O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Kegger! (mm ar musc coll mc oral anal)

by Purplebootsgywr

FRIDAY

Zinger could see that this year it was slim pickin's. Scott Foster Heissinger had been a college student, a brother, a drinking buddy, and a frat boy for going on four years now. Most of that time, he had served as president of his beloved fraternity Beta Omicron Iota Zeta, where all of his fraternity brothers (and classmates, and the girls, and most passersby) knew him only as Zinger.

Zinger knew that he had at least another year or two (possibly three) of college left in him, but he also knew that, much as he may wish otherwise, he would eventually have to leave the university and beloved his frat house home and enter what was genrally known as "the real world". As such, ol' Zinger knew it was up to him to appoint a successor. Someone to whom he could trust the helm of the fine and usually intoxicated ship that was Beta Omicron Iota Zeta.

Zinger's standards were rather exacting in that regard. So much so that he had yet to find anyone who could fit the bill to his satisfaction. Zinger was in his junior year at the university (or one of them, anyway—he'd taken a while to get enough credits to no longer be considered a sophomore) and as much he would like to imagine himself forever as the president of his fraternity, he knew that all good things must eventually come to an end. Zinger wanted the fraternity's next president to have all the qualifications he himself had, which were impressive enough that he had been named the youngest president of the Beta Omicron Iota Zeta fraternity during his earliest sophomore year, a role he had filled with distinction and much to the joy of his brothers ever since.

Zinger was a party boy, with as much a flair for the dramatic as for fun. He had a way of hazing (Oops, sorry-"initiating". Hazing had been made illegal on campus.) initiating incoming pledges with such originality and humor that they begged for more. Zinger was the kind of guy who could drink an alcoholic Irishman under the table and had enough personality and warmth to charm the panties off of any woman he wanted. Which would have been quite a valuable trait, had he wanted anything to do with women.

You see, Zinger was gay. But his classic fratboy Greek attitude and demeanor was such that no one cared what his orientation was and everyone accepted him. They always had. As such, during his presidency, Beta Omicron Iota Zeta was one of the first non-gay fraternities to not only accept, but completely welcome gay brothers into its house. There were no less than five gay brothers in the house at this time, ranging in personality from discreet to totally out. Zinger very much wanted his successor to be gay. It wasn't a requirement, but it would be a very big plus.

Zinger had his eye peeled for an incoming freshman who had the same kind of passion for the Greek life, the same desire for the full college experience as he had. The sought-after freshman didn't necessarily have to have his level of charm and charisma—he doubted he'd find that—but he did have to love the life. Zinger wanted some kid in whom he could see the same zest for partying and brotherhood, the kind who could fill his shoes in such a way that the era Zinger had begun would certainly continue.

And yeah, preferably he had to love cock. That, too.

Zinger stood at the railing overlooking the winding stairway that led to the upstairs bedrooms, his own a mere ten smelly feet away. Zinger's best buddy, Arnold, also gay, sidled up to Zinger and gazed over the railing to see what he was looking at. It was a huddle of fresh pledges, all bustling about trying to make the house presentable for the big party that night.

"Still looking?" Arnold asked. He knew what Zinger was looking for.

"Nothing yet," Zinger sighed. He shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, Arn. They're all good kids. I particularly like Benji Whatshisface."

"Bannerman. I think."

"Whatever. He's a good guy. Straight as an arrow and gullible as hell, but he's okay."

"He gonna be the one stuck dressed as the giant urinal cake at the waterworks party next week?" Arnold asked.

Zinger snorted. "Oh, hell yeah. Had him pegged for that right off."

Arnold smiled. "Poor kid does have that smile that seems to say, 'Please pee on me'."

"Figuratively speaking," Zinger interjected. "Ah, he'll look precious strapped into that big urinal-shaped beer fountain."

Arnold nodded. "He'll make a fine centerpiece."

"And he'll have plenty to drink."

Zinger turned around and gazed out the window behind them. "I dunno, Arn. I just need to find that one kid. You know? The one small-town frosh with the big heart and big dreams just ripe to have the living shit corrupted out of him by a more experienced and appropriately wicked senior." Zinger frowned, thinking. "If I don't find him this year, I may have to delay graduating. Can't just abandon the house."

"What's another year?" Arnold said. Then, "You know, there's always Roger. Loyal to the house, to you, great drinker. Gay as a jaybird."

Zinger frowned. "I asked him. He doesn't want the responsibility."

Arnold looked at his friend as if to say, 'WHAT responsibility??', but simply turned away, shaking his head. A diminutive freshman whizzed up the stairs waving some envelopes.

"Mail call, Mr. President, sir," he handed off the letters to Zinger.

"You don't have to call me 'sir,' Gumball."

The boy looked almost apologetic when he corrected him, "Uh, it's Gumble, sir. Bobby Gum—" Zinger just stared at him, eyebrows raised. The lad rephrased. "Um, yeah, Gumball works, too." The kid hopped back down the stairs. Zinger liked nicknames and any pledges who would shun those names he'd assigned them did so at their peril.

"Anything good?" Arnold asked, eyeing the mail.

"I'm hoping for a card from that guy from Rho Upsilon who was a guest here a couple weeks back."

"The tall ripped guy into rubber? Man, he was fine."

"Yes, he was. And he promised to send me a coupon for a club that actually lets you—hello, what's this?" Zinger's smile brightened. He began to tear open the envelope with anticipatory vigor.

"That from him? The rubber guy?"

"Better. It's another donation from our most oh-so-supportive alum, Torrid-something."

Arnold leaned over to read the return address. "Luke Varden Mitorpid. God, really?"

Zinger had already pulled out a letter scrawled onto a half sheet of paper and waved the check at Arnold. The college man's eyes popped when he saw the amount.

"Damn, man. What the hell—is one of the current brothers his illegitimate love child?"

"Don't know, don't care. All I know is this guy has financed many a glorious party and he will do so again." Zinger kissed the check. "Mwah!"

Arnold read the enclosed letter. Something Zinger rarely did. "It's handwritten," he observed. "That's unusual."

"So what's he say?"

Arnold read it over quickly. "Just some sappy stuff about how fondly he remembers his days as a brother here, wishing us all the best and trusting we'll take advantage of these, the best years of our lives, etcetera."

"Oh, I will," Zinger grinned. "I will, with every pint."

Arnold tossed Zinger the letter, which he had stuffed back into the envelope. "You gonna at least send him a thank-you note?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. Good idea." Zinger paused, knowing full well that sincerity was not his strong suit. "Have Gumball do it. Muchas gracias, hugs and kisses. Like that. Use the fraternity stationery and make it all official-looking."

"We have our own stationery?" Arnold asked, incredulous.

"I'm told. Be right back."

Zinger stuffed the envelope into his back pocket, the check into his front. He was soon to rally the troops in preparation for the big party, but first he had a little ritual to attend to.

Zinger descended the stairs to the basement, where the cooler was kept. The cooler was the source of all things foamy and fermented for every party. At the bottom of the steps, Zinger saw various brothers hurrying about, seeing to the many kegs that already filled the room. One brother pushed a hand truck over as another shoved one of the kegs toward it for transport.

"How goes the mission?" Zinger asked.

The brothers looked up and smiled when they saw their fearless leader. "Hey!" beamed one brother, hunched over a frosty steel-gray keg. "We're not hurtin' for beer, boss!" Everyone present laughed.

It was well known that Zinger was related to the famous Angus Heissinger, the founder and millionaire owner of the celebrated German brewery of the same name. Zinger was not a close enough relative to boast any claim to the brewer's vast fortune, but as a second cousin (once removed), he had been able to use a certain amount of nepotism to gain a steady stream of free beer for the fraternity's many shindigs.

"Lookin' good, my brethren," Zinger grinned. "But you guys get to take five for the moment. There's something I need to do."

The room cleared instantly. No one cared what Zinger needed to do. When it came to their president and beer, all questions could wait. As the last sounds of hurried footfalls disappeared over the top of the stairs, Zinger made his way past the many kegs of Heissinger (Lager, Stout, Imperial Gold, and Extra Dark). He paused to stare at what appeared to be a blank wall. Zinger manipulated a hidden latch and a panel slid away from the rest of the wall's facade to expose a concealed squat metal door. Zinger reached under his shirt and pulled out an odd-looking key on a gold chain. He unlocked the door and hunkered down to step inside.

There in the center of the small room was another keg of beer, covered with frost and emanating a refreshing cold. The room itself was not refrigerated. It was the solitary keg that somehow kept itself cold, forever preserved from ever getting skunked. And that wasn't even the strangest thing about this keg. Unlike all the other beer kegs in the basement room beyond, the casing on this keg was a shining gold. And the beer inside it…well, that was something else altogether.

Zinger walked past the perma-chilled golden keg to a tiny shelf bolted into the wall. There was a framed dual photo featuring the Beta Omicron Iota Zeta president, class of 1995. In the first photo the smiling president, party cup held high, stood with his arm draped around a nervous-looking kid of scrawny build, greasy hair, and bad complexion. The scrawny kid also held a party cup, filled to the brim. In the second photo, the president stood next to another boy, this one drop-dead gorgeous and as far away from the first kid as it was possible to be. This one was incredibly muscular, devilishly handsome, clear-skinned, and sporting a fluffy beach boy hairdo. It seemed at first that the president had dumped his first companion for a considerable upgrade. Until second glance at the images.

The hunky winner beside the president in the second photo was clad in clothes identical to those worn by the loser boy in the first. In fact, they looked to be those clothes, stretched to their limits, and in the case of the shirt, ripped to shreds. The expression on the face of the second boy was one of exuberance. He screamed at the camera with gusto, his eyes flashing a combination of sheer joy and utter disbelief. Zinger knew as he looked at this photo that it featured not three fraternity brothers, but two. The boy in the second photo hadn't stolen the clothes of the boy in the first photo. He was the boy in the first photo.

Behind the president and his transformed companion in the dual photos sat the golden keg, the same one which sat chilled on the floor just a few feet from Zinger's shoes. Forever frosty, forever delicious and intoxicating. Among other things.

Zinger put the photo back and retrieved the only other thing upon the small shelf, an envelope. He withdrew a document printed neatly on parchment-colored inkjet paper, done up in fancy font. It bore the heading Caretaker Of the Golden Keg. Underneath that heading was very little text, and virtually no description. The true magic of the keg was meant to be passed down orally from president to president. The only written directive appeared printed on the page in Zinger's hands.

Grasp the handle & picture the change
Nothin' you can think is out of range.
Concentrate upon the dude
If he's your Little Brother through and through,
Hurry up and pump the brew~
Chugalug and he starts anew.
Friends Don't Let Friends' Lives Suck.

Below this rather unpoetic verse was a series of lines for signatures. Each line displayed the name of each new president entrusted with the golden keg and the date he put it to use. The top line had the coarse signature of Mickey Patrick "Odie" O'Donnell dated September 1995. Under Odie's signature was that of the fraternity's next president Craig Ryan "Bongo" Nicholas dated October 2000.

Beneath that was the equally sloppy signature Scott Foster "Zinger" Heissinger. The date had not yet been filled in. Zinger had enjoyed his fraternity brothers so much, in all their myriad forms, shapes, and sizes, that he had yet to employ the magic of the golden keg and the mystic brew it contained. He had never felt the need. But his despondency over not yet finding a worthy successor to his office made him think that maybe it was time. Perhaps turning a geeky frosh into a complete boytoy for his amusement would cheer him up. He hadn't yet picked his Little Brother for the year, anyway.

Zinger put the document back in its envelope and moved over to the far wall of the small room. There was another locked panel door there, this one much smaller than the room's entrance. Zinger unlocked it to reveal a sturdy dumbwaiter. As soon as it was open, the golden keg slid noiselessly across the floor of its own accord and set itself inside. Zinger closed and locked the waiter door and heard the hum of the tiny lift rise upward to its secret place in the main rec room of the house.

Zinger departed as he had come, locking and concealing the doors behind him. Some dumb kid was about to get very lucky at the party tonight. Even if Zinger had no clue who would take over for him one day, that much at least was guaranteed.

Zinger made his way back to the center of the house, past the many brothers bustling about or goofing around, and nabbed an air horn from atop a nearby bookcase. He held it aloft and sent a blaring blast into the air. A few brothers cursed in surprise, one or two spilled food or soda upon their nearby fellows. The house fell silent and all motion ceased.

"Everyone gather 'round and listen up!" Zinger called.

In a matter of seconds, the main foyer where Zinger stood was cluttered with fraternity brothers, waiting eagerly for Zinger's announcement. Zinger eyed the group and it seemed to him that everyone was present. Then he paused. Turning to his friend Arnold, he asked, "Where's Gumball?"

"Finding stationery."

Zinger nodded. "Right, right. Okay, everyone! Tonight we are going to partake of a rather hellacious kegger!"

