said. Libby laughed. I didn't like seeing other guys make her laugh.

         "Anyway, let's get this party started, I'm expected downstairs all night," she said.

         I did as suggested. "Ladies first," I said, pointing towards three generous two inch lines and handing Libby a portion of a straw I'd cut up and kept in my pocket for these occasions.

         "You're such a gentleman," Libby said before indulging herself.

         Phil and I watched as she pulled her black hair back to one side, bent over the coke, and turned her head a few degrees from left to right. Few things can rival the gentle grace of a pretty woman dragging a line. She raised up, arching her back, and flashed her feline grin.

         "That's better," she purred.

         Phil was next, then me.

         "Holy shit," he said during my rail. "This is miles beyond whatever you sold Connor."

         "You sell drugs to Connor?"

         I finished my line as euphoric focus flooded me. "It's too late for the negative ad campaign, honey. But rest assured, I cut it with Ritalin first. He'll never know there's Ritalin in it, unless he fails a drug test, or passes his algebra test."

         "He's such a filthy hypocrite," Libby gushed between sips of her beer. "How can he say all that shit on the campaign and then do drugs during?"

         "I bet the coke helps," Phil said to Libby's delight. I just drank my beer. Hard.

         "Another round?" I asked rhetorically.

         As I began cutting up more lines, Libby's phone sounded. She checked it and groaned.

         "Problems in paradise, princess?" I asked.

         "Shut up, I told you not to call me that. Sammy wants to know where I am."

         I nodded. Samantha was Libby's vice presidential candidate, and second in command of the co-op. She loathed me more than I deserved. I respected her for that.

         "Why don't you just tell her where you are?" I asked.

         "Fuck you," Libby said while she typed something on her phone before putting it down. "You done with those lines?"

         "All yours, your highness."

         She brushed me aside and took another line. Then Phil took another. And one more after that. Libby's phone beeped again, and after I'd finished my line, I looked up to see both Phil and Libby twiddling with their cells. “The fuck is this?"

         They both looked up for a second, then back down.

         "I bring over the best coke you've smelled in ages on a night that'll change the course of school history, and you two can't be bothered to put down your phones for one fucking minute?"

         "Hold on," they both said.

         "You two can't even break your technology addiction long enough to enjoy cocaine? I think you two have a problem."

         Phil put his phone down. "Sorry man."

         Libby, meanwhile, was still typing.

         "Either put the phone away, or I'm putting the coke away."

         She looked at me, looked at her phone, then at the coke. With a heavy sigh, she pressed one more button, then tossed her phone on the couch.

         "You made the right choice," I said. "Now finish this line."

         She did just that, marking the first time that a woman did what I suggested. Drugs seemed to help.

         "You know, I really can't stand our generation sometimes," Libby said while getting us more drinks. It was good beer. Indeed, when a girl likes beer, only the best will do, whereas for a man, only the alcoholic kind will do. Although Libby didn't give a damn for decoration, she was much more discerning towards alcohol. Leadership qualities if I ever knew any.

         "Yeah, it must be tough for you," Phil said. "We may've gotten president first, but I'd rather be a white woman than a black man."

         "Shut up, you go to school for free Mr. MVP," I said, trying to impress Libby by speaking for her.

         Phil look liked I'd just pissed on his Air Jordan’s and called it a shoe-shine. "You think I want to be here?"

         "You keep putting up triple-doubles and you won't be here for long."

         "Exactly. I shouldn't be here at all, fuck this place. I'm only going here cuz I have to."

         "Nobody has to go to college," Libby said.

         "You do if you want to play in the NBA," I corrected, sparing Libby the shame of being told she's wrong.

         "What?"

         "Yeah, Phil said. "Too many black superstars were skipping college, so after Lebron James did it, a bunch of rich white alumni made a rule saying players had to go to college for at least a year before they could enter the NBA." Phil took a quick, hard swig of his beer. "Rich alumni wanted to see players like Kobe and Lebron on their college teams. So instead of going straight to the NBA, the best players gotta risk a year of injury playing for free in front of half-full arenas and taking bullshit classes so white fans have something to talk about at the water cooler."

         "But what about your free education?" Libby asked while I cut up more lines.

         "What about it? I know what I wanna do, I put in thousands of hours practicing it. While my friends were hooking up in high school, I was in the gym working on my jump shot. Hour after hour," he said, moving over to take another line of my coke. "This is the first time I've been to a party in nine weeks," he continued. "And I'm a fucking college student. That’s cuz for me, it's basketball or bust, which means the less I work on basketball, the more bust my ass will be."

         I was rarely silent, especially on coke, but I was concentrating on cutting more lines and losing feeling in my nose. Phil took another, then looked up at us, half smiling. "I mean, do you really think I'd be here if I couldn't dunk?"

         Libby railed another line as Phil answered his own question. "At least my professors aren't in denial. They don't want me there any more than I wanna be there. My history teacher straight up told me he'd give me a B no matter what, that all I had to do was sign my name on the tests. My sociology teacher, of all people, told me he'd be grading my tests based on how many rebounds I pulled down. He didn't want to read my work, and none of them wanna be the bitch who flunked a five star recruit. They'll never know if I'm smart enough to deserve a seat in their class, and neither will I. But it doesn’t matter, cuz I’m here for games, not class.”

         "Well, shit," I said, sniffing back a tear, and some coke. “No need to make this about race, white athletes can't go from HS to the pro's either."

         "Fucking funny man," he said without a hint of humor. "I forgot all those white basketball prodigies who went from high school to the NBA. Who are they again?"

         I took another bump and looked up. "We'll never know now, will we?"

         Phil laughed, which put me at ease for a moment. "You really are a coward, aren't you?"

         The coke must've been hitting him harder than it was me. Then again, I had a tolerance, whereas he seemed to be out of tolerance. Libby was back to texting, and I saw a gleam in Phil’s eyes.

         "What're you talking about?"

         "You gotta hide behind jokes all the time, you can’t face anything honest," he said, taking a step towards me.

         "Whatever, at least you have a ticket out of here.”

         “Jealous, white boy?"

         "Don't call me boy, I'm older than you.”

         "What're you gonna do about it, white boy?”

         He towered over me. My hands were sweaty, and my vision blurred for a few heartbeats. But I wasn't gonna crack first. "Let's find out, asswipe." I took another step forward. "Your move."

         Barely a heartbeat later, we both swung—

         —our heads around towards Libby, who looked at us like we were both on fire. Phil and I erupted with laughter as Libby's fear turned into outright rage.

         "You pieces of shit."

         "You thought we'd fight?" I asked between guffaws.

         "I didn’t…I didn't know," she said.

         Phil slapped my hand. “You think he’d take a swing at someone like me?” The 6’4’’ shooting guard asked.

         “Someone like you? Fuck that, you think Phil would really risk alienating his dealer? Your line, man," I said.

         Phil nodded, still a basket of chuckles.

         Libby smacked me on the arm. "I'm a wreck of stress tonight, and you pull that fake shit on me?"

         I was still laughing but Phil composed himself for the drugs. I guess cocaine takes precedence over comedy. Just ask the 80's.

         I tried retreating, but Libby kept smacking me. Phil crossed his finish line, then looked up.

         "You know what's messed up?"

         "What?" I asked while putting distance between myself and Libby.

         "She thought that just cuz we’re men, we were gonna act violent."

         "You don't say," I remarked while dodging a thrown pillow. "I think that makes her sexist."

         "And now look who's attacking whom?” Phil said.

         Libby started laughing, much to my relief. "I'm all about busting gender barriers," she said.

         “Just like those girls downstairs?” I asked.

         This brought her to a standstill. A silent standstill.

         "I believe it's your line, madam," Phil said.

         "Thank you, sir." She sashayed over. My God, what legs, what swagger. "And I'm sorry if I offended you," she told Phil.

         "No problem," he said, lower than he had to. As much as he towered over me, he dwarfed Libby. They looked at each other longer than they needed to.

         "Where's my apology?"

         Libby just snorted, then looked back up. "Do you even know what you apologized for outside?"

         "If I did, do you think I would've?"

         "Exactly," she said before her phone started ringing again. "God damnit," she began as she stomped over to her phone, "how many times do I have to tell these dumbasses to figure it out—"

         Her sentence was cut off by a terrific crash. Or was it a bang? Either way, we shouldn't have heard it four stories up.

         "The fuck was was that?" Phil asked.

         Libby's phone just kept ringing.

         "Probably a telemarketer," I said, nodding towards her cell.

         Libby picked up the phone. "Hello?"

         Moments passed like kidney stones, during which Libby's face went pale, and soon matched the coke she'd been sniffing. She hung up, and headed towards the door. "I have to go. Stay here."

         Always the curious journalist, I wanted some sort of hint. "What's going—?"

         "Just stay here!"

         "Let's just stay here," I suggested to Phil.

         "OK," he said.

         Libby and Phil looked at each other, then she left without glancing at me.

         When she closed the door, we were left in relative silence. I mean, we could hear the commotion when she opened the door, but the noises died down when she closed the door. Phil and I were left with cocaine and hopefully more beer in the fridge. I mean, there was also the possibility of us going through Libby's panties, but that didn't entice me as much as it should've.

         "Hey Phil, you know these rooms have a balcony, right?"

         "Yeah.”

         "Yeah," I said, trying not to let the journalist in me dwell on his casual tone. "I think it's time for a smoke.”

         "I'm down, but it sounds loud out there, I don't think I should be smoking where everyone can see me."

         “You? What about my reputation?”

         He blinked at me.

         “You’re right, but we're on the fourth floor man, just put your hood up, nobody's gonna see shit."

         He was still undecided, so I handed him the blunt. "Here, get this started."

         Phil did as he was told, and before I could say “Hey, is it lit?" he was taking prodigious hits off my blunt.

         A quarter of the blunt later, he handed it to me. "There, it's lit."

         "Thanks. Now can we take this outside? Libby'll kill me if she smells that we smoked a blunt in her room without her."

         Phil looked at me with hazy eyes. "Whatever."

         I took a hit as he wrapped up in his winter coat. I inhaled, held the smoke in, then watched it all go back out, as a cool tide of serenity swept over me. I was still hyped from the coke, and now it morphed into a calmer energy, like a ball of flame wrapped in marshmallows. Maybe I do too many drugs. I handed Phil the blunt and put my coat on. He took another hit, then coughed and said, "Damn, is the best weed you got?"

         “The price is right for you, isn’t it? Besides, using good weed for a blunt is like using prime rib for meatloaf."

         “Be damn fine meatloaf,” he said, passing me the blunt.

         The presidential suite faced the street, so when Phil and I walked out on the balcony, we could see that both parties were in full swing. Although I still think the media estimates are inflated, hordes of dormers had joined the reverie on both sides, swarming the yards with students, I'd say about two hundred in the yard below me and maybe a hundred and fifty in the conservative co-op, which still somehow had a Nativity Scene standing amongst the ruckus. This goes without mentioning the partiers in the backyards and basements of both co-ops, let alone the ones in the lobbies. This was in addition to a stream of comers-and-goers passing between the two parties, along with a steady trickle of still more students come to enjoy the evening.

         "You gonna that or just keep drooling?"

         The chance to get even higher shook me out of my daze. I inhaled, then did the opposite. For a few moments, I felt at peace, at one with the world, watching the great masses of college students below, crawling around like flies sucking shit. The mob of students was growing so dense that it was hard to see where one party stopped and the other began. Well, maybe that's because I was super high, and the other co-op's Christmas lights could've lit up a black hole, thus blurring my vision.