The group responded with a raucous cheer and several unseemly gestures and facial expressions. As Zinger prepared to assign duties and announce expectations, the front door burst open and a lanky blond brother appeared.

"Oh, hey, Stinkbomb," Zinger said, acknowledging him. "Didn't even realize you were MIA. My bad. We were just—" Zinger stopped, noticing the panic in Stinkbomb's eyes. "What's with the face?"

"We have a problem."

The room again fell silent, this time with tension rather than anticipation.

"That being—?" Zinger prompted.

"Just came from the main office. Due to our reputation and recent history for hosting rather… energetic celebrations… that, in the administration's opinion may have gotten slightly out of hand…"

"Yeah??" Zinger pressed.

"We're required to have an adult chaperone at tonight's party or it's off."

The room came alive with groans, muttered obscenities, and vile imprecations.

"So where the hell do we get someone now?" Arnold asked no one in particular.

His question was echoed by nearly everyone in the room. They needed to come up with an adult within less than a day who would appear to be upstanding and respectable, whose presence would mollify those in authority, yet who would gladly permit the brothers to get away with anything. The challenge was considerable. The brothers complained and shuffled about, looking at the floor, talking about putting the kegs back into the cooler. Some of them even started discussing what parties were scheduled at other houses that night.

Zinger was not about to let this stump him. He stuck his hands into his back pockets, as he often did when he needed to concentrate, and he felt the envelope folded there. He plucked out the small note bearing the flowery words from the generous alumnus.

Zinger held his hand high above his head and snapped his fingers. The small sound may well have been a thunderclap, as it silenced the entire room. He jabbed a finger in Arnold's direction. "Tell Gumball to hold off on that thank-you note. I have a better idea."

 

"We set?" Zinger asked.

The brothers had gathered around in their finest attire (or at least that attire which wasn't stained, unlaundered, or exuding questionable odors) and lined up in two rows before the front door. Arnold looked the young men over, saw that shirts were tucked in, hair was combed, eyes were bright.

"We're set," he confirmed.

Zinger nodded to the little frosh from mail call. "Gumball, would you do the honors?"

The miniature brother ran to the door and opened it with a flourish. There on the stoop, having just rung the bell, was their official adult chaperone, right on time. Everyone around the foyer flashed eager smiles at the man. They fell in a hurry. Standing within the doorway was a dumpy man in his 40s but with a weary air that made him appear nearly ten years older. His hair was prematurely graying, the lines on his face creased into place as if pressed there with a steam iron. His shoulders sagged with the weight of years of spirit-crushing drudge work, his legs bowed with the stress of having stood endlessly in the mire of his own failures. The suit he wore was a fecal brown that called to mind the stench of adult compromise that every boy within the house feared to the depths of his soul. One of the only two spots of color upon the drab little man was his necktie, which was splashed with faded yellows and other pastels that ached to bring some life to his figure, inasmuch as their meager cost of $7.95 could provide.

The other bright spot found upon the sad visage was in his eyes. They shone from his tired features with a sparkle of nostalgia and just a hint of remembered mischief as he beheld the fraternity house he once called home. It was that feeble gleam alone that could have ever identified him as a brother.

"Mr. Mitorpid?" Zinger greeted him.

The shaky man stepped gingerly over the threshold and gazed about the room. He swallowed and licked his lips as took in the sight. "It's like stepping back in time," he whispered to himself. "So very much as I remembered it." Collecting himself, the older man extended a hand to Zinger.

"And you no doubt are the good President Heissinger." He shook Zinger's hand, and the frat prez made certain not to grip too hard.

"Uh, it's Zinger, sir."

Mitorpid smiled at that. "Well then, Zinger it is. I certainly appreciate you considering me for your chaperone this evening, my lad. And having that cab sent for me was quite a luxury, quite a luxury indeed."

"Not a problem, sir."

The man stepped out to look over the assembled brothers and pledges, unaware that he had unconsciously patted the back of Zinger's hand after he'd finished shaking it. The gesture was one closer to a grandmother than a Beta Omicron alum. Mr. Mitorpid blinked as he took in the impressive lineup of college boys. "My, my, it seems that you've all turned out to give me quite the royal welcome." The brothers smiled and a few nodded, trying to keep any expression of pity from their faces.

Zinger inferred from this man's sluggish movements and slow manner that if he were allowed to start addressing the frat or wandering the house, the business for which he'd been summoned would never be attended to.

"Mr. Mitorpid, I think you know why we asked you here," Zinger said, hoping his voice sounded respectful or something. "We've been planning tonight's festivities for a while now," he coughed, hoping not to choke on his own bold-faced lie, "and as it's only an hour or so away until we'd hoped to start, we really should get you over to the appropriate administrators you need to see."

The kindly Mr. Mitorpid took Zinger by the arm and patted him on the shoulder. "Now, Zinger my boy, don't you worry about a thing. I've already taken the liberty of telephoning the fair Myrtle in the main office and even had my taxi pause briefly at the Dean of Students so that I could have a short interview there as well. I assured them that there'd be no chicanery or hooliganism on my watch. I described in detail how the fine house of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta was one which fostered all the traits of discipline, honor, and conformity that have served me so well in the world of corporate accounting. And if by some terrible set of circumstances you fine gentleman had strayed from your proper path, I'd see to it that you were set right, starting immediately."

The shoulders of every brother sagged, their eyes glazing with horror.

Mr. Mitorpid then smiled at them. "And I'm pretty sure they gobbled up all of that horse shit, too."

A crackle of energy surged through the gathered brothers. Their "chaperone" grinned and began to laugh a bit. "Well come on, now. I am a Beta Omicron Iota Zeta, after all. Now, do we have enough beer for tonight, or what?"

The group let loose with a tremendous cheer as hugs and leaps were exchanged. Mitorpid looked as if he'd been transported to heaven. "Splendid! Splendid! And what lucky pledge among you gets to be the human urinal cake?"

Zinger wrapped an affectionate arm around Pledge Bannerman, giving his shoulder an firm grasp. "You're a week ahead of yourself there, sir."

The smiling Bannerman's face fell and he looked up at Zinger. "What? What's he talking about? What kind of cake?"

Zinger pushed Bannerman aside. "Go get coasters, boy. Drink coasters on every table. Chop-chop."

The whole house was in motion again, and Mitorpid drifted over toward Zinger. "Oh, dear. I do hope I haven't spoiled anything for you."

Zinger shook his head. "Nah. By nine o'clock, he'll be lucky to remember his name, much less that exchange." Zinger shook Mitorpid's hand again, this time offering a generous squeeze. "Sir, welcome to the party!"

And Mitorpid squeezed back. He had a surprisingly good grip.

Mr. Mitorpid proved to be the perfect chaperone. He lingered by the rec room bar mostly out of sight, exchanging pleasantries with those who were good enough to acknowledge him, but never imposing himself upon others. He seemed content to simply observe the festivities, as if he were watching a favorite movie he hadn't seen in a while.

Zinger was in the backyard acting as exuberant host, much to the amusement of all. He was so thrilled with the success of the party that he had even forgotten his concerns about searching for a successor to his office. He was enjoying a thorough groping with a very handsome junior near the keg of Extra Dark when it occurred to him that he had not once all night spotted the man whose timely arrival had made their soiree possible. After a bit of tongue tango with the visiting junior, Zinger excused himself to seek out and properly thank their benefactor. Zinger found him still lingering by the bar, smiling amicably at passersby. He even served up drinks here and there, insisting to see I.D., making jokes about whether or not the fakes versions were convincing enough. He fined the students for the truly bad ones by extracting ice cubes from their glasses.

Zinger sidled up to the older man and smiled. "You seem to be quite the hit of the party."

Mr. Mitorpid grinned appreciatively. "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But I do love it here. The brotherhood, the sense of belonging, of family."

Without really thinking about what he was saying, Zinger blurted out, "You say like you don't have one otherwise." The man lowered his head, his expression suddenly quite dour. But he said nothing more. Zinger instantly regretted his observation. Trying to recover, he began again, "Well, you've always got family here. And I just wanted to say thanks again for showing up at the house tonight."

Mitorpid waved the comment away. "Pish tosh. This is the best time I've had in ages."

"Don't get out much?" Zinger asked unnecessarily.

"Or at all," the older man admitted.

Zinger began to feel a kinship for this strange little man whom he had originally considered only a means to an end. "Hey, you're the only guy around here without a drink in his hand. Lemme get you something." Zinger swung around the edge of the bar and made use of the stock there. It was a very familiar place for him. While behind the bar, Zinger glanced at a large plaque bolted on the wall close to the floor. It was one of those old-fashioned pub signs, indicating that the fine art of getting sloshed and destroying your liver extended back many generations. No one knew why it had been put up so close to the floor, out of plain sight. But Zinger knew.

He activated a hidden switch among the many bottles and drink pulls along the bar and the plaque slid to the side, allowing the golden keg to ease itself silently into place on the floor behind the bar. Zinger watched as it settled into position, out of sight, and the plaque slid back into place. He'd get to it later and put it to use, no doubt, once he'd made his selection among the guys available. Zinger fiddled with mixing up the non-chaperone's drink, using the clink of bottles and ice to camoflage his delay. "Here's what you need," he said at last.

Mitorpid took his drink gratefully and with just a few sips he seemed to loosen up considerably. It also loosened his tongue a bit.

"I take it from your reaction earlier that you still have the big Waterworks Party every year?"

"Ohhh yeah," Zinger affirmed, emerging from behind the bar. "'Keep It Flowing' is still the main theme. We haul in all kinds of fun stuff. The Gin Bathtub, the Beer Shower, the Kiddie Pool O' Boxed Wine. And thank God for that brother who was the Fine Arts major who sculpted our giant urinal."

Mitorpid smiled brightly and with increased interest. "So it still works?"

Zinger laughed. "It works perfectly. He really built it to last. Didn't they put it into use for the first time in your pledge year?"

"The year before."

Zinger's eyes took on a gleam of insight. "Hey, you weren't that year's urinal cake, were you?"

Mitorpid actually snickered. "No. Oh, no. My closest friend was, though. Mind you, it was a narrow escape for me. I did wind up being sent down the Cheap Beer Slip 'N Slide enough times that I was well inebriated." Zinger laughed hard, trying to imagine this man as a young pledge, being cast down the sheet of soaked rubber by his older, bigger brethren. Mitorpid laughed right along with Zinger, but then his face darkened slightly and he teetered on the edge of maudlin.

"How very different from the world that awaited me after graduation," he lamented. "With its demands, angry hierarchies, manipulations, and intolerance." Mitorpid looked directly into Zinger's eyes and added, "Not like here."

Zinger saw the dreaminess in the older man's eyes and could tell how much he yearned for those "days of yesteryear". This wasn't some guy who regretted the time lost in his misspent youth, this was a dude who wanted to go back and do it over. He asked Mr. Mitorpid, "Any regrets?"

"About being in a fraternity? God, no. Well… maybe one."

"What's that?" Zinger braced himself for a story of how the man had disrespected a girl, or not made the most of his classes, or something like that.

"That I wasn't better looking. That I wasn't… well, if you'll forgive my saying, more like you."

Zinger nudged the old guy in the shoulder. "Why, Mr. Mitorpid, are you hitting on me?"

The man smiled as if to say "If I were twenty years younger," then clarified, "What I mean is, you're in really good shape. You have a good body. Musculature, I mean."

Zinger smirked. "I work out some, yeah."

"I could never build any muscle mass as a kid," Mitorpid said, trying to quickly redirect the discussion. "I was always so skinny. One of my nicknames was Geeky. You should've seen me. Mind you," he added, touching his slightly swollen belly, "I wouldn't mind being skinny so much now."

"Maybe I can see what you looked like as a pledge," Zinger suggested. "I know we've got archive photos around here someplace. They used to line the front hallway, but they got moved. Way upstairs, I think. Or maybe it was in the basement…" he scratched his chin, trying to remember.

Mr. Mitorpid reached around to his back pocket for his wallet. "Wait, you don't have to. I can show you now." The older man flipped open the billfold and there, amongst old photos of his parents and the grad photos of his coworkers' children, was a group photo of the Beta Omicron Iota Zeta fraternity of two decades gone by. He handed the photo to Zinger.

"There we are," he said, with obvious pride at this well-weathered keepsake.

Zinger looked at the worn photo of the fraternity brothers of twenty years ago and grinned. To think that the poor guy still carried the damn thing around with him after all this time. "So which one's you?"

Mr. Mitorpid pointed to the figure just to the left of center in the second row. "That fine fellow there. That's me."

Zinger's eyes nearly popped. That was his guy. This lonely loser of a man, while still in his college prime, exemplified the image of the student whom Zinger saw as the ideal recruit to follow in his footsteps. The wide-eyed innocence, the slightly out-of-control mop of hair, the naiveté evident in every freckle. The small-town frosh with the big heart and big dreams just ripe to have the living shit corrupted out of him by a more experienced and appropriately wicked senior. Granted, he was skinny as a rail, but still…

Zinger shook his head. If only the he'd had had the opportunity to snatch this guy up back when he was a green kid. If only his search for a successor were taking place two decades prior. If only this guy were twenty years younger. Zinger stopped. He looked at the keg. It sparkled slightly in the dim light behind the bar. He looked at the older man, gazing fondly at his treasured old photo, clearly longing for days past. Zinger looked at the keg again. Could it work? The special brew was intended to change a prospective pledge physically, but this? Could it undo the better part of a quarter century of being ground down by corporate drudgery?

Zinger smirked to himself. He already had the power to undo eighteen years of decent, respectable upbringing of freshmen straight out of the Bible Belt, and that was without the aid of any magical brewski. Anything was possible.

Zinger smiled at Mr. Mitorpid. "Sooo… what can you tell me about your old glory days here at the ol' house?"

The dumpy man nearly blushed, slipping the photo back into his wallet, shoving the billfold back into his pocket. "Oh, you don't want to be bored with all that talk."

Zinger draped an arm affectionately around the loyal frat alum. "Oh, but I assure you, sir, I do. I really, really do." And he winked at him. Phase one had begun.

 

Zinger had been listening to Mitorpid's ramblings for more than an hour and was actually enjoying them. With a drink or two in him, the older man was more than happy to regale the fraternity president with stories of horseplay initiations, of pranks successful and aborted, of embarrassing moments both terrifying and exhilarating. With each anecdote, Zinger grew more certain that he had made the right choice. All that was left now was to act upon it. Zinger reached out and took Mitorpid's unfinished drink from his hand. "Time to switch to beer."

Zinger hopped behind the bar and grabbed a fresh cup. He didn't want any remnants from another drink to dilute the effects of the magic brew, if such a thing were possible. It occurred to him that the keg still was without a tap, but looking down at it he saw that one had somehow materialized. He shrugged. "Huh. Okay."

Placing the party cup under the tap, he began to work the keg's pump, reciting the incantation to himself. "Alright now… Grasp the handle and picture the change…" Zinger looked at the dumpy man in his forties and then brought to mind the overeager frosh from the old photograph. "Oh, man…" Zinger squinted his eyes hard, telling himself, "Nothin' you can think is out of range." Zinger began to clutch the cup tightly, careful not to crush it. He also clutched at the keg pump, feeling a slight tingle pass from the golden receptacle to his hand. "Concentrate upon the dude…" Zinger thought of Mitorpid, his stories, his loyalty, his sadness about the world beyond college. "If he's your Little Brother through and through…" He saw the boy of twenty years gone fresh in his mind, alive and smiling, eager to belong, excited to serve. Yeah, that's him. "Hurry up and pump the brew."

Zinger pumped the keg feverishly, feeling a strange energy crackle down his arm and into the keg. Its casing began to glow. Zinger squeezed the trigger on the tap's hose and filled Mitorpid's cup to the brim, some of the foam cascaded over the side, splashing onto the dingy carpet behind the bar where it quickly evaporated in a burst of tiny fireworks. Zinger looked into the party cup and smiled. The brew there glinted and gleamed with tiny dots of what could have been stars, or possibly intoxicated fireflies. "Chugalug and he starts anew."

Zinger grabbed his own beer from behind the bar, a longneck of Heissinger Stout, and upended it into another cup. He then offered the first, mystical drink, to his new pal with flourish. "Here's just what you need, fella! Drink up." Zinger hefted his own glass an offered a toast. "Friends don't let friends' lives suck. L'chayim!"

Mitorpid blinked at him. "That's an unusual toast."

"It's Jewish. I think it means 'For life' or 'To life' or something."

"Not that part, the other par—"

Zinger interrupted him, eager for him to guzzle the beer down. "Come on, man! Chugalug! Slam that baby back, just like the old times! Par-ty! Par-ty!"

The older man rolled his eyes, but was clearly enjoying himself. "Oh, what the hell…"

Zinger watched as the older man slugged back the magical brew with what may have been an attempt at zest, but simply appeared sloppy. A bit of it dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. The man smacked his lips afterward, his hand which held the party cup wavering slightly. "That's really good!" he slobbered. "Was that imported?"

"Something like that," Zinger offered. "I keep it on hand for special occasions." He eyed Mitorpid. If Zinger's recollections were correct, besides having a transmutative effect on the drinker, the first result was instantaneous intoxication. But then, it was intended to work on those in their late teens or early twenties. Would it have the desired effect on someone twice that age?

Mitorpid stumbled forward as he said, with dripping sentiment, "And I'm a shpecial occasion? Thaaat's wundahfull." He then fell face-first down on the carpet in front of the bar.

Zinger nodded. "I guess so."

 

Zinger and the alumnus chaperone were laughing hysterically. "So-so then what happened?" Zinger gasped, trying to catch his breath.

The duo were seated on the floor by the fireplace, no longer able to safely hold themselves atop chairs or bar stools without tumbling off, despite having switched to regular beer. Seated among the chaos of the ongoing festivities, the Mitorpid alum looked happier than he had since his arrival, and felt happier than he had in years. "So then, I wake up in one of the upstairs rooms, right?" he explained. "My clothes are gone. I mean, gone!"

Zinger snickered. "You mean, you got stripped? You woke up nude. Where were your clothes?"

Mitorpid laughed out loud. "I don't know! No one would tell me! And there, hanging all neat and pressed on a hanger on the back of the door is this absolutely stupid superhero costume." Zinger lost it, slapping his leg and gasping for air. Mitorpid waved his arms to silence him. "Wait for it, wait for it." Zinger tried to muffle his guffaws. "And slung around the hanger, all nice and neat, is a little sign on a string that says, get this: Your outfit for the day." Zinger lost it again, laughing ever louder. Mitorpid snickered too, but wanted to go on with his story. "And it's a really good costume! It is! Like the expensive kind you would rent for Halloween!" Zinger rolled over on his side and kicked his feet. It sounded as if Mitorpid were defending his hazing ensemble.

Mitorpid blinked and wheezed a bit, trying to narrate his tale through the laughter. "It had real boots and a belt, and a cape, it was just like a Superman suit, and the tights—damn, were they tight—"

Zinger interrupted, "Omigod, omigod, omigod, no underwear! You had no underwear! So everyone could see—"

"My…my danglers, yeah." Zinger howled again, this time at Mitorpid's vernacular. "You'd think the red underpants over the top would conceal me a little, but nooo…Oh, oh, oh! And instead of the classic red an' yellow 'S' on the chest, it says inside the emblem, 'PLEDGE BOY!' On the back of the cape, too. In yellow there."

Zinger started slapping Mitorpid on the back. "With an exclamation point?"

Mitorpid nodded somberly. "With an exclamation point."

"And you had to wear it?"

"I had to. I was already going to be late for class. I was just a stupid frosh, I'd scheduled too many classes too close together. No time to go back to my dorm. I was in it all day." He shook his head slowly.

Zinger snorted. "I'm sure you looked very da-da-dashing… haha!"

"I looked like an idiot, I was so totally humiliated." Zinger stopped laughing, hearing the seriousness in Mitorpid's voice. "The bigger kids pushing me around all day. 'If you got superpowers, defend yourself, geek.' Getting tripped by guys yanking on my cape, professors who hated the Greeks making an example of me in their classrooms…"

Zinger felt bad for him. "It must'a sucked for you, huh?"

Mitorpid looked at him, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? I fucking loved it! It was one of the seminal moments of my life! I was part of something so much bigger than me—and I was accepted enough that they would share these pranks with me—make me part of them!" Mitorpid's eyes became dreamy. "That afternoon, when I got back to the house around five or so, things were already gearing up for another party. Next thing I knew, I was out back, being held up on the brothers' shoulders, everyone laughing, cheering, spraying me with beer. I was drunk again before I knew what was happening. Woke up in my dorm that time, the next day, still in the superhero costume. I never did learn what happened to my original clothes." Mitorpid sighed. "God, what I wouldn't give to go back there, to do it all again."

Zinger smiled. Now here was a guy who got it. If he ever doubted that he'd made the right choice…

Mitorpid doubled over suddenly. "Uh. Something's not right down there."

Zinger asked, "You gonna be sick?"

Mitorpid considered. "No, it doesn't feel like that. It feels…different. I guess it's been too long since I drank like this."

"Probably," Zinger said, knowing full well what was really happening to the man. "Could be your body trying to process the… um, the imported brewski."

Mitorpid nodded. "Yes, yes. That's probably it. I rarely get the chance to imbibe with headier lagers."

Zinger helped the older man to his feet, where he tottered unsteadily. "Dude, you better crash here. There's no way I'm letting you drive." That, and Zinger wanted the man kept on the premises for when he underwent what was going to happen next. Mitorpid nodded, apparently forgetting he'd been brought to the house by cab.

"I'm- I'm meant to stay on till the end of the event…as an adult supervisor…," Mitorpid said, seeming unable to supervise his own footsteps, much less the behavior of impressionable youth.

"Look around," Zinger suggested. "Everyone's pairing off and calling it quits anyway, if they haven't already." Mitorpid adjusted his glasses and looked around the room to find that, sure enough, guys were escorting tipsy girls off to their rooms, or were already in the midst of romantic interludes on the couch, out on the patio, atop the pool table, under the dining room furniture, and so forth. "You need to make yourself scarce."

Mitorpid allowed himself to be led by the stronger frat leader. "Where are we going?"

"Guest room," Zinger lied. He had every intention of dumping the man in his own room. "Specially prepared for Beta Omicron Iota V.I.P.s."

"That's very consideratable," Mitorpid slurred, bowing his head graciously.

"Thanks," Zinger said, "but you're expressing your appreciation to a coat rack." He guided the alum toward the stairs, dreading the climb with his intoxicated charge. Zinger wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have moved Mitorpid upstairs sooner, uncertain as he was about when the next stages of the potion were going to kick in. Another frat brother, a handsome black lad, was running down the stairs carrying two bottles of beer when he came to a sudden halt beside Zinger and Mitorpid.

"Hey, Zinger," the young man smiled. "You need a hand there?"

"Naw, I got it, thanks."

"So you gonna introduce me?"

Zinger looked at the guy. Was he kidding? "He's the chaperone, Scott. And he's sloshed."

"No, really. Is he with another house?"

Zinger blinked. "He graduated twenty years ago, man. He's old enough to be your dad, for God's sake."

"Hey," Scott said, feeling defensive. "If you don't wanna share, fine. Just say so. I just figured—you know, you got a hot guy who's blitzed, I know Frank would be happy to join us." He gestured with his beer bottles toward the next room, where his own male date was waiting. "So if you're interested…"

"Get the hell out of the way already," Zinger scoffed. Scott departed, but made a disparaging remark under his breath as he left. As Zinger struggled to get the middle-aged brother up the stairs, he recalled the next phase of the magical beer. First, intoxication, and then those nearby find the subject extremely attractive. Zinger pressed on with increased urgency, knowing what was to take place in phase three.

Just shy of the landing, Zinger had to rest on the top step. Another brother who'd been hopping up the stairs in search of condoms paused when he saw his frat president and the inebriated man lying beside him. "Damn, man! Nice work. Is he on staff? Is he a T.A. or something?"

Zinger rolled his eyes. He was still panting from his effort. "He's the alum chaperone, asshole. You met him earlier."

The brother tilted his head and gazed at Mitorpid, not recognizing him. "Shit, did you have one of the sorority girls give him a makeover?"

"I'll tell you if you help me get him into my room."

It was faster going with two guys helping, and soon Mr. Mitorpid was dropped unceremoniously onto Zinger's cluttered bed. The boys shoved aside CD cases, dirty socks, and a couple of empty cardboard beer cases to make room. The brother whistled at the sight of the overweight, pasty man half-asleep on the bed.

"Damn, man. I'm usually into girls, but if you need any more help, as long as I'm here…"

"Get out."

"I'm just offering. Help a brother out."

"Now."

The brother left, a bit disappointed, and Zinger leaned over the bed and spoke to the fast-fading Mitorpid. "Hey. Hey, buddy. You still in there at all?"

Mitorpid mumbled a bit, then said, "…yeah…what…?"

"I forgot to ask you. And it's kind of important. Did you have a nickname back in school?"

"…yessth…"

Zinger waited a moment, but nothing else was coming. "You wanna share it with me?" he prompted.

"Didn't like it."

"Sorry to hear that. What was it?"

"Besides Geeky?"

"Besides that one."

"Torpedo."

Zinger laughed. "No shit? Why?"