         It might've been the blunt sizzling, but I thought I heard some rustling near me. It wasn't Phil, who was standing still, staring at his phone. This was really good shit if it was getting me a little spooked. I looked around, but nothing. I passed Phil the blunt, then I heard someone shushing someone else. I looked at Phil, but he was mid-hit again. It couldn't have been from the party below since we were too far up, and nobody would shush anyone at a college party anyway. The rustling continued before it quieted before it started again. I chalked it up to the weed, since audio hallucinations are hardly a novelty to me anymore. (Let’s just say say I provide the soundtrack to my own life).

         I felt my phone vibrate. I flipped it open, and slowly the message loaded. Seriously, I might have the shittiest phone in the journalist world. Lincoln could get updates from the battle of Gettysburg faster than I could get a text from across campus. I might as well rely on smoke signals. Speaking of which, I puffed from the blunt, then handed it back to Phil.

         The message was from an informant I had in the faculty overseeing the election's ballot counting. Since my editor won't let any of this stand long enough to be disavowed, I won't bother hinting that my informant is my philosophy professor who I sell psychedelics to at what I tell him is a steep discount. He gave me a heads up that the counting was over, and results would be posted in several minutes, which was hours ahead of schedule. He also told me who won. I nearly leapt out of my skin when I heard Libby's door open and then slam shut, followed by Libby's voice rattling of a string of profanity that'd make even the devil blush.

         I made eye contact with her, which I immediately regretted. She just narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

         "Fucking babies.”

         I shrugged. "Sorry for starting without you," I said, while Phil and I moved back inside with the blunt.

         She sniffed, and looked a little bit more annoyed. "No, the dumb-shits downstairs," she said, grabbing the blunt from Phil's outstretched hands.

         "What happened?"

         "I don't want to talk about it.” She took a deep hit of weed. “And neither does Connor, because when I called him about one of his residents pummeling one of mine, he let it ring twice and go straight to voice mail.” She took a another hit, and exhaled as she looked into Phil's eyes. “But let's focus on what's important," she said, trying to fake her feline smile. It was as authentic as a scarecrow.

         Maybe it was the drugs that caused my sudden nausea, but I felt a sinking feeling. "So you're seriously not going to tell us what happened downstairs?" I asked, trying to break the tension that only I felt.

         Libby took another hit, and then passed the blunt back to Phil, skipping me. "You can go down and check it out if you want."

         I got the feeling that she wanted me to do that, and not because I'm a journalist.

         "I just wish that college students didn't need constant adult supervision," she said.

         Phil and I kept waiting for the other to speak. After another silence, Phil put the blunt out, leaving just a smoldering roach.

         "Looks like you need to medicate some stress away," I concluded, breaking out a joint.

         Libby threw up her hands. "Why not? Why the fuck not?"

         "That's the spirit," I said, moving towards the balcony as Phil went over to hug her. That was nice of him. Now it was my turn to light the joint, and since courtesy is my North Star, I tried to do it as quickly as possible without wasting too much of the weed before a steady burn could take hold. This time it only took a few tries. I turned to pass the joint, but Phil and Libby were still inside. Kissing.

         Now that was news.

         I turned away, scrambling for fresh air that surrounded me, but I couldn’t quite breathe in. I tried holding back vomit and any other liquids from my head, but I couldn’t escape the image I’d just seen. Whatever. Still not good enough, Hunter. Just not fucking good enough. Why would I be? Has it ever been different? No, this is just the continuation of every—

         Then I heard a Whooosh, sorta like someone slapped a spoon into pudding. Then I saw some people on the opposite co-op's front yard rustle, like someone farted next to them. Then another whoosh, and the same affect, except close to the house itself.

         "More loft!" I heard someone hiss behind me before another whoosh, this one going over the co-op completely. I looked behind me. Phil and Libby were still kissing, and this time, I couldn't hold back my puke. Out came some of my favorite whiskey over the balcony, which hit the roof below us before sliding towards the gutters. I felt less shitty, but even emptier.

         “Back up so we can angle this right. Hurry!"

         Seconds later, three whooshes let loose in quick succession. I spotted three water balloons land across the great mass of morons in the opposite co-op's front hard. Yelps rang out as party goers scattered like someone had seen a snake. Moments later, another set of whooshes sounded. I saw two projectiles fly over Connor’s co-op, but a third projectile pounded itself into Santa's right arm, breaking it right off.

         "Bingo, let her rip! Fire at will!"

         And then more whooshes, and then even more chaos. A steady barrage of what I assumed to be water balloons fell upon unsuspecting socialites and rammed into the opposite co-op. Shouts erupted as party-goers scattered for cover, in this case, to the backyard or inside the house. The deluge focused on the roof, which was crammed with Christmas shit. It didn't take thirty seconds before the blinding lights were snuffed out, obviously technical difficulties. Cheers sounded above me.

         "What the fuck is going on?" Libby shouted from next to me on the balcony.

         "I was going to ask you the same thing.”

         She grabbed me. “What's going on Hunter?"

         This time, I looked at her, and looked around for her romantic accomplice.

         "What happened to Phil?"

         "He had to leave."

         "Really?"

         "Really."

         Another whoosh let loose, this one annihilating one of Santa's little helpers.

         "Was that a water balloon?"

         Another whoosh, this one a misfire that landed against the co-op's front door with a terrific splash.

         "Where are they coming from?"

         "That's a stupid question."

         Libby might've been glaring at me, but I didn't care. I took another puff of weed. It didn’t hurt the situation.

         The aim was worsening, but the rate of fire was increasing. The decorations took the brunt of the barrage, but the margin of error was wide since any volleys that overshot would land in the other co-op's backyard, while any shots that fell short would rain ruin upon the people in the front yard. This was confirmed when a fresh volley undershot the decorations and hit bystanders in the front yard.

         I heard laughs and a few high fives from above.

         “Who's on the roof?" Libby demanded, trying to crane her neck to see through the ceiling.

         "Probably the shooters."

         "You're not helping."

         "Neither are you. But the difference is that one of us is in charge."

         "Fuck you, you dopey piece of shit." This is, for the record, when she hit me in the kidneys again, but luckily a flask broke her blow. She then turned her rage towards the heavens, recommending in no uncertain terms that whoever was on the roof should get down immediately, stressing that it was in their best interests that she not find them. But if she did, Libby laid out several vigilante-themed outcomes.

         I took another puff. Her stream on invectives was interrupted by her cell phone.

         "Maybe let it ring twice and go to voicemail?"

         With chaos unfolding in front of us, Libby trembled as she answered her phone. "Hello?"

         Libby winced as she bore what I assumed to be a viscous verbal assault from the other end of the line. Indeed, she looked like she was staring into a hurricane as she weathered the storm. I took another puff, and she saw me watching her, held my gaze, then narrowed her eyes at me like I was trying to watch her dress.

         This is as good a time to tell you what I learned later on. You’re reading it here first because none of the other media outlets bothered to dig into what started the riot. Exposition warning: this is heavy backstory, but we as a species are obsessed with backstory. It all started with that Big Bang. Speaking of a large bang, the innocuous cat fight that I'd seen before had escalated magnificently. I was busy powdering my nose when this all played out, but I've sifted through interviews and reports from many honest, forthcoming witnesses. In the days immediately after this, I investigated the night in ways that the police just can't. Sure, they have trained professionals and a multi-million dollar budget, but there's something about dealing drugs that inspires a sense of trust and confidence in people you interview. Most of my clients don't even realize I'm a part time journalist, otherwise they wouldn't trust me. After all, you only tell a journalist something you want everyone to know, and you only tell a cop something that doesn't make you look bad, and for some people, that's leaves a lot of truth in between.

         But I digress. In regards to the cat fight, well, the easiest way to measure insanity is by its repercussions, so I can be forgiven for not realizing just how insane the fight was at the time. I thought it was ending as we headed upstairs, but the conflict was just beginning. A century ago, a dozen gunshots in Sarajevo lead to billions more a few months later. Nobody saw that coming, and we as a species have a horrid history of escalation.

         The kerfuffle began when the blonde spotted the redhead dry humping the blonde's boyfriend. While peacekeepers tried sorting that out, the redhead's boyfriend came over after someone told him his girlfriend was grinding with another dude. This is where the plot thickened, since the redhead's boyfriend was a member of the conservative co-op. He came over to investigate, and that's when he noticed the guy who'd been getting dry humped by another guy. Unfortunately, the two fellows met each other weeks ago when the liberal came over to ask the conservative to stop mowing the lawn at the crack of dawn, since it was interrupting yoga. The conservative had told the liberal what he could go do with himself, which would require much more yoga to achieve. The liberal responded by quoting a city ordinance banning such lawn mowing. The conservative then "escorted" the liberal to the street. Six hours later, a notice arrived from the city demanding the conservative co-op stop disturbing the peace.

         Thus, when the conservative saw that it was this particular skinny liberal who'd been grinding with his girlfriend, he acted as anyone with more muscles than brains would act. It took four guys and a spurt of pepper spray to stop the pummeling. That's when we heard the crash and Libby got the call. According to blurry-eyed witness accounts, the conservative dude was dragged away by some bros back to his place, angry and thirsty for more revenge. He thought he deserved justice for being pulled off and pepper sprayed. It was ironic that the campus security weren't the first to use pepper spray this night.

         Meanwhile, the liberal's friends wanted revenge too, since even though the sack of shit had been dry humping the mongoloid's girlfriend, the friends were more loyal than logical. Their comrade had just gotten six types of shit kicked out of him, and they made the classic human error of ascribing the sins of an individual to the guilt of the group to which he belonged. So, a revenge prank was planned, and other willing recruits were tempted with the chance to "score one for the cause."

         Indeed, in such a contentious election, and with the country more polarized than since the Civil War, many participants reported the feeling that if they didn't confront their ideological adversaries now, when would they? Here, at a university, this was the battleground for ideas, this was the crucible where defective ideas must melt away. When I talked to witnesses afterward, each said the same thing: they wanted to fight, because they didn't think they'd get another chance to the rest of their lives. If they didn’t make a stand now, when would they? The situation was bigger than it seemed.

         But that was about to change: the situation was about to become just as big as it seemed. Which brings us to the present situation, when some hooligans were launching water balloons at the conservative co-op's house. The barrage had already started a mini-stampede away from the co-op's front yard, which lead to much spilling of drinks and gnashing of teeth. I think I even saw a Wise Man tripped over. Then, a direct hit took out the co-op's decoration's in the front yard in addition to the rooftop lights which has been snuffed a few minutes ago. Connor’s side turned dark.

         I heard Libby's voice talking on her phone. "You have every right to be angry but… oh, that's a great idea Connor, let's get campo involved, I'm sure they'll love what they find in both our houses… Jesus, I'll deal with it…No! I'm not going to hand them over to you…No! It's not because I can't catch them…Will you calm down? Give me ten minutes, and if I can't figure it out, then… Whatever, just give me some time, ok?"

         She hung up, and let loose another tirade of profanities, to such an extent that even people below us looked up.

         "Put the joint out, we have work to do."

         I was shocked on two fronts. First of all, except for that one time in the library, I'd never been told to put a joint out. And secondly, "What's this 'we' bull shit?" I asked her.

         "Let me rephrase that," Libby began, turning on me with eyes focused with fury, grabbing my shirt at the collar. "You can either help me or get the fuck out. You're the investigative journalist, you should have no trouble tracking down the assailants."

         I laughed. "Fat chance, they're probably long gone by now."

         "No, they're still at this party. Nobody does something like that without sticking around for praise."

         "Is this about to turn into a mystery novel?” I asked as I walked inside. “I just want to drink, smoke, and enjoy your victory."

         "Enjoy my what?"

         Whoops. All the frantic anxiety vanished from her face. Libby looked as pure and curious as a child being shown a magic trick.

         “You don't know?"

         "Know what?" She said, with a smile like a kid waking up on Christmas. I opened my phone and showed Libby the text message.

         Her arms grabbed me as she fell. Glimmers of tears sparkled in her eyes. She shook her head. "Is that for real? Can your source be trusted?"

         "Obviously not with keeping secrets, but yes, he's reliable, at least outside of the classroom."

         I'd barely finished the sentence when Libby wrapped herself around me, and hugged so tightly I feared my flasks might crack. She started crying, great sobs of relief. She was holding on to me so hard, I thought she might float off into space if she let go.

         "I don't know why I'm crying," she whispered.

         “Because now you're in charge of all these swine, that alone would make me crawl up into a ball and wish for death."

         She laughed and hit me softly on my chest, trying in vain to compose herself. She hugged me again, and I stared off into the abyss before we heard a loud knock at her door.

         "Shit!" She said. "Hide the—"

         "Libby? Libby!" I heard Samantha's screechy, bitter voice. I would say her voice was as shrill as a siren, but the original definition of a Siren is a voice that draws men in. Hers did not. "Open up! They're about to release the results!"

         Libby straightened her clothes and went to open the door. Samantha looked around, then snorted in contempt.

         "Sorry about the mess," Libby said, even though it was her room.

         "I can't believe you have that garbage in here," Samantha said, motioning towards me, not the drugs.

         "It's lovely to see you tonight, Samantha. Read any good horoscopes lately?"

         "Yes, each one with more truth than anything you've ever written."

         "So you read my articles, then?"

         "Let's head downstairs," Libby said, quickly redoing her hair, which I thought was impossible: you know, for a girl to get her hair right quickly. "Sammy, is the projector ready?"

         “It’s booting up now, but it should be ready to go by the time we get down there."

         With that, Libby looked at me again, and we headed downstairs to the main room, where the lights had been dimmed and the projector was showing the university's election website, with a "Results Pending" thrown up on one of the walls. The living room was dark and packed, with students overflowing every which-way out of the room. I wondered for a moment how the partiers in the front and backyard would know who'd won, but then I realized the reaction in here would give them all the indication they needed.

         A cheer rang out when Libby was spotted coming down. Out of courtesy, I stayed back, so we wouldn't be seen together. And they say chivalry is dead. Libby took her place next to Samantha and some of the other, lesser candidates for other, lesser positions. These were the ones running for student senate and cabinet spots like treasurer, press secretary, and grand inquisitor. While the page was still loading, someone who sounded conspicuously like me shouted "Speech!", a call that was soon echoed by others. 

         Libby laughed and said, "What better way to jinx the results than to make a speech before they're announced?"

         People laughed, and I smiled. You can’t jinx the inevitable. Believe me, I’ve tried.

         Libby couldn’t stay silent, though. "I'd like to thank everyone who voted for me, everyone who gave their time, money or effort to us, and most importantly, my co-candidate, Samantha!"

         After the applause break, the page pinged, and the results were ready for viewing.

         A moment later, I nearly went deaf from the jubilation. It was a blowout: Libby had won by 20 points, 60-40, and the rest of her party's candidates had won by a similar margin. While the room went apeshit, Libby kept her composure. Our eyes met. I hadn't expected that. Her smile went supernova, and in that moment, she was so beautiful that I didn’t want to blink. In her moment of triumph, Libby chose to look at me.

         Then Libby was engulfed in hugs and the cheers spread outside like a wave, spilling into the front and back yards. I imagine the roars could be heard from all around campus, or at least at the other co-op. The same co-op that had just been attack. The same co-op whose lights and decorations were now ruined. The same co-op who was now learning of their defeat. That co-op now heard nothing except the exultation of their enemies, a sound as welcome as hearing glass shatter inside your ass.

         In the madness of victory, it's understandable that Libby forgot to track down the rooftop shooters. It’s understandable that she broke her promise to figure the situation out, since she had a new situation to figure out: victory. And triumph takes precedence over responsibility. Libby somehow made her way to the dining hall, which was soon bombarded by champagne corks, and the hall was full of people waiting for Libby's victory speech. Samantha, having the loudest, most piercing voice, shouted for silence. She got that, except for a smattering of burps and giggling from the drinks already imbibed.

         "Ladies, and gentleman!" Samantha shouted. "It's my pleasure to introduce, your new student body president, Libby Parker!"

         A round of applause was joined by hooting and hollering, as Libby stepped onto a chair to address her supporters. It took a hot minute for them to quiet down, and Libby was in no rush to stifle their elation. She kept gesturing with her hands up and palms out, trying without luck or sincerity. She was in the moment, and wanted to stretch that moment wide enough that she could wrap herself up in it like a towel after coming out of a cold shower. Three months of campaigning, and who knows how many more years dreaming, and here she was, chosen to lead her peers. Now, it was a race to see who could tire first: Libby at receiving the adoration, or the crowd at giving it. Finally, they calmed down in unison, and she new president-elect could begin.

         "Words can't express my gratitude to each of you," I heard her start, much to my despair. As a writer, I could never get away with saying  "word's can't express." That would mean I sucked at my job of using words to express things. But politicians get away with more than journalists. "You all saw my name on the victory page tonight, but that's not true,” she said, staring down the crowd. “It shouldn't be my name on that victory screen, it should be each and every one of your names up there right along with me!" Cheers echoed her words. "This victory isn't mine, this victory is yours!"

         The hall went wild, and after half a minute, Libby quieted down the masses to continue. A new era had begun, and it was hers. As she readied to fill the air with more of her words, she was interrupted by a ringtone, her ringtone, and she took her phone out, only for it to be snatched away by Samantha.

         “It’s Connor!" Samantha yelled. "Let's put his concession speech on speaker phone!"

         A chorus of agreement rang out, and Samantha did just that before handing the phone to a pale Libby. The hall went silent, eager to hear their adversary's conciliation.

         "Libby?" It sounded.

         "Hi, Connor," she was able to stutter out. The crowd kept silent at Samantha's urging, waiting for the cherry on top of their ice cream victory.

         "Where are they?" Connor asked, in a less-than-conciliatory tone.

         "Where are who?" Libby responded, fumbling in vain to take the call off speaker phone.

         "The punks who pelted my house with balloons. I told you I'd give you ten minutes to find them. Time’s up. What's it gonna be?"

         A hush fell over the hall, even though certain people were fist bumping. Libby turned her back on her audience, and said, "You have to give me more time. We just found out the results, and I've been busy—"

         “Hoping that you can get away with your vandalism?”

         "That's not it at all, I've just been—"

         “Celebrating, yeah, I heard. But I gave you your time, and now that time is up. I can hear that I'm on speaker phone, so let me make this clear: if the assholes who attacked my house aren't turned over to us in five minutes, then I can't be held responsible for what happens."

         The silence deepened in the room like a sinkhole.

         "Are you threatening me?" Libby asked, remembering some resolve.

         "You can't threaten someone who's already attacked you. But this isn't a threat, it's a warning, Madam President." The way he said that title was light years away from respect. "I have a house full of drunk, pissed off students who want justice, and as you saw from the election results, I have no authority."

         "This sounds a lot like threats to me," Libby said, trying to stifle the concern in her voice.

         "Madam President," Connor began, "I can't control the people you've pissed off. Either you hand over the attackers, or people here are going to take matters into their own hands. If you feel threatened, imagine how being pelted with water balloons feels."

         "That wasn't my fault, I can't be held responsible for—"

         “For shit that’s flung off your own roof? Fine, then you can understand how powerless I am over the bloodlust here. If you think these are threats, call campo or the police.” Murmurs rippled through the audience during his pause. Connor knew he was public speaking. “The only reason I haven't called em is because I trusted you to deal with this. Someone could've gotten electrocuted, damnit. So if you're not too busy patting yourself on the back, try to act like the leader you were elected to be."

         Click.

         After Connor hung up, the room went as silent as space. Then someone yelled out, "Fuck him, we won!" The crowd voiced their agreement. But Libby looked sick, and she scanned the room for support. Our gazes met, her eyes pleading, like a dog inside a car watching its master walk away. My second wind hit me, and I smashed the nearest empty beer bottle into the table, shattering the glass and the uproar.

         "Do you idiots have any idea what's about to happen?" That got their attention, and I followed up the lead with more. "Those dipshits are about to unleash hell on us, and you're fucking cheering?"

         "Shut up, stupid!” was the rebuttal I heard. I was hardly deterred by this response. But the hooligan's retort garnered acclaim, to which I interrupted by breaking a half-full vodka bottle on the table. It pained me to waste the booze, but desperate times and such.

         "Are you insane?" I asked. "How many of you even lift? We're about to get ransacked by cavemen, and you're acting like this is a game?"

         "Fuck em!" One guy shouted, much to the appreciation of the crowd.

         With the intoxication of the party, and the exhilaration of victory, a riot seemed the logical outlet for their energies. The riot would just be another branch of the party. At this point, reason was as abundant as unicorns here. The crowd was again in euphoric pandemonium. I saw a bottle of Jack Daniels that I could've broken to restore order again, but I thought the collateral damage was already too severe. Luckily, I'd taken choir and debate team in high school, so I had a voice that could cut above the rest. "And then what, dumb shit? Campus security will be called, and how will they react to a riot here?"

         "This is our school, not theirs!" Sounded another voice, and the crowd went wild again. And they say the media molds public opinion. I looked back at Libby, who was eyeing me with a mix of sympathy and gratitude. I shrugged, and moved to her.

         Meanwhile, one of the agitators started chanting, "Whose school?" to which the crowd creatively responded "Our school!" This was repeated ad nauseam. It wasn’t just that they were wrong, but they were uncreative in their error as well. For a private liberal arts school, this was depressing. I mean, if it was a public university, they would at least be right.

         I made my way over to Libby, who was still standing on a chair and conversing with Samantha. "What the fuck are we going to do?" I heard her say.

         "Nothing," Samantha said. "If Connor wants to send goons over, let him. We won the election fair and square, they have no right—"

         "That's not what this is about, you silly little—”

         "Hunter's right," Libby said, as I saw a shudder run through her when she spoke those words. "Connor's side is out for blood, they're pissed they lost the election right after they got attacked by balloons."

         "So what?" Samantha said. "Even if we could catch the shooters, they'd be hailed as heroes and nobody would let them be turned over."

         Unfortunately, Samantha had a point. The situation was impossible, and I could see this dawning on Libby. If she asked for those responsible to step forward, they'd receive a standing ovation. There was no doubt that they'd be seen as patriots here, while they were clearly terrorists just across the street. Such is the way of conflict: you can only be a war hero to one side. Libby was in a no win scenario, and she knew it.

         She started yelling for silence, which wasn't heard. She looked desperate, a look that filled me with fire.

         "Shut the fuck up, you fucking faggots!" I heard myself shout. It wasn't the volume of what I said, but the last word that drew silence. People stared at me with open revulsion for using the wrong f-word, but it was enough to give Libby the chance to speak.

         "Listen! This is about to get really bad,” she said to the crowd. “I advise everyone to leave before this gets out of hand.”