"Just 'cause of my name…way it sounds…"

"So you didn't have any major score or anything, and like, dive into someone like a big…"

"I wish…" And that was that. Mitorpid's head slumped to the side and he was out cold. Zinger gave the man a quick kiss on the forehead and then headed out the door. On his way out, as he flipped off the lights, Zinger looked back and grinned.

"Your wish is my command."

 

SATURDAY

The following morning cruel sunlight stabbed its way into Zinger's room and burned past the closed eyelids of the Beta Omicron Iota Zeta's official alumnus chaperone. The older alum groaned at the harsh light and tried to roll away from it, but found himself caught up in something, making movement difficult. If he was wrapped in sheets or blankets on the guest room's bed, they felt like no bedding he'd ever encountered. As he tried to sit up, a mallet pounded into his forehead. At least that's what it felt like. He fell back upon the bed, moaning.

Mitorpid had never been able to hold his liquor, even as a frat boy. There was no reason he should have expected anything different now that he was an adult. As he lay there, unable to focus, caught up in the bizarre bed dressings, he felt a strange headiness wash over him. He was unaccustomed to the spins setting in the morning after, but resigned himself to unpredictable effects of his first binge in ages. At least he would have, had the unusual sensation of lightheadedness, of floating, not receded as quickly as it had come. And it had taken his hangover headache with it.

Mitorpid blinked. He felt much better all of a sudden. In fact, he felt pretty incredible. The aches and pains that came with "the morning after the night before" were happily absent. Mitorpid sighed, enjoying the refreshing feeling. Must be the imported beer, he decided.

The man tried to sit up again, and again was confounded by whatever it was he was wrapped up in. He gave himself another push forward and this time was able to sit up on the bed, which now seemed a great deal larger than he recalled when he collapsed on it last night. Another odd thing, the sheets seemed to rise up with him, still entwined around his limbs and torso. He decided that another good push and a step forward would get him up off the bed and free of the sheets. He had no recollection of ever thrashing about in his sleep, but he could divine no other way that he could have put himself in this situation.

Mitorpid took a valiant step forward to carry himself off the bed. He practically flew. His perceptions were completely off, headache-free or not. The bulk of his body felt reduced to a fraction of its weight, and the man nearly stumbled clear across the room to bash into a dresser cluttered with discarded bottle caps and neglected textbooks that had been used as coasters. He tried to step backward, away from the smelly dresser, but lost his balance due to his strangely lightweight body and the bedding which remained wrapped about him. Something was caught on his feet now—it felt like small weights or blocks of wood—and he tripped over his own feet and with an embarrassing thump wound up face-down on the floor.

Mitorpid was glad that no one from the fraternity was there to see him. He had hoped that the night before he had provided some air of maturity and responsible supervision. Well, before he got sloshed with the frat president, anyway. With a groan of irritation, the man pulled himself up from the floor (and he thought the dresser had smelled funny…) and decided to make his way to a mirror, so he could see exactly how he was caught up in his blankets, or whatever they were, and get himself free.

Mitorpid shuffled over to the wall behind the door, where he thought he had seen a full-length mirror as he stumbled about. He must have been mistaken. What was on the wall there was an oversized poster. It looked to be a photo of a college kid, dressed up like a clown or something. There was no logo or any writing on the poster, no funny caption or cartoon dialogue balloon attributed to the lost-looking lad represented there. Mitorpid couldn't for the life of him figure out what it could have stood for. Probably from some contemporary teen movie, he assumed. Now where was that mirror? Mitorpid put his knuckles to his eyes, trying to rub the last of the sleep away so he could get his bearings.

And the goofy kid on the poster rubbed his eyes at the same time.

Mitorpid froze. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his face. Same with the poster boy. Staring back at him, a look of astonishment on his face, was an unruly-haired, wide-eyed kid of eighteen. To be precise, it was a dead ringer for Mr. Mitorpid at age eighteen. The clown suit he wore was identical to the suit that Mitorpid wore for his chaperone duties the previous evening. Only on this kid's smaller frame, they hung on him like the costume of an old Vaudeville performer. Hell, they were big enough for him to sleep in. Uh-oh.

Mitorpid eyed the kid staring back at him silently. He began breathing hard, and so did the young frosh. He gazed down at the lad's feet and saw a pair of scuffed dress shoes that were clearly too large for him. A tie hung around the boy's neck like a pennant, and if not for his healthy complexion and fresh-faced appearance, he would have looked like a refugee. Mitorpid slowly brought a hand to his face, to wipe his brow. He always sweated these days when under stress. Not only did he not find any sweat on his forehead, but the lad on the poster once again mimicked his movements.

Mitorpid moved forward ever-so-slowly and reached out to the boy, who did the same for him. Their fingers were just about to make contact when there was a dull thunk as skin impacted with glass. He'd found the mirror.

His shrill scream ripped through the entire house.

Down in the common room, Zinger grunted to wakefulness, dimly aware of what sounded like a car alarm coming from upstairs. Had someone actually gotten a car on the top floor? He scratched his head and as his senses aligned themselves, he realized that what he was hearing was the girlish scream of a terrified freshman. He smiled.

"Ah. The new pledge is up."

 

"ZINGER!!"

The newly-young Mitorpid scrambled on thin-muscled legs out of the fraternity president's room and stumbled frantically into the hallway at the top of the stairs. Tripping on his own shoes, his pants tangling around his ankles, Mitorpid had to grip the railing overlooking the main foyer to keep himself from falling flat on his face and tumbling head over heels down the stairs. "Zinger! HELP!!" His once-again post-pubescent voice squeaked with a pitch he had not heard from it for ages. He was not sure he liked it.

There was little response to his cries of panic. Beyond the random grumbles from those brothers still trying to sleep off the effects of the previous evening and a few doors slammed angrily against the noise, the eighteen-year-old Mitorpid was left with nowhere to turn. "Zinger! You have to help me! Zinger? Somebody!"

A distant voice, coming from behind one of the doors nearby, hollered back, "Shut up!"

Mitorpid whirled around to see where the voice had come from, decided he didn't give a shit if it offered him no assistance, and opted to seek out his host of the previous evening on his own. He dashed down the stairs, momentarily thrown off-guard by the fact that his legs felt like they were filled with coiled springs, his feet like they were made of elastic foam. His arms flailed about him, trying to free himself of the enormous suit jacket as if they were hyperactive garden snakes. He had been out of practice in moving about in a body this size for more than two decades. That could explain his headlong pitch down the stairs.

"Zinger! Zinger, where are you?! Zing-GWULLPHH!!"

Like a circus tumbler on muscle relaxants, the young Mitorpid flipped end over end down the stairs, whacking his limber body against wall and railing, bouncing off the stairs, to finally richocet against the floor where he hit a large throw rug—which he rode sliding across the tiles to slam, upside-down, into the front door.

From above stairs, a door was yanked opened and the voice came again, "I said shut UP! God!" The request was punctuated by the door slamming closed again.

Mitorpid's heart was racing. He had just fallen down a flight of stairs and smashed into an old oak door. Were his limbs broken? Had he punctured a rib? He never kept in very good shape—why was merely breathing hard? And that was due mostly to panic. Mitorpid clambered to feet, freeing himself of the giant throw, astonished that his only visible damage was that his suit had gotten fairly scuffed and dirty. There was at least one advantage to being back in a bony eighteen-year-old's body again, it seemed.

Putting that body to good use, Mitorpid began to race through the house in search of Zinger. He hoped that the frat president would know what had happened to him, and as such, what to do to fix it. Mitorpid ran, his shoes clomping against the floor with panicked slaps, from the foyer into sitting room. He nearly passed Zinger, who at this point had propped himself up on one elbow and was rubbing both his bangs and the sleep from his eyes.

"Looking for someone?" he mumbled, stretching.

Mitorpid skidded to a halt, turned to look at Zinger, almost continued his frantic race on to another room, then looked back again, finally registering that this was the man he'd been looking for. "Zinger?!" He wanted to be certain. He'd experienced too much strangeness already this morning.

Zinger nodded. "Take it down a notch, willya? It's too early yet for ladylike shrieks of panic."

"It's got to be close to eleven o'clock!" Mitorpid said, his voice high and grating. He yanked up his left arm to verify his estimate of the time. The watch flew off his tiny wrist and shot through the air. Zinger caught it, more by reflex than alertness, just before it hit his face. Slowly, he turned the watch around and read its dial.

"10:47. That's like, I dunno, five in the morning, frat time. Especially post-party." Zinger held the timepiece up. "Nice watch, though."

"You get one after twenty years with the company."

Zinger grimaced, held the watch away from him as if it were a leaky speciman bag holding rat feces, and dropped it onto the floor.

Zinger looked up at the panicked freshmen in the oversized suit. "So, what'cha need at this ungodly hour, Torpdeo?"

Mitorpid blinked. "What do I need?" He waved his hands in front of himself. "Look at me! I'm a kid!! What the hell happened? What's going on?!" Mitorpid's voice had grown more shrill as his anxiety peaked.

"Volume!" Zinger said, hands to his ears.

Zinger then held up a hand as Mitorpid began to speak again, halting another stream of panicked babble. Zinger leaned forward, and curled a finger inward. C'mere. Mitorpid did so, his ragged breathing now right in Zinger's face. Quietly, Zinger whispered his explanation.

"I slipped you a magic beer."

Zinger flopped back against the sofa and grinned. That was all he seemed prepared to say. Mitorpid was incredulous.

"Are you serious?? You gave me a magic beer that turned me back into a college kid? That's IT?!"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now??"

Zinger looked at the boy in the baggy suit as if he had a screw loose. "You live your new life, man! Look at you! All eighteen and full of energy and potential—God knows you got a set of lungs on you. And resilient—! Helluva pratfall down those stairs and you just hop up and skip along your way. Impressive." Mitorpid just stared back at him, stunned. Zinger tried another tack. He sat up, starting again.

"You, my boy, are Torpedo."

"I never liked that nickname."

"Too late. Ya shouldn't have told it to me when you were drunk."

"On magic beer, apparently!"

"Don't interrupt. You are Torpedo. Somewhat high-strung freshman pledge to the house of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta. I have pulled rank and already approved you, due to your status as Legacy, since someone else in your family pledged here back in the '80s. No one needs to now that it was you. Oh yeah, and I am officially taking responsibility for you." Zinger spread his arms wide. "I have adopted you, Torpedo."

Mitorpid gawked at Zinger, not having the faintest idea what that was supposed to mean.

"You are now my Little Brother," Zinger smiled.

Mitorpid made a choking sound. "Are you insane? You can't just produce some kid out of thin air who's never been heard of before, never been seen, who just emerged from your bedroom one morning and expect to pass him off as your Little Brother pledge legacy! People will ask questions!"

Zinger snapped his fingers a few times and raised his voice to the room. "Yo, everyone. This is Torpedo. He just emerged from my bedroom. He's pledging. He's legacy. He's my new Little Brother."

All the guys coming and going as they rose, zombie-like, and those still flounced semi-conscious around the room each responded with equal lack of enthusiasm and total acceptance.

"Hey." "Hi." "Right." Good to have you." "Welcome aboard." "Hello." "Whatever." "Torp. Hey."

Zinger looked at Torpedo. "Next question?"

Torpedo stood there, breathing heavily, the reality of his situation beginning to sink in. He looked at Zinger with wide, pained eyes. "How—how could you just do this to me? Just do this—change who I am without even consulting me??"

Zinger scoffed. "Dude, this IS who you are! Why do you think I did it? You, with the flowery reminiscences and the little handwritten notes and the fat checks! And who the fuck else carries around a photo of their pledge class in their wallet??" Zinger's usually cavalier expression became serious.

"Be honest. If you were given the chance to live out your one greatest dream, your heart's deepest desire, what would it be?"

Torpedo just stared again, but as his eyes indicated some inner focus, he looked down at the floor. Zinger saw the wheels turning within the head of the wild-haired boy.

"Honesty. Brother to brother, now."

Torpedo sighed. "To go back and relive the times I spent as a member of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta."

Zinger was on his feet. "Ta-DAA! And here you are! Welcome back, little man!" Zinger ruffled Torpedo's hair and picked him up in a bear hug and spun him around.

"Okay, okay! Let me down!"

"Dude, you weigh like, 90 pounds or something. Seriously."

"Yeah, well, part of that is this suit."

"Good point. It's time for a certain young pledge to get a makeover. You and I must away to the mall."

Torpedo shrugged his shoulders within his oversized suit and shuffled his feet with their large shoes. "I can hardly leave the house like this."

Zinger nodded. "Good point." He took Torpedo by the shoulders and spun him around. "Kitchen's that way. Go make me up a protein shake, maybe grab yourself some cereal or something. I'll be right back with some proper attire."

Torpedo made his way into the kitchen, trying to ignore both the odd feeling of his suit hanging heavily on his shrunken body as well as the idea that he had been returned to his twinkie prime by way of a magic party cup of beer. He shuffled past a snoozing brother who had passed out at the table the night before, a cold bowl of nachos now hardened like plastic to the side of his face, an open bottle of warm flat beer in his hand. Torpedo draped his suit coat over the snoring brother's shoulders and set to work on Zinger's breakfast request.