         Her response drew jeers, and then a familiar voice shouting "Whose house?" Which was responded to with "Our house!" Many of the chanters were dormers. If reason was scarce, creativity was nonexistent. The chant was repeated more times, to the point that Libby got off her chair, exasperated. I found myself next to her, and she said to me simply, "We're fucked."

         "Yes, we are," I said. Our hands grazed each other’s, then her's grabbed mine. My insides ignited. Disaster be damned, this meant something.

         The crowd was in a frenzy, beyond the control of anything besides itself. A crowd killed philosophers like Socrates and Jesus, along with Mussolini and scores of other despots. Authority and innocent alike are right to fear crowds. And if it was bad here, I could hardly imagine what it must be like across the street. "What should we do?" Libby asked me.

         I felt a bottle hit me in my head, but I realized it was just Libby asking me for advice. I quickly regained my senses. "Hide the booze, hide the drugs, and dig in." No matter what happened next, campus security and perhaps the national guard would soon be involved, so the less incriminating evidence lying around, the better.

         Libby started giving orders to her minions, and I made for Libby's room, not just to hide the remaining drugs, but to phone Connor. Libby was busy coordinating efforts downstairs, so I was left alone in her private residence. After hiding the remaining cocaine in my nose, I called Connor. To my shock, he answered.

         "What the hell do you want, Hunter?"

         "Just a minute of your time."

         "I'll give you half of that. Start talking."

         With the remnants of our coke party hitting my system, 30 seconds was plenty of time to talk. "For Christ's sake man, hold back your troops."

         Connor laughed, a dark, cynical laugh. "I wish I had the power. These shits are livid at being bombarded, and double pissed for losing the election. Most of them don't even live in the co-op, so I have no authority over them. They're ready to act on their own, and I've already used all my power to delay them until now. I might sound like a warmonger to you, but I sound like a pussy to them."

         "Damnit," I said to myself and to him. There was no use talking sense into him, since there wouldn't be a trickle down effect of sanity here. "What's going to happen?"

         "In about a minute, a platoon from my side is going to 'investigate' your girlfriend's party."

         Asshole. "You have to hold them back."

         Another laugh. "Why? And how?"

         Those were a good questions. For being the heads of the student government, Conner and Libby were powerless over the people they were supposed to lead. I moved to the balcony, and I saw both front yards were still full of partiers. I wondered how many knew what sort of shit storm was headed for them. In retrospect, I didn't either.

         "So what happens now?" I asked.

         Hunter sighed. “I don't know, man. I just don't know."

         This was bad. As allergic to authority as I was, a crisis was no time to abandon order. The situation had devolved past leadership, and it was up to the mobs to decide what would happen next. A mob is moved by its most intense elements: these form its instincts, and initiative trumps intelligence, and action is the only leadership. A crowd is a flock of sheep waiting to morph into a pack of wolves.

         A thought occurred to me, one that I'm beyond hesitant to admit to.

         "Maybe we should call campus security," I said, regretting every syllable as I spoke.

         "And what? Get shut down like the Greek houses did?” Connor asked. “You know how fragile this idea of student government is, and how eager Chancellor Grundle is to swindle power away from us. If we call in campo, it'll be proof that we can't work things out ourselves."

         “A fucking riot is about to break out, clearly we can't work things out ourselves. Campus security will be headed here no matter what, it's just a question of if we have the maturity to call them before they have to respond to what we didn't call in."

         There was silence, enough silence for my mind to boggle at what I had just said. The worst part of this disaster was I that I had to advocate for law and order. I felt sick. Then Connor spoke up. "It wasn't my side who started this, but if I call in the cops, it will be my side who's blamed for it. We'll be sore losers and snitches for the rest of time. No. Libby's side fired the first shots, they drew first blood, we have the moral high ground, and I won't surrender it by tattling. Try to stay safe, Hunter."

         The phone clicked dead, as did any chance of a peaceful resolution. The battle was on, and I figured I couldn't influence the situation anymore, but I had a perfect view from the balcony. As a journalist, it wasn't like me to try to stop the news from happening, and now that I couldn't, it was time to watch the show. Also, I knew that if the police intervened, this room would be the last to be raided, like the final room on the tallest spire of a castle. You know, where they keep the princess. So I stood on the balcony to watch the coming carnage.

         I remembered what Plato had said, that a crowd is like a horse: tame when in a harness (arenas, stadiums, classroom, etc), but dangerous when set free (now). Just like Connor said, he couldn't control the bloodlust of his side. Soon, I saw a surge from his co-op. They were easy to spot: over a dozen men, each with necks thicker than my legs. I thought I recognized a few of them as trolls from Lord of the Rings. Surely enough, one of them had a hat on, identifying him as the doorman who told me I shall not pass into his house. I saw this posse push through the casual party-goers in the conservative co-op's front yard. They looked ready for business as white baby Jesus looked on from his manger.

         The bros crossed the street (leaving blood trails behind from where their knuckles dragged against the pavement) and stepped onto this co-op's lawn. There they were confronted by a group of Libby's  troops. Words were spoken, but the invaders were in no mood to exchange pleasantries. Punches were thrown early, and then often. Indeed, violence is perhaps the purest form of communication. In this case, one side talked over and out communicated the other. The gorillas pummeled their way through the crowd on the lawn, and started banging on the door. Due to the angle, I couldn't see what was happening, but I saw a trail of carnage left in their wake, with bodies strewn behind the invading force, and the partiers scrambling away from the mess. Then I heard a terrific slam, and I assumed the door had been kicked in. That's when the screaming started. Crashes filled the air, along with pepper spray. Indeed, the screaming had been that of the goons, who were met at the door with a volley of eyeball-fire. As they staggered back into my view, I could see them rubbing their eyes in vain, and it wasn't two seconds before a hoard of Libby's cohorts pounced on them, punching and kicking the poor bastards as they writhed on the ground. The goons on the ground scrambled to their feet, and hauled ass to whence they came from. The initial assault repelled, I heard cheers ring below me.

         But the siege had only just begun. While the frontal attack was launched, a band of bros had hopped the fence into this co-op's back yard, completely outflanking Libby’s defenses, and were smashing whatever they could find. I couldn't see it happening, but I heard the chaos and received many eye witness accounts later on. Then I smelled smoke. Allegedly, someone had thrown a molotov cocktail on this co-op's compost heap, which quickly ignited, filling the night with staggering smells.

         As the insanity in the backyard consumed the co-op's attention, another wave of invaders crossed the street. This time, they were armed with bats and protected by goggles and ski masks. Tis the season, after all. The savages stepped onto the lawn, and began swinging at anyone who came within striking distance, which weren't many. It was clear they had come to pillage the village, and the force that had driven back their first advance scattered like cockroaches from a dumpster fire. Although I couldn't see it, I figured from the screams and crashes below me that they soon bust through the front door, and into this co-op. Simultaneously, there was a pounding at this room's door, and it soon bust open. Dread turned to relief when I saw Libby rush in, closing the door behind her and locking it. Libby threw herself at me, wrapping me as she trembled.

         "I have to! They're going to kill us all! I have to call campus security!"

         "I think that compost fire will save us the trouble.”

         On cue, I heard sirens in the distance. This was certainly coming to a head.

         Despite their muscles, the invaders were being forced back out of the co-op. This was because the front door of Libby's co-op was a bottleneck, easy for her forces to defend, and difficult for the attackers to breach. It was a dozen and half brutes going against an entire house of militant drunks. The odds were stacked against the attackers, but when they retreated, I saw that their bats had red streaks on them, and it was clear a few of the mongoloids had lacerations. As they retreated from the front of the co-op, I saw one of their adversaries swinging wildly with a kitchen knife.

         "What, are you scared of a woman? Come at me, bro!" I heard Samantha scream.

         "Holy shit, I always knew she was insane," I said as Libby and I watched the vice president-elect drive away invaders twice her size. She was followed by a gaggle of allies, many of whom were throwing beer bottles at their targets. Shattering glass mixed with sirens which grew louder. Soon I could see bright blue and red flashing lights piecing the darkness of the night. They were at the end of the street, but their path was blocked by students who were observing the evolving riot. Indeed, in any riot, only a fraction of those present participate, while the majority watch and sometimes encourage. Meanwhile, more of the conservative attackers were joining the fray, if only to defend and pull out their comrades, who were being swarmed. The baseball bats were still swinging, but so were skateboards, being wielded by troops from Libby’s side. One bro had obtained one of the baseball bats swung against him, and I saw him and another gentleman swing their weapons and hit each other at the same time. The baseball bat shattered, the skateboard didn’t, but both attackers broke and fell to the ground.

         "My God," Libby said. "We're animals. We're just fucking animals."

         The sirens were the loudest they'd been, and then they lessened. I heard a voice, strong and loud, boosted by a megaphone. "This is campus security. We are ordering you to stand down, and disperse immediately."

         "Well, the cavalry is here," I said to Libby. I tried not to question campo’s jurisdiction off campus. But in a battle like this, one's jurisdiction is limited only by one's ability to project power.

         The fighting continued, and both sides looked ambivalent towards campo’s orders. I saw two waves of students collide, with dozens of young adults assaulting one another. Time slowed, and I saw each individual battle as it was. During a brawl, it's assumed that participants just swing wildly at anyone within their reach. But actually, the individuals on each side pick someone on the other side to have a go at, a duel if you will, and that's how the fighting unfolds. Once you down that person, you move onto another one, who may or may not be engaged with one of your allies. The classic scene from movie brawls is a man about to kick a downed foe, only to be hit from behind by another adversary. This happens in real life, too, but most battles are too even to free any attackers up, unless there was a numerical advantage.

         Here, the defenders had the numerical advantage, but Connor’s boys more than made up for it with a quality advantage. Regardless, since Samantha and her group were fighting on their home turf, they had enough numbers to surround and occasionally throw a kick or a punch at an engaged attacker from the periphery. It should be noted Samantha herself showed zero interest in fighting from the periphery, and soon had one of the attackers on the ground before she moved on to someone else. She was using her fists instead of the knife, which seemed to have been knocked out of her hand. At least, I hoped that's what happened to the knife.

         The air was thick with bloodlust and yelps. and I saw students going down in droves. But in a testament to human aggression and youthful endurance, many rose quickly back to their feet. Some didn't. I watched Samantha take down another one of the invaders with a rugby-tackle that’d make our football coach salivate. She was tearing through her adversaries like a badger.

         A minute of chaos later, campus security made their move, without any further warning. Ample time had been given, now the grownups were breaking up the party. As the two sides of students mingled, a canister of teargas was fired into the air, and its whoosh stopped and silenced everything. We all watched the canister as everything slowed to a standstill. Punches were halted midair, and we stared at the canister’s burst upwards, its high, rainbow-like trajectory, and then its descent as it landed squarely in Samantha’s face. The shot was meant as a warning to disperse both sides, but certainly not even campo would've been foolish enough to deliberately fire into the middle of the crowd, yet that's how it seemed because that’s what happened.

         The fighting between the co-op's stopped, and students on both sides turned to look at the new variable in the night. I could still hear yells from the backyard as Libby's people tried to put out the compost fire, but silence had broken out in front of us.

         The band of bros who were being driven off by Samantha stopped. Two of the brutes wasted no time, and descended upon the motionless Samantha, who I assumed had been knocked out cold. The bros flung their ape-arms down, then raised her up, and brought her into our co-op. The previous combatants made way for the injured vice president-elect, being carried by the goons-turned-good-samaritans. The other bros cast their anger at campo.

         "Mind your own fucking business, you cunts!" Someone yelled at campus security, which drew cheers from both sides.

         And just like that, campo had ended the brawl by uniting both co-ops. “Looks like this is about to get a lot more interesting.”

         Someone took the teargas canister, which was spraying white gas in every direction, and lobbed it back at the security, who were now advancing. Besides the canister, a volley of (hopefully) empty beer bottles rained down upon the advancing security forces. Without riot gear, they were ill-equipped to weather such a barrage, and soon retreated back to their squad cars.

         The megaphone man sounded again. "You are all in breach of university and city laws. Riot officers are en route, you are all ordered to disperse peacefully, or face arrest and expulsion. Please comply immediately."

         I was shocked. Campus security must've been really desperate to use the word "please." But the students below were not convinced by the courtesy.

         “You’ve got your wish, Libby: a united student body."

         And united they were. Students streamed out of both co-ops, hollering and jeering at the officers of the peace. A baseball bat was hurled, and smashed through the window of one of the campus security cars. The sirens started again, and the cars began reversing. Cheers erupted, as the security forces were in full retreat.

         The real party had just begun. With the repulsion of campo, both sides of the street were jubilant. Students who had been exchanging punches now exchanged high fives. Soon I heard both sides singing, "Na-na-na-nna, hey, hey, hey, goodbye!" But it's not wise to mock professional ass-whoopers.

         Libby had made her way downstairs to check on the condition of Samantha. I knew from experience what to expect: a mild-to-severe concussion and a helluva bruise. She'd be fine, but not for a while. In the meantime, I texted Connor urging him to send as many of his people home as possible, since this was about to get hot and heavy.

         Below me, I heard singing and chants. After a rousing rendition of the fight song, I heard "U-S-A" chants, which were in turn replaced by "Whose school?"—"Our school!" call and repeats. The night had turned into a jubilee. Political differences were forgotten, and we were all one. The election, the water balloon bombardment, even the brawl, that was all in the past, and the students were firmly in the moment, seeing each other as brothers and sisters for the first time. I could feel the camaraderie surrounding the street. That was, of course, when the riot squad also surrounded the street.

         Ironically, peace had broken out between the co-ops, and now with the arrival of the riot squad, it was law enforcement who were now disturbing the peace. But that's their job. Let's put it this way, nobody ever joined the riot squad because they liked to talk things out, or were afraid of bashing someone's face in with a baton. In their eyes, they must've seen a mob of spoiled brats, misbehaving like children left home alone for too long. Well, now the adults were here, ready to enforce some tough love.

         It was hard to see the riot cops as anything but a legion of an imperial order, about to advance and stomp out any resistance against their brand of social tidiness. And their brand of order was the only brand being offered in this marketplace of ideas. They wore black boots, black armor, black helmets, and wielded black batons and black shields.

         Even though they were still a block or two away, the siege was on. But when campus security was retreating, someone had the wherewithal to drag the conservative co-op's dumpster into the street. When the riot cops started their advance, a molotov cocktail struck the dumpster and lit it on fire, thus blocking the riot squad from advancing in their phalanx formation. This was done to the shock and horror of the environmentalist faction of Libby's co-op. But hot damn, did that fucker burn, and no self-respecting riot can go without a dumpster fire.

         The megaphone sounded again, this time in a less-than-pleading manner, ordering a dispersal of all involved. It was as ignored as an advertisement on Facebook.

         Most will wonder why anyone resisted at this point. After they'd driven campo away, the students must've known that heavily armed reinforcements were coming. It would go from campus security, to city riot cops, to national guard, to what? Even if the students kept this going, the government is designed to win the argument, to have the final say, otherwise the facade of order slips away.

         But for the student soldiers, it was about making a point. And so it was with their adversaries, who were determined not to be the riot squad who ceded ground to student insurgents. That would haunt them throughout their careers in law enforcement. So the gang in the black uniforms, which camouflaged them in the night, began their riot rhythm. This consisted of banging their batons against their riot shields, creating a terrifying clanking noise, as if to say that both items were strong enough break willpower along with flesh and bone.

         College students are always optimists, though. With the dumpster fire blazing between them and the riot squad, the students stayed their ground, readying themselves for mayhem. To the students, anyone in a uniform was fair game. To the police, anyone without a uniform was fair game. And to the surprise of at least me, a line was forming of flesh of booze in the middle of the street, behind the burning bin of shit. The students were egging the police into a confrontation that would make headlines (if not from this reporter). Many of the students were ready to stand their ground, which some pre-law scholars would argue was their Constitutional right. But rights are earned.

         All the cops saw were a bunch of privileged pricks, who were begging for a real education. One last announcement from the megaphone, and then class was in session.

         I heard the hushed blasts of teargas canisters being fired into the crowd of students on the streets. Some hit the ground. Others didn't. Many were hurled back at the advancing line of black-clad riot police. This back and forth was joined by what I hoped were empty beer bottles, which were mostly deflected off riot shields and helmets, but I glimpsed a few officers stumble, while others broke ranks to avoid the canisters being thrown back at them. I turned my attention to the brave hooligans who were throwing the gas canisters back, and was beside myself with glee to see a few were wearing bong-masks, saving their lungs from noxious fumes in favor of sweet leaf. True warrior poets.

         By this time, the riot squad had advanced past the flaming dumpster, and were making first contact with the protesters. To the riot squad's credit, they had refrained from using projectiles like rubber bullets so far, a merciful decision that they'd regret seconds later. You see, with ranged weapons like rubber bullets, the riot squad could keep distance between themselves and their adversaries. Instead, they were enticed by the bloodlust of the crowd, and wanted to make an impact. But in the close quarters fighting, as they drove back the ill-equipped resisters, they opened themselves up to bombardment from above.

         The instigators who had started the shit-storm with the balloon bombardment had traded their water weapons for a different liquid: grain alcohol. (I only learned about this from media reports and witness interviews). They still used elastic balloons, and launched volleys at the advancing officers. These hit, and may have stung some eyes, but otherwise had no effect. That was until they scored several direct hits against the dumpster fire, which exploded into the air with tremendous zest. The resulting explosion shot out burning fragments, which made contact with the puddles of grain alcohol that had been created by the first volleys. The fire spread quickly, onto officers and their shields, creating a scene out of hell, with officers on fire falling to the ground, a ground that was burning as well.

         Yeah, this was gonna get some media coverage.

         The initial line of riot officers had penetrated into the protesters, but were now isolated and cut off from their support by flames. While they turned around to take measure of what had happened behind them, the frontline of protesters pounced, swarming and pummeling the shit out of the disorganized bastards. I heard whistles blowing over yelps, and saw black-clad officers pulled down to the pavement. Bats and skateboards swung through the chilled night’s air.

         I heard shouts above me of, "Let's get the fuck out of here!" With their job well done, the bombardiers left the roof for safer havens, which would've meant three or four states away at this point.

         With the beating that their front line was taking, a few intrepid officers crossed the flames to pull their comrades to safety, while others pushed forward to protect the rescue efforts. Otherwise, the riot squad was in slow retreat, back behind the dumpster. The teargas blasts, however, increased, and soon the entire block was engulfed in the grey gas. Most students scampered to the lawns to get fresh air, with many puking along the way. But fearing another ambush from above, the riot squad didn't advance into the gap left by the retreating students. As the police doused each other with fire extinguishers, both sides waited for the other to take the initiative. The only difference was that the law and order side had reinforcements coming, which arrived in the form of firetrucks.

         The riot squad split like a sheet torn in half as red vehicles occupied their place. The firetrucks shot the dumpster with water, which toppled it, spreading the flames before they were extinguished with torrential blasts. The firemen then turned their canons on any students within range. The water pressure, combined with the cold, was enough to drive even the staunchest students from the streets. With the firetruck's heavy artillery pummeling the protesters, the remaining riot squad rushed in and seized the street, bashing anyone still in their way. The tide had turned, and turned into a tsunami.

         Now was another pivot point for all involved. With the street cleared and occupied by heavily armed officers of the peace, would the protesters continue their petulance from the private property lawns of the co-ops? Would the riot squad move to quell this option before it played out? The black-clad cops had created a salient in the streets, but were still surrounded by potential combatants on both sides. They seemed to be waiting for any pretext to storm the co-ops. We waited to see if that pretext would arise. Luckily the bombardiers had left, otherwise the riot squad would’ve stormed Libby’s co-op, no doubt with more success than Conner’s squads had. Scenes of Waco flashed before my eyes.

         The megaphone sounded again. "This is the police. Stand down immediately. Anyone who leaves now will not be prosecuted. This is your only warning."

         Below me, I saw partiers look at each other. Anyone with a shred of sobriety knew that the battle was over, and this was their only chance at escape. But why would law enforcement, who had the students by the balls and were ready to squeeze, offer such a lenient option? Perhaps they knew how much media coverage this would get, and by offering a truce now, they and the university would be lauded for their restraint. Dormers who were caught at both parties could be allowed to go back, and high schoolers at the parties would avoid MIP-charges, while the rest would avoid arrest. The offer seemed too good to be true, especially since dozens of officers had recently been lit on fucking fire. And burns cool even slower than tempers.

         As much courage as it took to stand against the cops, it might take even more courage to walk past them, back to the dorms, or back to the houses for others. But from the cops' point of view, as fun as charging two packed co-ops might be, it might also be career suicide for anyone involved. And from the students' point of view, being stormed by pissed-off alpha males with the authority to hit you at their discretion was just as scary.

         It seemed like everyone involved wanted this to end, even me, and I'm a journalist. That's when I had a grand idea. Every large college residence had a megaphone, and the sooner I found one, the sooner we could resolve this.

         I rushed downstairs, and found a triage in the living room. People with blood streaming from every which-way were on the ground, groaning while Libby was barking out orders. I could see pre-med students scurrying about, doing what little they could to treat the wounded. I tried calling to Libby, but to no avail. I rushed over and grabbed her hand. Libby's reaction was to punch me in the nose, which was understandable considering her stress level and who I was, but it still hurt.

         "Damnit, Hunter!" She screamed, blaming the victim. "What do you want?"

         She was standing over Samantha, who was ice pressed against her face and forehead. She had never looked more ravishing.

         "Do you have a megaphone?"

         "What?" She asked above the roar in the common room, squinting at me like I'd just asked her for her astrological sign at a time like this.

         I needed a megaphone to communicate the question. "Do you have a megaphone?" I yelled, inches away from her face.

         "Yes!" she shouted. She was waiting for an excuse to tell me to fuck off. She was swamped, and I needed to get to the point. But I had her attention.

         "Then get on the balcony and negotiate a truce, like the leader you are!"

         This point took half a second to sink in. Somebody had to speak for the students, to gain assurances that the truce was genuine, and it had to be Libby. This was her chance to assert her newfound authority, a chance to save the night, a chance to be the leader we needed her to be. A voice above the crowd, someone ready to lead the way. Libby looked around and nodded.

         “Samantha, I’ll be back.”

         Samantha groaned. I never thought I’d say it, but, “Try to keep her talking,” I told a nearby student, who looked at me confused. “For the concussion. Though I can’t imagine the quality of her words suffering too severely.”

         “Come on, asshole,” Libby said, grabbing my hand and electrifying the storm around us.

         We raced upstairs, and I felt like a kid. It was a blur, and then we were in her room. She had a megaphone and was on the balcony, but at a loss for words. Perhaps cocaine would loosen her tongue, but for once in my life, there was no time for drugs. Below us were students, scared and intoxicated, keeping distance between themselves and the riot squads. teargas still swirled around the street, and I could hear the vomiting of students caught in it.