Concentrating on the normalcy of preparing a quick breakfast was doing wonders to keep Torpedo from freaking out of his mind. Mixing up the ingredients for the protein shake proved little challenge, as, ironically, the beverage was his original big brother's preferred day starter. (But now there were so many more flavors! He found that the old ones always tasted like sand and paste.) While mixing up the shake, Torpedo caught his reflection in the greasy surface of the microwave. He still could not believe his eyes. He was eighteen again. Eighteen! Twenty years ago, he thought of himself as scrawny, unattractive, mawkish. But now, with the benefit of two decades of hindsight…

"Who the hell are you?"

Torpedo turned around and saw two of the brothers, shirtless and barefoot, shuffling into the kitchen in search of food. "Oh, hi! I'm… uh, Torpedo. I… ah… I'm Zinger's Little Brother."

The two brothers brightened up. "Oh yeah? When did you get here?" One of them leaned over the counter and smiled at him.

"Um, just this morning, I guess."

The second brother reached over and ruffled Torpedo's curly hair. He wished guys would stop doing that. "Well, you're a cute little thing, man. Most guys 'round here have a bit more meat on 'em, but you're making this geek thing work for you."

What the hell was this about? Torpedo offered a weak smile. "Thanks, I think." He then retrieved the boxes of cereal he'd discovered in the cupbard and set them on the counter. "Breakfast, my lads? I've found a variety of sugary victuals for your morning gormandizing." He shook one box. "This one appears to have a prize in it."

The brothers suddenly backed away from the counter. "Let's go out for breakfast."

As they rounded the corner, they passed Zinger. "Hey, you guys meet Torpedo?"

They grunted their replies. "Yup." "Oh, yeah."

Zinger stuck his head in the room. "Adjusting?"

"Starting to," Torpedo conceded. "As well as can be, considering." He offered the shake to Zinger. "I hope strawberry-mango's okay."

"Dandy." Zinger stepped into the room and crossed his feet at the ankles. It was clear he was hiding something behind his back. "Now, after I down my shake and you have your…" he craned his head to read the box, "…Choco-Crunchies, we shall depart. But it is not possible that I can allow you, a self-respecting pledge of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta, to ever be seen out of doors in that hideous dogshit brown suit."

"It's not all that hideous," Torpedo said, feeling a bit hurt.

"Dude. Hideous. Trust me."

"Well, what am I supposed to wear?"

Zinger smiled widely. "Ohh, Tor-peeee-do, guess what I found??"

Zinger brought his concealed hand out into the open, and there, dangling from a hanger on his finger, was an electric blue spandex bodysuit with attached bright red cape. Red boots, trunks, and a yellow belt hung from the hanger's hook. A very distinctive emblem across the chest screamed the wearer's name.

Torpedo's eyes bulged. "Oh, no way."

Zinger squinted his eyes, nodding. "Way."

 

"Vvzzzzhhhhwwheeeeeeee—!"

Torpedo trotted down the sidewalk in his superhero suit, arms extended before him in the brilliant sunlight like a grounded Superman, zigzagging back and forth in an off-kilter flight pattern, his cape fluttering behind him.

Students who already crowded the walkways, on their way to weekend classes, the library, or wherever else they needed to go, stepped aside to clear a path for the wild-haired Pledge Boy as he zipped past them, just slow enough for all to see his mock flight, certainly slow enough for them to hear his low-budget sound effects.

"Zzzhhooooooooowhmm!!"

The male students laughed at him, the girls giggled and pointed. A few girls whistled and cheered him on. "To the rescue, superhero!"

Zinger drove along the street, observing the reduced speed limit for the first time he could remember so he could observe his new pledge. Torpedo was zooming along much like his namesake, a scrawny blue comic book hero, following the directive not of some cosmic overseer or kind otherworldly mentor, but of his frat president. His mission (he had no choice but to accept it) was to put on the extremely snug-fitting Pledge Boy costume—no underpants, thank-you very much—and "fly" his way from the Beta Omicron house all the way to the mall. Up, up, and away.

Zinger was having a bit of trouble keeping his eyes on the road, mesmerized as he was by the sheer relish with which his Little Brother zoomed along. Torpedo jumped up upon the raised front lawn of the Delta Delta Zeta sorority house, ran along the length of grass there, added a full spin around at the halfway mark, then launched himself off the three-foot high brickwork at the lawn's edge.

"PSSHHhhhhhhhhh-zshoOOO!"

His cape flapped above him as he descended, arms held upward dramatically, until his boots hit the sidewalk again.

"Thwoom!!"

And he was off and running again. He looked like a complete idiot. And he was either loving every minute of it, or he was the greatest actor Zinger had ever seen. Pledge Boy greeted people as he passed. "Good morning, citizens!" And paused to strike a dramatic pose before a debutante who had dropped her books. "Miss! Do you require rescuing?"

The bespectacled girl looked up at the boy in tights with his hands on his hips, whom she outweighed by at least twenty pounds, and frowned. "No. I've got it, thanks."

"Very well! A good day to you, milady! Away! Zshzshzshwoooooosshh!"

By the time they reached the end of the fraternity neighborhood, Zinger realized that it was entirely possible that Torpedo could insist on staying in the suit and pursuing his mission of humiliating himself all day. As Zinger was already close to peeing himself over the spectacle, he decided that possibility needed to be nipped in the bud.

"Hey, Pledge Boy!"

Torpedo stopped in his dramatic zooming and whooshing and spun to face Zinger's car. He stood up straight and tall, then saluted. "Yes! Yes, Commander Big Brother! Pledge Boy hears and obeys!"

Zinger stuck his head out the window. "How's about you put on a little super speed and get your ass to the mall before we all need another shot of magic beer to make us young again, huh?"

"Yes! Indeed, sir! Time is a factor! Awaaaay!!"

Torpedo leapt off the curb and dashed across the street, arms thrust before him, flying his way along at increased speed. Zinger hollered after him.

"The OTHER way!"

"Yes!" Torpedo cried. "Of course! In the opposite direction—away!!"

Zinger shook his head, waiting for intersection traffic to clear as the lad in tights he was to follow was already a block ahead of him on the sidewalk. "Yesterday he could hardly move across the room, today he's ready to save the world." Zinger smiled. He couldn't help himself. "Damn, I wish I'd thought to bring a video camera."

At the mall, Zinger needed a bit more time than he'd anticipated finding a parking space. By the time he found Pledge Boy, waiting at one of the mall entrances, the scrawny lad was sitting on the ground, head slumped between raised knees, shaking slightly. He looked as if he might be crying.

Zinger became nervous. He was afraid of this. The golden keg was intended as a physical makeover for students, a confidence builder, an offer of freedom and acieved potential. It had never been used to reverse someone's age. Perhaps poor old Mitorpid had finally cracked under the pressure, his mind unable to cope with the transformation. He seemed to be loving it on the way to the mall, but that may have been a final bit of mania before crashing into depression, or worse, dementia. Zinger stood over the costumed boy, uncertain of what to do next. He spoke softly.

"Uh… Torpedo? You okay down there?"

Torpedo threw his head back, revealing that his eyes were indeed moist with tears, but he was far from having a breakdown. He was laughing. He was laughing hysterically.

"Let's do that again!" he finally gasped. "God, that was fun!"

Zinger grabbed Torpedo by the arm and easily hauled him to his feet. "Later, Pledge Boy. Now you need a new outfit. You can't stay in the superhero suit forever."

"Aww, why not??" Torpedo snickered.

Zinger put his hand firmly on Torpedo's back, pushing hard against his cape and sent him through the doors. "March."

Zinger walked alongside his goofy little companion to better lead him to the store where he wanted him to go. Pledge Boy, caped champion of incoming freshman everywhere, garnered quite a few amused glances and even a few hoots and whistles from some attractive ladies.

"I'd rather those hoots came from some hot guys," Torpedo confided.

"Get in there," Zinger said, pushing the lad into a clothing store.

All around them were the latest styles and sizes in pants, shirts, shoes, and accessories. Black and white posters lined the walls featuring photographs of hunky young men bearing their smooth chests while showing off the latest hundred dollar jeans. The clerk noticed the duo immediately. They kind of stood out. The clerk stepped up to greet the two of them with a bright smile and a glint in his eye.

"May I help you?" he said. He had an extensively-gelled head of red hair and his name tag identified him as "Rick". His eyes bore the slightest leer and his eagerness set off both brothers' gaydar at level 8.9. Torpedo knew that ol' Rick had to be cruising Zinger.

"My new Little Brother here could use a bit of a makeover," Zinger said.

"So I was noticing," Rick said, grinning. "Not that there aren't certain attributes in your favor in regard to what you have on… Pledge Boy." Rick's eyes stared directly at Torpedo's crotch.

Torpedo looked down at the red trunks over his tights and the big drawback to the superhero outfit came back to him immediately. His package was clearly, blatantly outlined. "My danglers!" Torpedo's hands shot over his privates and he blushed as he covered himself. Zinger stifled a laugh.

Rick reached around Torpedo's back and guided him into the store. "Allow me to show you to the changing rooms and we'll get you out of uniform and into something a bit more current."

"I'll go pick something out," Zinger offered.

"You do that," Rick said, but he was already leading the embarrassed Torpedo across the floor. "And what's your real name, Pledge Boy?"

"I-I'm not sure if I should reveal my secret identity," he gulped. Rick sure was cute, and his hand on Torpedo's back felt very warm and firm. Much to his surprise, Torpdeo started to get hard.

"Go on, you can trust me," Rick smiled.

"Um, my… my Big Brother calls me Torpedo."

"I'll bet he does." Rick unlocked one of the dressing room doors, which resembled an oversized window shutter. The door did not quite reach the floor and was a good six inches shy of the top of the changing room. Rick stepped inside and gestured for Torpedo to follow.

"Uh… shouldn't we wait for the clothes that Zinger's picking out?"

"Well, we ought to get you out of your super suit so you're all ready to jump into whatever civilian clothes he brings over," Rick suggested.

A thought occurred to Torpedo as he looked into Rick's ice blue eyes. "Over there… at the front of the store…you-you weren't flirting with Zinger, were you?"

Rick slowly shook his head. Then he reached over, grabbed Torpedo's cape, and yanked him into the changing room. Torpedo let out a "Whuulp!" and the door slammed shut behind him.

Torpedo was already being held face first against the wall as the eager store clerk unzipped the freshman from behind. "Whoa! Um, okay… do all your customers get this kind of attention?"

"Only the unbelievably cute ones," Rick said, spinning Torpedo back around to face him.

"Really? You-you think I'm cute?"

"Don't tell me," Rick said, "modesty is your super power."

"A-actually, I've kind of just recently got this age-reversal thing going on… HO-boy!"

Rick pulled Torpedo's costume down to his waist in one quick tug. Torpedo had never experienced anything like this, not even when he was 18 the first time around. He was both frightened and excited, and he loved the fact that his tummy was now so flat. "Man," he thought for a second, "all anxious and leaned back like this, I can actually see my ribs. Cool!" He didn't have time to dwell on his renewed physique (or lack thereof) for long.

"Quite the swimmer's build you have," the clerk said, practically drooling.

"I-I had some recent weight loss success—," Torpedo stammered.

Before commenting further, the clerk grasped Torpedo's yellow belt and yanked down his red trunks, taking the blue tights underneath with them. Torpedo's very erect, throbbing penis popped free, slapping against his flat stomach, standing at attention and ready for action. The clerk was already dropping to his knees. "I can see why your boyfriend calls you Torpedo."

"H-hey!" Torpedo said, trying to back away, but having nowhere to go but against the wall. "Wow, what're you—omigod, that's really—he's-he's not my boyfriend—"

"Good." The clerk placed his supple lips over Torpedo's cock and began to suck like a champion. Torpedo's eyes fluttered and his hands shot out to brace himself against the close walls of the changing room. He felt his toes curl inside his red superhero boots, and his jaw dropped open, leaving him to gawk and gasp like a lobotomy patient.

"OHHH…MY!!" Torpedo's head flopped backward to clunk against the wall. He didn't feel it. All he felt was the incredibly skilled tongue of the clothing store clerk. The clerk had obviously done this before. His tongue massaged Torpedo's shaft while his lips and inside cheeks sucked with considerable force. Torpedo never felt even a hint of teeth. This guy was good.

Torpedo squirmed against the wall, his neck craning a bit, his fingers clawing at the smooth surface of the walls, trying to grab hold of something to brace himself. He had never in his forty years felt anything as intoxicating and intensely pleasurable as this.

"I-I-I c-can't believe th-this is ha-hap-happening—!"