         Libby looked at the scene, mouth agape. “What the hell should I say?"

         And to think, all it took was a fucking riot to get her to care about my opinion. I gave her what she wanted. "Announce yourself, and your position, then advise everyone to disperse peacefully and follow the police's instructions,” I said, again regretting being the voice of reason. What insanity when the lunatics must lead. Libby nodded, still focusing on the ruckus below us. “After that, say that anyone who gets arrested or harassed on the way home will be protected by the university's student legal services."

         Libby laughed, looking beyond befuddled that I could be of help during a crisis. I aim to surprise. She turned on the megaphone, ready to cut through the dim roar of groans and puking. Tension hung in the air along with the teargas, which stung my eyes even from four floors up.

         "This is Libby Parker," she started in vain, before turning up the volume to the level it needed to be at: 11. "This is president-elect Libby Parker, I am asking everyone to leave the area. Anyone arrested or accosted by the police will be protected by the full force of our university's legal services. Please leave now in an orderly fashion."

         She gave it a few seconds, and silence descended upon the partiers in both camps. She looked at me. I nodded.

         "Again, this is Libby Parker, your new student body president. Anyone who leaves now will be protected by our student government, you have my word. But you must leave now, or else I cannot protect you."

         Conversations filled the yards, and it was clear students were still unsure what to do. Tactfully, the police's megaphone stayed silent for a full minute. This allowed students to discuss the matter amongst themselves.

         Then the police broke the relative and restive peace. "Any dormers who leave now will be escorted back to their residency, and anyone else will be allowed to disperse to their homes. This offer will stand for five minutes."

         With that, the decision was simplified. For partiality’s sake, it's hard to overstate the restraint of the riot squad. They'd been humiliated, and lit on fucking fire, and now were asked to let their assailants walk free. This when they had the more powerful force in the more powerful position. This when they were minutes away from crushing all opposition, violent or otherwise. Napoleon would be turning in his grave.

         Libby called out again on her megaphone. "As the elected representative of the students here," she started, with pride boosting her tenor, "I ask that officers make way for students who wish to leave."

         A few heartbeats later, she added, "Please promise you'll do this."

         Even more heartbeats passed. And then more. Nearly a minute later, the other side's megaphone sounded. "All students who want to will be allowed to leave, if they leave in the next fifteen minutes."

         I noted how their time frame changed, perhaps wishing to avoid a stampede. But otherwise, that was that. A tentative truce had been bargained, in no small part to Libby's negotiations. But one must again acknowledge the restraint of the riot police. In any other country, and perhaps any other campus, they would've attacked without giving quarter, without remorse, and without accountability. But here, they held their ground, and held their emotions. Simply put, if I were in their position, I would've crushed all resistance with extreme enjoyment.

         Instead, students limped out of the co-ops, timidly taking the streets that they'd so recently defended, and soon a diaspora of dormers and other students started their long march home. Thus began what would be known as the "Trail of Beers." The students trudged down the roads, flanked by riot officers, each of whom seemed ready to pounce at a sneeze's notice. One would've thought a burp would be all the probable cause needed to arrest one of us for public intoxication. It’s amazing they didn’t arrest us for walking down the street without a parade permit.

         And yes, I say "us" because I joined the throngs of campus refugees. The path back to the dorms was sort of on my own way home, and besides that, I wanted to be in the epicenter if the situation went straight back to shit. A journalist should know where the story is, or will be.

         After Libby had sounded the retreat, I bid her farewell.

         "I'm leaving," I told her.

         "Goodbye," she said.

         I can only assume it took all of her self restraint not to admit her repressed desire for me. “Hunter," she said, and I turned to look at her. "Please be careful."

         "You know me," I said, closing the door behind me, but not before I heard a laugh. It was like hearing I'd won the lottery.

         I walked down the flights of stairs, and saw the improvised triage in the common room, but with less people than before. The ones who could walk were already up and leaving, many with bandages. Others were negotiating refuge in the co-op for the night. Still others looked in need of professional attention, and I could only hope they'd get it sooner rather than later.

         But what a sorry scene as I walked outside. From the balcony, I could see the forest, if not the individual trees. But life is all about perspectives, and being surrounded by the injured and the angry, feeling the fury mixed with fear, it nearly knocked me off my feet. It was like taking a shot of whiskey and then a shot in the balls. I felt nauseated, like I might throw up, and I saw ample areas in the yard where the deed had already been done. I also became uncomfortably aware of the still-present teargas, which had cleared up a bit, but remained as a ghost of the battle fought just minutes ago. This was mixed with the smoldering steam and smoke of the recently deceased dumpster fire, creating a fog of war which stunk of shit. The compost fire had been put out a while ago, but there was no getting past that smell, either.

         I tread carefully for fear of stepping in the rivers of vomit that covered the street. Turns out binge drinking plus teargas isn’t conducive to cleanliness. Meanwhile, students from both sides took to the street, funneled by riot cops on both sides, channeled towards campus and the dorms. Then there were the noises: groans and grunts along with hushed voices. There was plenty of shit talk as well, none of it from students. Many of the riot cops where hurling insults and invectives at us. One took a interest to me, after I gave him a less-than-diplomatic look. I hadn’t made it a block before he started in on me.

         "You guys would be leaving here on stretchers and in body-bags if I had my way. You should be beaten down like the weeds you are,” he said, offering his professionally opinion.

         One of his comrades joined in on the discourse, adding that there was no need to kick the shit out of us, since we'd be kicked out of school by tomorrow. But knowing college administrators, I doubted they'd be capable of acting with such efficiency.

         The haranguing continued, much of it recorded by smart phones. But in the dark, with the streetlights giving only partial illumination, the riot cops knew they could get away with saying shit without their faces getting caught on camera. And that's what they did. Luckily, us college students never listened anyway. Besides, as long as they weren’t beating the shit out of us, well, sticks and stones and such.

         Whatever. The night was colder than before thanks to Earth’s rotation, but worst of all, I couldn't take refuge in my flasks since the cops would've dropped me like a hot pot if I tried to down any liquid warmth. And so we marched on, a group of sullen, beaten students, many of whom may have had PTSD or at least early-onset hangovers.

         We’d made it a few blocks away from the co-ops when I heard some idiot shout, "Hey Hunter! Is that you?"

         I slunk my head down and donned my hood. As much of an attention-whore as I am, this was the wrong time to be recognized. Damn my celebrity status.

         "Shut the hell up," I told Zach as he turned my shoulder around to face him. He was behind me, and I tried to keep a low profile as I felt the eyes of some of the cops tear into me. Let's hope they weren't avid readers of the student newspaper, but if they were like anyone else around me, they'd probably never seen a copy of the Daily Cobbler, let alone read it. "Where are you going, anyway?" I asked, since he lived at the conservative co-op.

         "Oh, I met someone, and I'm headed to her dorm," he said with all the pride of someone who'd just won an olympic medal.

         "Where's she now?" I asked, looking for a girl who couldn’t possible be walking straight, since if she liked Zach, she couldn’t think straight either.

         "She left a long time ago, before things got shitty."

         I pulled my coat tighter around me. "Smart girl, wonder what she sees in you.”

         "Only what I want her to. How'd things end up with you and—"

         "Drop it.” Again, my lack of access to my flasks shot daggers through my heart, but the march was a boon to my liver.

         The campus's courtyard was ahead, from whence most of the dormers would disperse to their various buildings. The courtyard was like a wheel, with spokes going out to various buildings. Seriously, just google any campus courtyard. Most are circular in nature, much like conflict.

         "What dorm is she in?" I asked, just to pass the time. This walk sucked so much that I was willing to inquire about Zach's sex life.

         "Hermiston Hall," he said, indicating the largest dorm, and the one to our northwest, which was on the way back to my own shit hole. "Will you walk me to it, Hunty? I'm just so bubbly with excitement."

         "Only if you promise not to call me crying me when she laughs at your small dick."

         We made similar small chat until we got within viewing distance of Hermiston Hall, which was seven stories high, with the bottom surrounded by sidewalks that led up to the main entrances, entrances which were flanked by—

         "My God, it's a trap!" I shouted. The entrances were full of campo and RA's, clearly taking down the names of all who entered. The amnesty promise was a sham. I then realized there had been no such amnesty agreement, only a promise of safe passage, like the devil giving you a free piggyback ride to hell. The dormers had been safely delivered into the jaws of justice as the authorities saw it.

         "Mother of shit," Zach said.

         "Would you like me to walk you to her door?"

         Clearly, Zach’s chances of sex had disintegrated. “What am I gonna do?"

         Him and I stopped, as did many others.

         “Just go home and whack off like usual,” I said, scanning the area for any hole in the police lines. There were none.

         “There's no way I'm getting back to the co-op tonight with the police around. Can I crash at your place?"

         "Move along, no loitering," I heard a grisly police voice say. Many of the dormers had recognized the RA plot, and looked like lemmings weighing their options next to a cliff. But they had nowhere else to go. Like sheep led to the slaughter, they couldn’t go backward, only forward towards their conclusion. The guard-dogs who were supposed to be protecting the herd were shepherding us onward, leaving little room for maneuver, and much less for escape.

         "Keep going, form a line," a cop said, might as well adding "while you're processed" to the end of his command. But with so many trying to get in at once, the line moved slowly, giving us time to think.

         "Well, screw it, I don't live here, come on, let's go to my place," I said, stepping out of line—

         —and directly into a swinging baton. To the asshole's credit, he swung it softer than he probably wanted to. "Stay in line, you're ordered back to your dorms."

         Always eager to make new friends, I decided to take a soft approach with him. "I don't live here, officer."

         "Bull shit, get back in line."

         He pushed me back, but I stepped up again. "I don't live here, officer."

         Again, he pushed me back. "Then where do you live, cocksucker?"

         This was the testy part. Should I give him my address, or apply some Constitutional rights?

         I made the mistake of doing the latter. "Am I being detained or arrested, officer?"

         "The fuck did you say to me?”

         "Am I being detained or arrested, officer?"

         Even in the darkness, I could see the fire in his eyes. He must've been a veteran, since he was able to restrain his rage. "You fucking should be. You goddamn brats start a riot, and then ask me this shit? You should be in a jail bleeding from your ears, now get back in line, you lousy shit."

         He pushed me again, this time leaving little doubt as to where my place should be. Other students caught me before I hit the ground. Their hands lifted me up, and I felt a surge of confidence. I stepped out of line again.

         "Listen, sir," I said, stressing the last syllable until there was no doubt how little I meant it, "you might get to push around these other students, but I know my rights, and unless you're charging me with a crime, I am free to leave."

         He let loose, not with blows, but with laughter. "Hey, Paulie, get over here. This little faggot says I gotta let him go unless I'm charging him with a crime."

         Paulie, a mountain of a man, came over and joined is brother in arms. "Crime? What crime could've happened to charge him with?"

         A crowd had gathered around me, a crowd as eager to see this play out as they were to forestall their own "processing" by the RA's.

         "I don't know what you're talking about," I lied. "I did nothing wrong," I lied. "I was just an innocent bystander," I lied. Each sentence was interrupted by riotous laughter on the part of any cop within earshot.

         "Get back in line, all of you!" Paulie shouted after he was done guffawing. He punctuated his order by gut-checking me with his baton. After a night (and afternoon) of drinking, plus my recent nausea, I miraculously held back a volley of vomit, which would've gotten me charged with assaulting an officer had it come out of my mouth.

         Between gasps, I was able to stammer "I don't live here, you dipshits."

         As a journalist, I should've been more cognizant of my choice of words, which in this case, earned me another gut check, this time followed by a baton blow to my back after I'd keeled over. I hit the pavement hard, but not as hard as it hit me. My downing caused a kerfuffle amongst the students around me, who may have seen my mistreatment and remembered some of the riot still left in them. Jeers rung out, and I staggered back to my feet, helped up by Zach. I felt him reach into my pocket and take my smallest bottle out, but he left the rest of my flasks alone. I saw Paulie being restrained by other cops, who might have seen another round of rioting in the works. If there's anything rebellion feeds upon, it's repression. But hot damn, martyrdom hurts.

         Another officer came up to me, this time mild mannered. He must’ve been close to retirement. "Give me some ID," he ordered.

         Despite my fears of self-incrimination by letting him know who I was, I fumbled around, careful not to cause my flasks to clink together. I gave him my driver's license. When he grabbed it, he looked like he'd won, no doubt expecting me to be under 21, and thus liable for an MIP. This wasn't the case. He looked at my ID with a flashlight, then looked at me, blinding me with the light, then back to my ID, then back to me again.

         Luckily, I was high and a little drunk when my ID picture had been taken, so my current expression matched the photo perfectly. It's important to establish a reasonable baseline. He repeated my address out loud, then looked back at me. "That's a bit of a walk from here, why'd you come to the dorms?"

         "I was scared of drunken hooligans, sir," I said. "I figured I'd get safe passage here, then go back to my house quietly."

         He looked at me and nodded. Weather notwithstanding, chills ran through my veins, and I felt like my guts were in a free-fall.

         "Well, we wouldn't want a tired fellow like yourself to have to walk all that way back, how about we give you a lift?"

         I've never had a positive experience in a squad car. "That's quite generous of you, officer, but I'd hate to waste your time. Plus it would be bad for the environment to take a car when I can just walk."

         The officer was gregarious. "Oh, no, no, it wouldn't be a bother at all, now would it, officer Jefferson?" he said to the brute formerly known as Paulie.

         "Not all, sergeant," Paulie said as he lumbered back over to me. "It would be my pleasure to escort this upstanding citizen home."

         I feared that this ride would involve a detour, and there were still dozens of students listening in on this conversation. I started sweating, never a good sign in the cold of winter. If they took me to a squad car, at the very least they'd run my ID to see if I had a record, the results of which would be a real conversation starter.

         "I am asking if I'm free to go, officer," I said from somewhere inside of me. I felt faint, knowing what was ahead of me. Humans didn’t develop a flight-or-fight instinct by accident, but with neither option available, I felt a primeval dread. I was cornered, and it was clear where they had me headed. My God, the longer this went on, the more likely they were to search me. As much as I enjoy physical affection, a frisking would be checkmate.

         "Of course you're free to go,” the older officer said. “But first we have to search you for weapons.”

         Again, I made the mistake of mentioning my rights. There's nothing more suspicious than mentioning your rights to a police officer. If I did nothing wrong, what should I need rights for? But to quote the noted philosopher Doug Stanhope, just because you aren’t doing anything wrong when you’re taking a shit doesn’t mean you don’t want some right to privacy. "Unless you have reasonable suspicion, you have no authority to search me, officer."

         "Are you serious?" Paulie asked after a hearty laugh. “You just came from a fucking riot, and you think we don't have reasonable suspicion?"

         I looked around me. Several people had their smart phones out, and were recording our discussion for posterity's sake. Maybe I’ll make the year book. "Sir, unless you have individual suspicion that I was involved in the violence, you have to let me go."

         Paulie raised his baton, but was halted by his superior, who motioned at the phones recording us. "I'll give you credit, kid,” the older officer said. "You know your rights. But you just came from a riot, and you know that our search is justified. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

         I shrugged. Easy or hard, the result would be the same, and I knew what his preference was. Finally, we agreed on something. With smart phones recording me for youtube, I figured it was better to go down with some flair.

         "I do not submit to any searches of my person," I stated, loud and clear for all to hear.

         "That's fine. You don't have to," the older officer said, right before Paulie swept my feet from under me. I landed hard on my back, and my head slammed into the street. As if my intoxication wasn't disorientating enough, I felt a mild concussion blur my senses as I was hauled back to my feet by the less-than-tender embrace of officer Paulie. As yes, I knew from experience what a mild concussion felt like. You don't have a mouth like mine and not know what a concussion feels like. It’s like waking up from a fevered-dream.

         I felt violated as Paulie felt me up, and it took him all of three seconds to discover the first of my flasks, followed by the others.

         "What's this?" Paulie asked, feigning surprise, and making no effort to hide the triumph in his voice. He took out my flasks, one by one, tossing the first to the older officer, who opened it and sniffed.

         "I have to hand it to you, Mr. Garcia,” he said to me while screwing the lid back on it. "You have excellent taste in whiskey."

         "Flattery won't get you anywhere," I said, my vision blurred like I was wearing wax-paper glasses.

         He laughed. "No, but flasks full of alcohol on campus will certainly get you somewhere."

         This was bullshit. "I think you'll find that only one flask is full of alcohol. The others just smell of something that resembles 12 year old single malt scotch."

         The elder officer looked at Paulie, who nodded. "No problem, one is enough to take you in."

         Even if the search was unwarranted, that wouldn't matter until challenged it in court. This was assuming I could afford bail between now and the 30 days it would take to get me a hearing before a judge. In America, due process is never on time. They had me in violation of open container laws, and also in violation of on-campus alcohol policy. But thanks to Zach, it was what they didn't find that mattered most. I just hoped Zack would give me back the perfume bottle of cocaine after this was over. He'd no doubt take a sizable finder’s fee, as was his right. In fact, I looked around for Zach, but he'd disappeared. I was hurt for a second, but I saw that the ruckus I was causing had created a hole in the police lines, through which students were slipping away.

         I was a true hero for the cause. I felt my hands pulled behind me, and the cold slap of metal as handcuffs were applied. "Are these really necessary?" I asked, as Paulie tightened them past what I thought was possible.

         "These are so you don't get charged with resisting arrest," Paulie said casually as he manhandled me away from the crowd of students, many of whom were still recording me. I was going in, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nausea engulfed me as I had flashbacks to high school. And middle school. I heard cheers and jeers behind me as I was led off. It's funny how fine the line between hero and criminal is.

         I was led away. Well, not led. You can lead a horse to water, but you can haul a student to a cop car, and if given the chance, this is what an officer of the peace will opt for. I realized people skills were not a prerequisite for the riot squad. Force is its own persuasion, and I was definitely persuaded to cooperate. Since Paulie was a foot taller than me, his legs took longer strides, which meant I had to struggle to keep up with his ambitious pace as he dragged my by the arm. He'd done this before, and he knew exactly what effect his long strides had on the suspect he was "escorting." I was smaller than him, and he wanted to remind me of this with every step. It worked.

         He had me by my bicep, a bicep that must've felt like gravy in a sleeve to him. He was treating my arm like his own personal stress-ball, and apparently, he had some tension to work out. All I could think of was how much I wanted to be anywhere else, anyone else, doing anything else. The thought occurred to bait him into beating me senseless, which would give me the blissful reprieve of unconsciousness, whereas I could come-to hours later, maybe with a concussion and a case for police brutality. These thoughts are common to my mind. In times of fight-or-flight, when fight is no longer an option, my mind will run through a litany of possible avenues of escape, whether it be escape from the situation, or escape from reality. I know I'm not the only one, as hardly a final exam season goes by without at least one bomb-threat shutting down a university somewhere in the country. Likewise, rare is the class with full attendance on major test days. Of course, sickness is tied to stress, but most professors agree that it's a lack of study, not an excess of it, that causes students to call in sick on test day.

         These thoughts were all going through my head as a way of distracting myself from what was coming. I had a sickly feeling, like I'd drank too much coffee and had to sit still and keep quiet, which would probably suit me well in the squad car. Wherever that was. Indeed, Paulie the Troll had been dragging me for almost two campus blocks, and there was still no car to be seen. I’d been going here for nearly five years, and I knew this campus like the back of my dick, and wherever he parked, it wasn't on a usual campus road.

         "You forget where you parked, officer?"

         Paulie didn't even look back, but I heard a chuckle. It's nice to have a friendly audience for my jokes. I was surprised I hadn't been read my Miranda rights yet. We turned a corner, and soon were out of the eyesight of any of the students. We were on a university alleyway, leading to a main street where I assumed the cop cars were parked. Perhaps he would wait until then to read me my rights.

         But on this sidewalk, between giant science buildings, I became aware of our solitude, our isolation. Then Paulie stopped. His baton broke the ice of the awkward silence. He released my arm as I fell to the ground.

         I looked back up and saw him put away his baton. Relief turned to dread when I saw him pull something else out. My hands were still shackled behind my back, and without arms to push myself up, I was left floundering on the ground like a shark on a boat deck.

         "You know what I like most about tazers?" He asked, inspecting the palm-sized device as he towered over me. "How much pain they deliver for how little damage they leave behind."

         He barely finished the sentence when I felt my veins pump fire through my body. As I convulsed, I wondered briefly if alcohol was a conductor. Pain without horizon filled my consciousness. All I could think about was how far I was willing to go to avoid another dose. If he'd asked then, I would've made a full confession that I was behind the riots, 9/11, and the Kennedy assassination. But he didn't ask. He just didn’t fucking ask.

         "I love quiet walks, don't you?” He asked, before dosing me again. Lightning flowed through me, everywhere, sparing no part of my body pain. Pain that I read about, but couldn’t conceive until now. Every nerve screamed as loud as it could, and all I could see was white, a searing white that made me fear hell. I thought I heard myself scream, but I couldn’t be sure.

         “You seem like a bright fellow,” Paulie said, stroking his tazer. “So I don't have to remind you that in a court of law, a police officer’s testimony overrides a suspect’s. I just can't understand how much you resisted arrest. Must've been the drugs and alcohol," Paulie said with a sneer.

         Another dose rang through me. This time I was prepared, but to no effect. The pain still rain through me. Think of an orgasm of pain. It started where the tazer struck, then raced through my body, convulsing every muscle into a spasm of agony, before vanishing, less quickly than it came. Being a mouthy drunk, I've taken beatings before, but I was always afforded the opportunity for retaliation at a later date. That always cushioned the blows, even if it was just the fantasy of vengeance, it still sustained me during the drubbings. But here, there was no escape, no justice, no revenge, no rebuttal. Just force.

         He picked me up like a leaf, then swept my feet out from under me, and I felt my knees fall hard onto the concrete. "I don't know if you're an anatomy student, Mr. Garcia,” Paulie said as he picked me up again. "Or if you've dealt with drunks or people who resist arrest."

         He repeated the maneuver, and I felt my knee caps ignite. "But," he said, raising me to my feet again. "It's almost always the case that when they fall, they land on their joints."

         Paulie swept my legs, this time from a different angle, and I landed hard on my hip. Thank God for youth, but hot shit it still hurt. As I lay there, I felt my knees swelling. I didn't know how much more of this I could take before I'd have to give up on my NBA dreams. My entire body ached, and with the prospect of him dropping me on the concrete again, I was ready to beg for the baton. Instead, he raised me up and held me to look in his eyes.

         "We knew this would happen," he said. "We follow Twitter, we read all the posts, and we knew shit would go off tonight." He shook me to keep my focus on him. My mind kept wandering to pain. "We just wanted a chance to kick the shit out of little faggots like you, and now I have it."