"Believe it, sexy," the clerk mumbled around Torpedo's dick, which was now throbbing inside the young man's mouth.

The clerk slid his skillful mouth up and down Torpedo's shaft, tracing the underside with his tongue, then paying special attention to the head, licking and trailing his tongue across it, then sliding slowly, haltingly, back down. Torpedo thought he was going to pass out from the pleasure. Why had he never thought to go shopping for clothes back when he was in college the first time??

The clerk had begun to slide his mouth up and down Torpedo's cock in a steady rhythm. As he moved up and down, his tongue continued to do wonderful things up, down, and all around the sensitive skin of Torpedo's dick. Torpedo was gasping for air, now wondering if he might suffocate before he died from pleasure. He stumbled backward by one step, pressing himself tighter against the wall. The clerk did not want any space between them, and reached around and grabbed Torpedo's ass tightly. Torpedo yelped and found himself thrust fully into the clerk's hungry mouth.

"Huuh-UUHHH-uhhlllh!" Torpedo was now gasping for air as if he were drowning. He knew he wasn't going to last much longer. His skin was tingling, his every muscle tensing. The undeniable buzz was building in his loins and he feared his balls would pop off on their own if it kept increasing in intensity. It was all he could do to form words of warning.

"I-I-I c-c-can-can't h-h-hhol-hold it-! P-please—you got-gotta let me g-g-go before-before-before I—!"

The clerk clutched Torpedo's ass tighter and his lips applied more suction to the freshman's plumped seven inches. Torpedo was not going to pull out. He wasn't able to. Torpedo clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tight. He was beginning to have what he was sure was an out of body experience. His sensations disconnected from the rest of his body, and all that existed for him was the incredible, indescribable pleasure on his dick and the torrent of intense sensations it was sending up into his spinning mind.

"I'm gonna! I'm gonna! I'm gonna! Oh my goodness! Oh, HELL yes!!!!"

Needless to say, Torpedo shot his load (and what a load it was) into the clerk's mouth, who swallowed down every drop happily. It took nearly a minute and a half for him to get it all. As he drained Torpedo of his boy juices, Torpedo felt as if all his bones had been replaced by rubber bands. He began to slide down the wall, and he would have, had the clerk not planted a palm against the frosh's bare chest and held him in place.

Torpedo's head flopped to the side and he swore that he could feel his juices being drained in a steady flow into the clerk's talented mouth and down his throat. Torpedo was smiling wider than he ever had in his life. He couldn't help it. He muttered half-aloud, "Up, up and away…"

When the clerk had drunk his fill, he looked up at the exhausted and glowing college boy. "Wow. That was the most amazing load. When was the last time you got blown?"

Torpedo swallowed, trying to catch his breath, swallowed again, took a deep breath and finally held up one finger. "This… would be the first time."

"Well," the clerk grinned devilishly, "welcome to the family."

The shuttered door swung open and Zinger stood there, selected clothes draped over one arm, looking down at the scene. "Well, now! I wondered what all the commotion was in here." He made a sincere frowny face, then amended, "No, I didn't wonder. I pretty much knew."

Torpedo was panicked. The clerk seemed merely amused. "Oh my God! Zinger! Big Brother! I can explain! Oh, God!"

"No, I think I can figure it out by myself. You now, it is so hard to find a decent full-service clothing store these days. How fortunate that we happened upon one on our very first brotherly outing."

The clerk stood up and departed the changing room looking far more pleased with himself than embarrassed. He smiled at Zinger, but turned back to Torpedo, who was now slumped on the floor, tights and trunks around his ankles, and said, "Be sure to call me if you need anything else." He then held a hand to his ear, thumb and pinky finger miming a telephone and mouthed the words, "Call me."

Zinger watched the clerk walk away then turned back to Torpedo, who sat there with his tights and cape bunched up underneath him, panting like a marathon runner. "Something tells me you didn't see much action as a corporate accountant, did you?"

Torpdeo shook his head. He was still smiling. He may well have been stoned, by the look on his face.

Zinger looked down and saw that Torpedo was still raging hard. Zinger scrunched his brow. "Say… that wasn't, by any chance—?"

Torpedo nodded vigorously. "I just popped my cherry, and you were here to see it!"

Zinger's eyes widened. "Torpedo, buddy, I'd say that we got to you none too soon."

Torpedo nodded happily. "I can't believe he called me sexy!"

Zinger noted that his Little Brother's rod was finally beginning to sway a bit as it slowly softened. "Dude, you've got no pubes."

"I shave."

"Okay, T.M.I.! Here," and he tossed the clothes at Torpedo. "Put these on."

 

Zinger sat outside the changing room on an uncomfortable chair, Torpedo's Pledge Boy costume folded in his lap. The booth had been mighty quiet for several minutes now. Zinger was about to ask if his Little Brother needed any assistance with his unfamiliar new wardrobe, when Torpedo spoke, softly.

"Zinger?"

"Yeah, Little Bro?"

"Sorry."

Zinger turned back toward the changing room. "For what?"

"For that. Just now. With the clerk. I didn't mean to… I hadn't expected…"

Zinger sat up straight. "Dude! Don't apologize! You scored. It's a good thing. And if you ask me, it was pretty overdue, man." Zinger turned back toward the main room and mumbled, "Nearly half a fucking century overdue."

"I've never experienced anything like that before," Torpedo said. "Not ever."

Zinger laughed. "Well, you can only pop your cherry once, little man."

Torpedo stuck his head over the top of the booth's door. "No, not that. I mean, I've never had anyone come on to me before. Not when I was kid, not when I was an adult. It just doesn't happen to me."

Zinger chewed his lips between his teeth, debating whether or not to come clean. he opted for honesty. "It's part of the beer."

Torpedo paused. "It's what?"

Zinger turned to look him in the eye. "It's a side effect of the golden keg. Guys are gonna find you pretty…," he searched for the word, "…alluring."

Torpedo's face fell. "So it's wasn't me. I'm really not… even made young again, I'm just a big…ohhh, man."

Zinger stood up. "Hey, it doesn't last forever. It's temporary. It's not like you're going to walk around oozing gay pheromones for the rest of your life. It fades, like within a day or two, tops. (I think.)"

"Then everyone will see what a puny loser I am."

"Hey!" Zinger snapped. "Nobody talks about my Little Brother that way. Not even you, kiddo. You are one awesome little dude. That's what people will see… if you let them. God, no wonder you never got laid before."

Torpedo wasn't listening. "It explains what happened in the kitchen this morning."

"If you really want to wipe out the attraction effect on leave it all to your own charm, it can be done easily enough. I was already planning on…"

Both college boys stopped talking simultaneously.

"What happened in the kitchen?" Zinger asked.

"How do I erase the attraction effect?" Torpedo asked.

"You first," Zinger said.

"No, you were about to say something, I interrupted you."

"Too late. I want to hear what you were saying first."

"Zinger, just tell me—"

"Torpedo, don't disobey your Big Brother. Tell me what happened in the kitchen."

"Zinger—"

"As your fraternity president, I am giving you a direct order. Spill."

Torpedo sighed. "A couple of the guys came into the kitchen and it was, like, they were coming on to me."

Zinger's interest was piqued. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But then they stopped."

Zinger recalled the two brothers departing the kitchen as he entered, both of them seeming less than interested in the new pledge. "Really. Why, do you think?"

Torpedo bit his lower lip, his eyes looking upward with recall. "It may have been because I called them 'my lads'. That or my use of the word gormandizing."

"Whoa! You must never, never refer to ANY of the brothers, or anyone on campus as "my lads" or "son" or "rapscallions" or "whippersnappers" or anything that an OLD person would say! You are eighteen now, Torpedo. Say it with me. You are eighteen."

Torpedo recited, "I am eighteen."

"And it is 2007, not 1907."

"Alright, I get it."

"Say it like you mean it."

Torpedo smiled. "And it is 2007, not 1907."

"Good boy. You decent?"

Torpedo wasn't sure what Zinger meant at first, then looked down at himself. "Oh, yeah. I'm dressed."

"Then let's have a look at you."

Torpedo pushed open the changing room door and stood there, feeling a bit embarrassed. It was odd to him that he felt more at ease dressed up as a superhero, exposed danglers notwithstanding. Torpedo stood there dressed in a colorful Hawaiian shirt, white spandex shorts with red double stripes on the outside legs, and a pair of turquoise soled flip-flops. "I feel kind of stupid," he admitted.

"You look good, little bro!" Zinger beamed. He grabbed Torpedo and spun him around to have a look at himself in the mirror bolted to the outside of the changing room. "Here," Zinger said, standing behind Torpedo and unbuttoning his shirt. "Undo the shirt, let it hang open."

Underneath the Hawaiian shirt was a designer cotton/lycra ribbed wife beater tee of cool gray, which hugged Torpedo's slender frame fairly well. If the curly-headed freshman looked cute in the superhero costume, he looked fucking adorable now.

"I don't know about this," Torpedo said, shifting his feet. "I've never worn flip-flops before."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of stuff you've never done, apparently." Zinger snatched at bits of Torpedo's hair, fluffing and skewing it a bit. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't try it." Zinger was now adjusting his Little Brother's shirt collar.

"Hey, stop it!"

Zinger stepped back, nodding with approval. "Well, we can all be happy that it's not brown."

"No," Torpedo agreed. "It's really red. And yellow. And blue. And neon green. And… and… Zinger, I have pineapples on me!"

"Tonight's event is a luau theme. You'll fit in great!" Zinger grabbed Torpedo again and guided him toward the checkout counter. "Let's get these and go."

"You forgot to get me underwear!" Torpedo protested.

"No, I didn't."

"Oh God," Torpedo groaned. "I'm commando. I'm a little scrawny twink who gushes pheromones and I've got no underwear on."

"Stop whining. You can't sell it if you don't advertise."

 

At the counter, Zinger began plucking price tags off of Torpedo and handing them over to the clerk for scanning. Zinger commented that the antitheft devices were still attached too. They devices were unlocked, and for the first time, Torpedo was noticing the amounts listed on the price tags.

"These are all really expensive. How are you paying for this?"

"I'm not. You are." He waved the wallet of Mr. Mitorpid. "I took it out of your poop-brown suit white you were superheroizing yourself." Zinger flipped open the wallet and fingered a collapsible string of clear plastic sleeves. "You sure have a lot of credit cards."

Torpedo snatched them away from him. There was a different clerk manning the register, a dark-haired, foppish guy with thick glasses. The name on his tag was "Preston". He watched the exchange with curious eyes. "Will this be cash, or—?"

Torpedo handed him his Discover card. "Use this."

The clerk looked at it doubtfully. "Gold card?"

Zinger grinned. "He comes from money."

The clerk frowned. "I'll need to check the signature."

Torpedo snatched up a flyer from a small stack beside the register, grabbed a pen off the counter and hastily scribbled his name. The clerk looked at it skeptically, then saw that the signatures from card and brochure were indeed identical. If the kid was a forger, he was not only good, he could write them quickly. "Hm," the clerk mused. "Can you tell me the last four digits on your car—"

"4572," Torpedo rattled off.

The clerk looked at Torpedo, then looked at the card. He flipped it over. "Do you by any chance know your three-digit security code?"

"693." Torpedo stared at him, feeling strangely offended. The clerk hesitated.

"If you need cash, I'll just take it to an ATM and come back with the money, but I'm not about to recite my PIN."

"Meeyow," he sniped. The clerk swiped the card, which cleared easily. He stared at the "accepted" readout from the register as if the machine had just insulted his mother.

"You don't have a lot of pictures in here," Zinger said. He had retrieved the billfold while Torpedo was arguing with the snooty clerk. "Who are these two? Grandparents?"

Torpedo glanced at the old, worn photo of an elderly couple. "No, those are my parents." Zinger nodded, remembering his Little Brother's true age. "They died a long time ago."

"Hey, I'm sorry, little guy," Zinger said.

"Me, too."

"These your kids?"

Torpedo laughed. He knew what photos Zinger was looking at. The clerk stared, wondering how the older boy could ask his junior such a question. Torpedo noticed the leering clerk's interest.

"Hey, mind your own business, prissy."

The clerk shoved the receipt and the pen back at Torpedo. "Sign here," he huffed.

Torpedo did, and the clerk snatched up the receipt and held it beside the card, then beside the brochure. He held up all three together, studying them. Three for three.

As Torpedo took back the card, ignoring the clerk's perfunctory well-wishes, he answered Zinger. "Those are the kids of people I work with, neighbors. As if you didn't know I didn't have kids."

Zinger made a "whoopsie" face and handed Torpedo back his wallet. Torpedo's eyes bugged out. "Are you kidding me? You really didn't know if I had any children? If I was married, even?"

"Didn't think to ask." He held his hands up. "Oops."