         This time, opting for variety, he punched me in my gut, let me go, and as I staggered around, he delivered a blow to my nose, busting it immediately. Besides the physical pain, there was the trauma of all the great cocaine still left in my nostrils flowing out with the blood like silt in a river. I fell over, and stayed still, hoping that playing dead would stymie his assault. Like usual, I was wrong.

         "Get up," he ordered, and helped me to my feet with gusto. As I blinked my eyes open, wondering what new hell he'd unleash, I saw a red dot flicker behind him. It was nearly a story high, and in the dark I could see the outline of a camera. It was pointed directly at us.

         I laughed. He grabbed both my biceps, squeezing to his heart's delight. My arms nearly burst in his grip. "What's so funny, faggot?"

         I looked at him, sly grin oozing with every bit of rebellion I could squeeze in it. “Naughty, naughty,” I said, gesturing with my forehead behind him. “You’ll get caughty.”

         Paulie tossed me to the ground, turned and spotted what I was looking at.

         Then he stopped. Just fucking stopped. I coughed in the cold. He did nothing for the longest, most blissful of moments. Then he looked back at me. I could see the worry drop from his face. "That just means I'll have a memento after one of my guys misplaces that tape."

         My guts sank. I really shouldn't have tipped my hand. He kicked at me again, landing a blow to my thigh this time, and when I turned over onto my stomach, he seized the chain of my handcuffs, and raised me up from behind, nearly dislocating my shoulders in the process. But he was a professional, so he knew how much strain my joints could take, and was careful not to cause any permanent damage.

         "Let's go, you're late for your ride.”

         As I saw white stars from the pain, I wondered why he was stopping now. Maybe he was really afraid of the camera? Maybe he wanted to get back early, so he could adjust the evidence? Maybe he was just tired after a hard day at the office. Oh well, it's rude to question a good thing. Out of the darkness between the two buildings we went, and he walked me through a well-lit area. The were a few other officers within ear and eyeshot, but I figured to save my breath. Blood was pouring down my face, a warm contrast to the cold air of the night. I figured that if I opened my mouth,  the officers would ignore my pleas, and the blood would all go into my mouth. Not that I didn't taste the coppery taste of blood anyway, I just didn't want anymore.

         The rest of the trip was uneventful, with Paulie finding his car. He still had my ID, and when we were next to his car, he slammed me ass-first into the sidewalk. "Sit, boy."

         Well, it's not like I was going anywhere. My knees could barely support my own weight, let alone an escape attempt. He opened up his passenger door, and ran my ID through his computer inside the squad car. He looked at the screen, then looked at me with a grin. “Give me a second, your record is still loading.” A few moments later, he clicked on his keyboard a few times, and turned back to me. “I think our probable cause will stick. Nobody’s gonna think twice about a punk ass like you resisting arrest."

         He was right, but there was still that camera. Paulie broke open a first aid kit, rummaged, and came towards me with two cotton swabs. Such a sweetheart, he stuffed both up my nostrils, which were still gushing blood like an oil spill.

         "There," he said. “So you don't fuck up my upholstery."

         "I wouldn't dream of it," I said as he tossed me into his back seat. "Aren't you going to buckle me in?"

         "Shut up.”

         "But what if you crash your boyfriend's car?" I asked, with some zip coming back to me now that I was sitting down and had some protection against the monster. "Won't he be angry?"

         He ignored me, and I decided to save my energy. I'd been arrested before (as Paulie discovered), so I knew the procedure. The fireworks were over, now it was just the tedious bureaucratic processing left. Indeed, maybe Paulie beat the shit out of me because he hated paperwork, and knew he couldn't take his frustrations out on the clerk.

         We got to the campus police department, and Paulie "lead" me in, where I’d be duly processed. I noted that I wasn't Mirandized. Some things get forgotten in all the excitement of police brutality, but I knew that the longer I went without being read my Miranda rights, the more case I'd have against his mishandling of me. Then again, he could always say he Mirandized me in the alley, and I'd have zero evidence to disprove him. Well, there was always the camera tape, but I figured that might as well be a figment of my imagination. Being a professional, I was sure Paulie and his cohorts had a system for dealing with inconveniences like evidence.

         He marched me into the brightly-lit campus police headquarters, and I saw a familiar face. The face was Asian, and young like mine, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen it. Concussion, booze, and drugs, I might not even recognize my own reflection. He was obviously an intern; there were various Criminal Justice majors earning college credit by working the midnight shift as clerks here. It was a pilot program, and boy what a night he must be having.

         If memory served (which it might not), then inventory was first up. The custody clerk, in this case the Asian guy, riffled through my pockets to take inventory of my possessions, which would be duly noted and stored in a locker until I was allowed to reclaim them. My hands were still cuffed together, so it fell onto him to take out my possessions. He started listing them off, and it was pretty quick. One cell phone, with a broken screen (I winced, but figured it was for the best considering the avalanche of incriminating evidence it held. Plus, it was so old that officer Paulie had no doubt put it out of its misery). The clerk continued. Multiple lighters, a discovery which made me wince again, since I'd left home with just one lighter, meaning I'd pocketed someone else's. I hope they didn't charge me with theft. Next came out my wallet, with the gift and reward cards duly noted, as was the scant cash. What can I say? I travel light. He also took my belt, and other small personal effects that could be used for anything other than what they were designed for. These included my shoes. Apparently the people with guns, tazers, and iron bars feared shoe-related incidents.

         That was all, and finally my hands were uncuffed, so that I could sign that the inventory was correct. I knew from experience to sign next to every item, so that nothing could be "added" afterwards, such as a bag of weed or a couple of WMD's, but since I was seeing double at that point, it was a bit of guesswork as to how many times and where I had to sign. Then again, they’d already found my flasks, which I hoped would be returned with the contents intact, so I figured they wouldn’t need to bother adding drugs to my inventory. I signed away, and added smiley faces where I though appropriate.

         I was taken to booking next, where I was finger printed. They asked my consent, and I gave it, seeing as my finger prints were already on Paulie's baton from when I tried to deflect the blows. The young clerk then gave me a clipboard. Paulie was a few meters away, giving me some distance after intimating that I shouldn't make any trouble. I think he knew I would behave. After all, he had the home court advantage, plus I was playing injured. It’d be hardly a contest if I decided to make a contest out of it.

         "Don't I know you from somewhere?" I asked the clerk.

         "No," he snapped. "Fill these out. Include your name, address, and any medical issues to determine if you're in need of medical care."

         I looked at him like he just sneezed cheese. "What do you mean, ‘to determine if I'm in need of medical treatment?’ You think this blood is fake?"

         "No need to be nasty," he said. "Just doing my job."

         "What'd you say?"

         He sighed. It'd been a long night for him, too, but at least he'd had it in a warm environment free of concussions and electrocution.

         "Just doing my job," he repeated.

         “Could you say that again, this time with a German accent? Maybe add in ‘just following orders,’ while you're at it?"

         "Just fill out the papers," he said.

         I glared at him. Then it struck. "Can I have a spare piece of paper? In case I muck up, Michael?"

         Michael winced at me using his name. He looked to see if Paulie was looking over, but my escort was busy chatting it up with several officers, no doubt exchanging war stories. Much laughter was coming from them, and perhaps there'd be a medieval, Vikings-esque feast to celebrate their conquest.

         “Here,” Michael said, giving me a spare sheet. "Just shut up, Hunter. Please.”

         Pay-dirt had been struck. Through the fog of my consumption and concussion, I recognized Michael as a senior who I used to sell weed to during his "experimenting" phase in college. Any mention of this, and his nascent career in law enforcement would be jeopardized like an Evangelical preacher being accused of taking a science course in college.

         "No problem, Mikey," I said, before I took a seat and began writing. He winced again.

         Paulie, still yucking it up with his cohorts, left me alone while I scribbled something on the first sheet of paper. I handed this to Michael, whose expression dropped to the ground, and I saw sweat beads forming on his forehead. Then I got to work on the actual forms, which were quick. Most paper work in law enforcement is designed for nitwits, since that’s who they target, so it doesn't take long, even if you're seeing double. When I handed him my clipboard, Paulie noticed I was finished, and was eager to shepherd me along in the process, if only so that he'd be finished as well.

         "Take a good look," Paulie said to me, grabbing my arm. "Do you recognize that face on the other side of the counter?" Paulie asked.

         I kept Michael's gaze, which looked even more desperate than my own, but Paulie didn't notice since he was staring at me. I held my tongue.

         "Of course you don't, recognize that face," Paulie said, pointing towards Michael, “because that’s the face of a responsible, hard working, patriotic citizen, something you'll never be, you spoiled little shit.”

         With that, Paulie dragged me to the next phase of my adventure. I took one last look at Michael, who was ignoring my gaze and typing at his computer.

         Whatever. We’ll see.

         "Don't I get a phone call?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

         Paulie laughed. “You watch too many shitty cop shows."

         We went to another part of the station. “Damn,” I said. "Then could you tell your mom not to wait up for me?"

         Since we were in a public place, he didn't dare slam my face into the nearest wall, but I could feel him seething behind me, and his grip tightened. "Also, she still owes me two hundred for last time. Boy, was that a doozy. I had to delouse myself sever—” this time, he tripped me, and my face slammed against the checkered linoleum floor. He picked me up, and I felt my face bruising even more. And they say a sense of humor is critical to survival.

         “Oh dear,” I said as he swung me round. “Did I just incriminate myself as a gigolo who fucks ugly slugs?"

         He gripped me tighter, and I felt more bruises forming on my arms. He took me to a holding cell, opened it with a keycard, and threw me in. I was able to catch myself before gravity won another round, and I took a seat before I looked at my cellmates. What a desperate group of degenerates. I wasn't alone, but most of the others were either swaying with intoxication, or out cold. I myself sank back into my metal bench, pressed against the concrete walls. I had to clear an unconscious fellow to gain a seat, but he didn’t seem to mind, and barely muttered a groan as I pushed him from the bench to the floor. In fact, within seconds, he looked far more comfortable. Regardless, after all I'd been through, I could hardly complain about these quarters. I took off my coat to create a makeshift pillow. I sank back and started whistling. I first started with some classical music, some Bach favorites, then moved onto a tune an English exchange student had taught me. It was catchy, yet a little somber, perfect for now. I couldn't remember the words, except for the last line. Giddy from at least being done with the beatings, I heard myself yell, "You'll never walk alone!"

         This garnered the attention of several inmates, but without anything to follow, they stopped caring. Then I passed out.

         In the morning, or at least some hours later, a buzzer sounded, and a new officer banged his baton against the wall, rousing us scoundrels to our feet. There were more of us than I remembered. "You're all free to go."

         Blow me, I'm dreaming. “Get to your feet, clear the room," he said again. "You can collect your belongings with the clerk."

         We filed out of the door, some of us more successfully than others, and I was limping behind a large, wobbly fellow who smelled like cheese. He took his stuff, and as he was belting up his pants, I took my stuff from the clerk, who was different from the one who processed me. He handed me my inventory sheet, then a plastic bag full of my belongings. I went to sit down so I wouldn't obstruct the others. Seriously, anyone who stands in a doorway should be sent straight to hell. Whatever. I glanced inside the bag. I noticed a small glint of metal, and I looked at my inventory sheet. I could see single instead of double now, and above the final line, which I signed with a smiley face, Michael had written "One flash drive, 500mb."

         It was signed with a smilie face, but not in my handwriting.