Torpedo's head began to spin. "You mean to say that you actually slipped me a—" he lowered his voice to an angry whisper, "—a magic beer, reduced me in age, and you had no idea what I'd be leaving behind?? What the hell were you thinking?!"

Zinger became serious, something that did not happen all that often. "I was thinking that I had finally found the one guy in all the world who gets it. Who understands the joy of the house, the loyalty it creates, and… and…" he took a deep breath, licked his lips. "And I thought I had finally found the perfect Little Brother. The one who could someday take my place as president of the brotherhood."

Torpedo looked into Zinger's eyes. His words, though rushed and unprepared, were quite sincere. Torpedo gulped. "You mean that?"

Zinger made an awkward gesture with his hands. "Well… yeah."

Torpedo threw his arms around the taller boy and hugged him. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Thank-you."

Zinger hesitated at first, but then returned the hug of his Little Brother. He had indeed made the right choice. He patted Torpedo on the back, and held his head as the smaller boy held onto him. Their embrace was interrupted by a loud whisper from the back of the store. Zinger turned his head to see Rick, the red-headed fellatio expert, waving at Torpedo.

"Psst! Pssstt!!"

"Hoover's trying to get your attention," Zinger smirked.

Torpedo let go of his Big Brother and looked back at the excited young man who took his virginity. The redhead made the telephone gesture again and then held both hands in front of his face, as if gripping a thick log, and began shoving his arms back and forth before his gaping mouth.

"Come on," Torpedo said. "Let's go before I take him up on it."

 

When the duo reentered the house, they were still talking. They hadn't stopped since they left the mall. "So you don't have any other relatives besides your late parents?" Zinger asked.

"None to speak of," Torpedo admitted. "I have an older sister. She more or less disowned me when I came out."

"When was that?"

"Around seven years ago. We haven't spoken since. She even got an unlisted number. I… don't really have any family."

Zinger placed a caring hand on Torpedo's shoulder. "You do now." Zinger fished around in his pocket and pulled out a small digital camera . "In fact… let's commemorate the moment." He threw his arm around Torpedo and held the camera out in front of them. There was a brief flash, and then Zinger turned the camera around, showing the captured image to his Little Brother. There they were, the happy-go-lucky frat president and the short, scrawny, freshman geek, caught off-guard with a look of confusion on his face rather than a smile. "Your first family photo. And don't you look dashing in your new duds."

Torpedo blushed, then a thought occurred to him. "I appreciate you not being overly free with my money, but should we have maybe bought more than one outfit for me?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that just now," Zinger said blithely. "And speaking of outfits…" He looked around and spotted the tiny pledge hurrying about with the vacuum cleaner, dust rag and polish under one arm, sprucing up after the previous night's festivities. "Hey, Gumball!" The lad turned off the vacuum, and Zinger tossed him the superhero costume. "I am entrusting this to you. I believe you know what to do with it."

Gumball looked crestfallen. "Aw, man…" He stripped off his shirt and began to kick off his shoes, unfolding the tights as he prepared to slide his arms into the sleeves.

Zinger cleared his throat. "I meant, hang it up upstairs."

"Oh. Okay. I can do that." He scrambled up the stairs before Zinger could change his mind.

Zinger turned to Torpedo. "Last night was just a simple Friday night kegger. You wanna help me get ready for the Saturday Luau? Wanna do some real pledge stuff?"

Torpedo's face lit up. "Do I!"

Zinger plucked a clipboard from a hook hanging at the end of the front hallway and tossed it to his Little Brother. "Follow me."

The remainder of that morning and on into the afternoon, Torpedo the Little Brother followed Zinger his Big Brother as they readied the house for that evening's big luau. The night previous was fun, but hardly the event that the first-of-the-year luau was. The house was to be thrown open, few visitors would be turned away, and the final factors would be determined toward deciding which pledges would stay on for the turbulent and demanding week of initiations and who would go home. As a result, everything had to be perfect for the big night.

By mid-afternoon, everyone had been roused. Pledges had cleaned, buffed, and shined the house into presentable shape, and the brothers had been coaxed from their hangovers to the point of being able to get cleaned up and feed themselves. As prop palm trees, coconut glasses, little umbrellas, plastic leis, pooka shell accoutrements, grass skirts, and some truly hideous shirts came into play, all the brothers (official and would-be) crowded around the kitchen table for final planning. Torpedo's clipboard was now overflowing with checklists, reminder notes, and to-do lists.

Zinger sat at the head of the table, holding court. "Scott, announcement flyers are up all over campus?"

"Since last week."

"Visible to everyone?"

"Unless the live under a rock."

"Bowser. Munchies. We good?"

"Got a group of us hitting the grocery around four to load up."

"Well, keep it under $200 this time."

"No promises. Gotta have my pork rinds."

Torpedo put up his hand. "Um, excuse me? I have a question."

A big jock brother frowned. "Pledges don't get any input at these meetings."

Scott smacked the big guy on the arm. "Dude, let 'im talk. He's Zinger's Little Brother. Besides, he's cute."

"What is it, Torp?" Zinger said.

Torpedo had been going over all the pages on his clipboard. "Why are we spending that much money…in fact, any money…on snacks?"

A couple brothers looked at each other, amazed. "Damn, he is new, isn't he?"

"No, no, listen," Torpedo went on, stopping the boys before they could explain how lame a party was without snacks. He flipped a page over and began scribbling out a spending plan. "We start up an account with one of the vending machine companies that already work on campus. Each month they get stuck with tons…actual tons…of chips and candies and cookies that have all just passed their expiration date. The snacks are still good, but by law they have to pull them anyway."

Blank stares from around the room. Torpedo explained further.

"We call the vendors, they deliver us the stuff they'd ordinarily have to dump, they make a quick buck and we get our snacks at cost, probably less. Sometimes they'll just give 'em to us, since they stuff's no longer elligible to sell. We save a lot of cash that can be put toward anything else we want."

"We already have beer," Scott shrugged.

"Um…," Torpedo offered, "we put it towards the bar tab? Hard liquor?"

Zinger nodded happily, proudly. "I like the way my Little Bro thinks! Bowser, track me down those vendors." The large brother gave a curt nod, actually happy to have been contradicted this one time. "We shall assign the appropriate pledges to see to it that all snacks are in bowls ands trays before we open the doors so no one sees they're past their prime. Sound like fun, Gumball?"

The small pledge, already spent from cleaning all morning, offered a weak smile. "Joy."

Another brother, the only one of the group who looked somewhat well turned-out for the meeting, strode out of the room, was gone for perhaps half a minute, then reappeared with a large three-ring binder. It's front was covered in sticky notes, and a flurry of tabs and bookmarks protruded from all angles. He dropped the old binder in Torpedo's lap.

"I am officially giving this to you."

Torpedo hefted the weighty binder and asked, "What is it?"

"The house books." The brother swiped his palms together, signifying that he was washing his hands of the whole thing.

"Let's hear it for your new Beta Omicron accountant!" Zinger said, putting an arm around his new little brother. Torpedo offered an uneasy smile in response to the cheers, realizing the mounds of financial clutter he was now destined to sift through. He looked at Gumball and offered him the binder.

"Trade you for the job of filling snack bowls." Gumball jerked back, shaking his head as if being offered an angry rattlesnake.

Zinger whispered to Torpedo, "Don't worry. I'll get you a new superhero suit that says Captain Accountant or something."

 

The party launched that evening without a hitch. Snack food abounded. And so did affection for Torpedo. The house was crowded and the drinks were flowing freely. Guys and girls both seemed delighted by the president's new Little Brother, in his bright red shirt and tight white shorts. The debs couldn't pass by Torpedo with running their fingers across his shoulders, through his hair, or "accidentally" bumping into him and groping his package. But the nervous new frosh almost preferred the girls in whom he had no interest to the endless queue of handsome college guys who eyed and him up and down.

Torpedo clung to the bar, helping others with their drinks, assisting gumball in keeping the snack bowls filled. After nearly two hours of him dodging admirers, Zinger finally excused himself from a very hot lacrosse player clad in only a grass skirt, sandals, and a pooka shell necklace, and grabbed his Little Bro by the arm, pulling him to the side.

"Okay, Torp. What the fuck?"

Torpedo looked up at his Big Brother with what he hoped was a look of innocence. "What do you mean? Gotta keep the munchies handy. It's pledge work, and I'm a—"

Zinger cut him off. "Gumball can do it. And so can whatshisname, Urinal Cake Bannerman, or anybody else. Little dude, you have girls practically stripping in front of you—which can be a turnoff, granted—but you have your pick of any gay guy in the place. I thought you liked boys. And didn't you have fun in that dressing room this morning?"

"What? I do! I DID! It's just that…"

"Just nothing! Go tap some guy's ass, or get your hole plugged! I don't care, just stop stalling already. You're wasting all my good work here!"

Torpedo moved close to Zinger, so his lowered voice could be heard over the din of the partygoers. "This is all a bit much for me."

Zinger blinked. "You wake up this morning with your biological clock set back two decades worth of daylight saving's time and a luau is too much for you? You got more problems than magic beer can fix, kid."

Torpedo shook his head. "It's not that. This is just like a remember it. Almost."

"The difference being?"

"No one wanted anything to DO with me before! I'm used to watching from the sidelines, living vacariously through my brothers. Not actually… you know, acting on my desires…"

"Torp, you've spent close to half a century looking on. Rehearsal's over. It's time to get in the game."

Torpedo looked around the room at all the hot guys in various states of undress and felt himself stir. His breathing became ragged. Zinger intuited what his friend was feeling. They may not have been fromthe same generation, but ol' Zing knew a thing or two about gay history. He stood behind Torpedo and began to massage his shoulders, tyring to get him to loosen up. "Look around the room, Torp," he said calmly. Torpedo could see what he meant. Along with guys and girls pairing up, there were plenty of guy-guy couples chatting close together, some even touching and kissing. There was even one girl-girl couple off in the corner.

"It's no longer—," Zinger began.

"1907," Torpedo cut in. "I know, I know."

Zinger rested his hands on his Little Brother's shoulders. "It's not 1987 anymore, either, my friend. A lot can happen in twenty years. These days, no one really cares if you're gay."

"A lot of people do. Just ask my sister," Torpedo sulked.

"Nobody in here cares," Zinger corrected.

Torpedo realized this much was true. "So…how do I even know who's gay and who's not? Everyone here is so straight-acting… I don't want to insult anybody and then get punched."

Zinger grabbed two coasters from the bar. "Time-honored Beta Omicron signal device."

"Um, it's just a couple of coasters."

"Yeessss… but if a guy is using the coaster with the bikini girl on it, he's straight. If he's got the one with the surfer boi in the Speedo, he's Family. Just look first."

Zinger started to shove Torpedo toward the crowd, but the lad was still terribly nervous. "But… but… outside of that dressing room adventure, I've never been gay with anyone. And I wasn't the one who initiated things this morning. I wouldn't even know how to start…what to say—!"

"Try something easy, something friendly. Like, 'Hi, I'm Torpedo, how'd you like it if I fuck your brains out?' Just GO!"

Zinger pushed Torpedo good and hard and the smaller boy stumbled forward, tripping past a cute couple of sorority girls and slamming right into a small sectional sofa, knocking off a small bowl of double-dipped honey-roasted peanuts that were sitting atop its backrest. The snacks spilled all over the laps of two of the three boys who were sitting there talking. The three boys were big. Clearly jocks. Torpedo couldn't tell what sport they played, but it had to involve a lot of tackling or body-checking. They were all shirtless, wearing only colorful board shorts and flip-flops. They were not pleased to have some geeky frosh spill peanuts all over them. The one closest to Torpedo stood up. He had to be at least 6'2".

"Ya little spaz! Why don't you watch what the fuck you're doing?!"

He grabbed Torpedo by the shirt collar and pulled him close. His eyes were wild and he was ready to fight.

Torpedo's heart was pounding. Oh man, rejuvenated to the prime of my life and I get killed after one day. He spluttered apologies. "I'm really sorry, I am, but I was pushed, I couldn't help it, I didn't mean to—" Then Torpedo's eyes glanced down at the coffee table and saw their three drinks. The big guy's cup was on a surfer boi coaster. As Torpedo's eyes bulged in surprise, he notice that all of them had surfer boi coasters.

Torpedo looked back into the eyes of the angry, shirtless jock. No way. Was he… like Zinger said, Family? They couldn't be. They must have picked up the wrong coasters by accident. But if so, where were their girlfriends? Torpedo's head was spinning.

The jock shook Torpedo with a sharp jerk of his smooth, muscled arm. "Well, ya punk? What ya got to say for yourself?"

Torpedo couldn't think of anything else. He was too scared. Please God… please…

"Um… uh, H-h-hi, I'm Torpedo." He gulped. "So… how would you like it if I fuck your brains out?"

Torpedo squinted his eyes shut and braced himself for the impact of angry knuckles against his nose, but when it didn't come, he opened his lids slowly to see a serene look on the face of the jock. The larger boy's mouth curved into a welcome smile and he said, softly, "Yeah. Alright."

His companions laughed as the jock set Torpedo down and interlaced his fingers with the geeky freshman's. "If you guys'll excuse us." His two pals waved them on, still laughing between themselves.

The jock looked to Torpedo and then inclined his head toward the upstairs. He was ready to repair to a private room. Holy shit. Torpedo was already hard as a rock. He knew if he got lost in the crush of partygoers, his dick would most likely point the way. As he led the big jock past the bar, Zinger saw his Little Brother with his first conquest in tow and gave him a wink and the thumbs up. Torpedo grinned back like an idiot. He could not believe this was really happening. As he mounted the stairs, Zinger thrust a fist into the air and hollered, "Torpedo, LOS!"

Torpedo took the jock to Zinger's room, knowing it would be alright. He locked the door and turned around to see the handsome jock was already lying on the bed, stripped of his shorts and flip-flops kicked over by the dresser. He was incredible. A bit thick-necked and stereotypical as far as college jocks go, but he was incredible nonetheless. Smooth all over, with big muscles on his strong arms and legs, with a six-pack that really popped with definition. His dick was magnificent. It lay, long and large, upon his stomach, a slight curve in its thick width. It was already beginning to stir. The jock smiled at Torpedo, and his smile lit up the room. "You gonna make good on your promise, or what?"

Torpedo wasn't sure which was stronger at that moment. The knocking of his knees or the throbbing of his dick. He shuffled over to the waiting boy and for a moment, could only stare. Slowly, Torpedo took off his shirt and slipped out of his shorts. Manoman…he's mine, all mine. Then Torpedo paused. "Um, shouldn't we have some, you know, protection?"

The jock snatched up his board shorts from off the floor and shook them, causing more than half a dozen condoms to tumble from a side pocket. All of them different brands and styles. Torpedo gaped at them. "Uhh… that'll do I guess."

Uncertain of what was supposed to happen next, Torpedo asked, "Um, do you have a preference?" he asked nervously.

The jock looked confused, an expression that appeared to come easily to him. "I thought you were the top."

Torpedo caught himself. "Right! Yes, that's right! I sure am. I am the top." He rocked back and forth on his heels and the jock held up his hands. Well? Torpedo again caught his mistake. "Yes! And as the top, I shall pick which of these little packets we will use to… uh… to do my bidding. Yes, sir." Torpedo stooped over, looking at all the little square packets. "And then, uh, then you will be my bitch." He looked up at the waiting nude jock on the bed. "Right?" The jock nodded eagerly. Torpedo breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, then."

Torpedo eyed the condom packets, utterly confused. There were red packages, some black, a gold, two brown, and a midnight blue, among others. He read the labels. Trojan Magnum. Durex Avanti. Okamoto Beyond. LifeStyles Snugger Fit. Exxtra-Sensitive. Performax. Warm Sensations. Having no clue which to choose, he started to pick them up, reading the print on the backs. Ribbed. Skin-like sensation. Extra-glide lube. Tickler enhanced. Torpedo had seen less varieties and statistics when he used to collect baseball cards.

"Is there one you like?" the jock asked, all traces of forcefulness or strength of any kind gone from his voice. "'Cause I could look through my pockets and probably find some more."

Torpedo felt his head swimming. "No, no. It's okay. I found one."

The jock grinned happily and rolled over onto his stomach, baring a beautiful bubble butt at Torpedo. "Cool. Fuck me, little spaz man!"

Torpedo nodded, now practically delirious, and grabbed a packet that was baby blue, with silver lettering. He liked the colors. He looked at the back. Coated with patented 'Motion-Lotion'. Of course it was. Torpedo fumbled as he tore the packet open, and the little circle of rubber was so well coated with its patented lubricant that it slipped right out of his hands to land with a soft 'plap' on the middle of the jock's back.

The jock began to turn around. "What was that? Sir?"

Torpedo felt like a complete moron. But he picked up on the larger boy's reference to him as 'Sir', and said rapidly, "Um, er… put it on me. Um, boy."

The jock spun around gleefully. "Yes, sir!"

With skilled hands, the jock's surprisingly delicate fingers slid the unrolled condom onto Torpedo's very erect cock. It was bigger than Torpedo remembered it. Another bonus side effect of the magic beer. "You have a nice looking dick," he said with admiration.

"I get that all the time," Torpedo said, trying to sound nonchalant. The jock's fingers on his cock, the lubed rubber sheath, felt so good he was afraid he'd shoot right then and there. He bit his tongue, trying to contain himself.

The jock rolled back over. "Do me, Sir,"

Torpedo straddled the anxious college jock and wondered if perhaps he wouldn't need further lubricant, or maybe some finger play, to ensure that he could enter the jock's hole easily, without hurting him…or himself. To his amazement, as he began to probe the jock's hole with the head of his rubbered cock, the hole seemed to open up in anticipation. Slowly, Torpedo began to enter, trying to keep himself from shooting all canons right then and there. He needed to hold back. He thought of girls. It seemed to help.

As Torpedo pushed in, finding it harder to inhale for the excitement (I'm losing my virginity right now! I'm doing it! The big anal! Oh my fucking GOD!), something else happened. The jock felt the lanky frosh begin to go inside him, and then reached around and grabbed Torpedo's tight little ass with both hands, thrusting him forward all the way.

"Oh, yes! Do me, that's it! Fuck me, Little Sir!"

"Whoa!!" Torpedo's abdomen slammed against the jock's butt cheeks, the freshman's balls slapping against his crack. The jock began to buck and thrust.

"Oh, Sir! Yes, that's it!"

The smaller Torpedo hung onto the jock's smooth torso as if he were a rodeo bull. He tried to brace himself against the jock's muscled back, to balance himself or even pull back a bit. Nothing doing. The jock's hole seemed to grip Torpedo's member like a soft, if unrelenting, vice. Torpedo tried to get the jock to slow down. He patted his back.

"H-h-hey, slow—slow down there, big fella! Seriously, take it easy!"

Torpedo felt as if the jock's entire body had become one giant horny hand, holding onto his dick as if it were a handle designed to shake him about. Torpedo's desire to cum had been replaced by concern over whether he'd be thrown across the room or have his brand new beautiful dick ripped off.

"Oh, Sir! That's it! Own me! Make me your boy!" the jock cried out. He began pounding the bed with his fist. "Yes! YES!"

The jock groaned with intense pleasure and he shot a tremendous amount of cum all over the bed beneath him. His entire body quaked and the muscles in his ass gripped poor Torpedo's cock even tighter. Torpedo gasped. Oh no, oh no, oh no, he's gonna break it off, he really is. Finally, mercifully, the jock's arched back fell and he impacted with the bed, his stomach splatting slightly as it landed in his own puddle. He gasped for breath, gushing words of gratitude to the boy he'd nearly knocked off of him.

"Sir, that was great. You have such power. You controlled me…"

"Didn't feel like it from this end," Torpedo mumbled, feeling the jock's grip on his cock beginning to ease at last. Torpedo started to slowly withdraw from the overanxious bottom.

"Do me again, Sir!" the jock beamed.

"Yeah, well, let's take a break first," Torpedo suggested.

"Do me doggie style!"

The jock leapt up onto all fours without further preamble, tossing Torpedo off the bed and onto the floor with a thud.

"HULLPP!" WHAM.

"Sir? You okay?"

Torpedo lay on the floor, sore and mortified, the still-slick condom now hanging half-off his fast-softening dick. "I'll get back to you on that," he grumbled. Grabbing up his discarded clothes, Torpedo fled the room.

"Sir?" the jock called after him. "You can pick the position if you prefer! Sir!"

Having jumped back into his shorts, Torpedo yanked his loud Hawaiian shirt back on, his face flushed with feelings of anger and stupidity. As he stomped his way down the stairs, pushing past other partygoers, another guy stuck out his arm to halt Torpedo's progress. Torpedo looked at him. The boy was tall, muscled, hot. Not unlike the one he'd just left naked up in Zinger's room. This one had bushy brown hair and wore an island shirt of brilliant green.

"Hey, who're you, man?"

"I'm Zinger's Little Brother," Torpedo huffed. "Could you move your arm, please?"

The hunk stepped in front of Torpedo, blocking his path. "You're really cute."

"I've been getting that a lot lately," Torpedo sneered. "But if you don't mind, I've had enough humiliation for one night, so I'd like to just leave—"

The hunk picked up Torpedo as if he were a rag doll, his beefy hands around the small freshman's midsection. The hunk placed Torpedo right against the wall and kissed him, forcing his tongue into Torpedo's mouth. Torpedo kicked, but he was at least six inches off the steps, and was unable to do anything about it. When the hunk finally pulled off of Torpedo's lips, he smiled in a way he no doubt felt was enticing.

"You are adorable, pledge. You got this whole Barney Fife thing going on, but I dunno… on you it looks good."

This was the last thing Torpedo needed to hear. His buggy eyes locked with the emerald eyes of the hunk. "Put me down right now or I will kick your balls right through to the back of your ass."

Gently, the hunk set Torpedo down and stepped aside. "All you had to say was that you weren't into it. Geez, get a coaster so we can tell."

Torpedo said nothing, but stormed down the stairs in search of Zinger. He spied his new mentor in all things fraternal socializing in the backyard, surrounded by a small cluster of more handsome college boys (was Torpedo the only one on the whole stinking campus who looked like something less than an underwear model??). Zinger was in a loud mulitcolored Hawaiian shirt and equally outrageous swim trunks. Twin leis hung haphazardly around his neck and, somehow, on him it looked good.

Torpedo saw how easily, how naturally, this whole college thing came to Zinger. He would laugh, sharing humorous stories as effortlessly as pouring another round of drinks. Torpedo could see that Zinger was not the best-looking boy by any means, but he had such charm, and exuded such confidence, that he drew people to him. He had an air about him which Torpedo not only lacked, he could never even aspire to. As Zinger stole a kiss from an adorable junior beside him, Torpedo realized that this was not only unreal, his return to his life as an eighteen year old, it was unrealistic. He could never be who he imagined himself to be. He could never be like Zinger. Torpedo turned on his heel and retreated back into the house before he started to cry.

His departure did not go unobserved. A sandy-haired sophomore in a baseball jersey seated in front of Zinger remarked, "There's no joy in Mudsville for someone."

Zinger turned from his smooching. "What's that?"

"Some poor kid came out, took one look at you and then turned tail. Looked like his heart was broken." The baseball player winked. "I'm a psych major. I can tell these things."

Zinger looked distressed. "Was he short, skinny, wildish hair, red shirt?"

"Looks like a walking ad for Xanax. Yeah, that was him."

"Aw, shit."

Zinger left his entourage and went inside in search of his little brother. He looked around several rooms of revelers until he realized he should be searching someplace devoid of people. He finally found Torpedo sitting near the back steps, arms around his knees, behind the pantry. Zinger sat beside him.

"So, should I not ask how it went?"

Torpedo made an exasperated scoffing noise. "It was a disaster. He was the most domineering submissive I've ever met."

"Let me guess. Doggie style problems?"

"I wound up on the floor!"

Zinger shrugged. "Well, we don't call him Rock Bottom for nothing."

Torpedo shoved his hands down into his pants and yanked free the condom which still clung to his limp member. He tried to throw it away, but it stuck to his fingers. "Gah!" He dropped his head into his free hand and choked back his tears.

"I'm no good at this. I sucked at it when I was eighteen the first time. I'm kidding myself if I thought it'd be different this time around."

"So you had a bad experience. Happens to everybody." Gingerly, Zinger peeled the condom off his Little Brother's fingers. He expected it to be heavier than it was. He glanced at it before tossing into a nearby waste basket. "So, what, you didn't even get to—?"

"Nope. But he did. Man, did he ever. I suggest you launder your sheets before you go to sleep tonight."

"Noted." Zinger started to put a supportive arm around Torpedo's shoulders, but the smaller boy shrugged it off. "Look… maybe you're not like me."

"Ha. You think?"

"That's not what I meant. I mean, maybe you're… how do I phrase this?… maybe you're deeper than me."

"Zinger, no offense, but there are teaspoons deeper than you. In this case, I hardly think you need to have tremendous depth to be the success you are with this fraternity."

Zinger held up his hands. "No, what I mean is… lemme ask you, do you have any problem with going from one meaningless sexual encounter to the next, over and over for semester after semester?"

Torpedo took his hand away from his face. "Well… yeah. I guess I do."

"Well, I don't. Maybe what you need is to spend less time screwing and more time cruising." Zinger moved his fists in tight circles, mimicking dance. "My momma told me… ya better shop around! Isn't that what that sang back in your day?"

"You're a decade early."

"So, find that one guy you connect with so that the sex means something to you. That one guy who turns you on just by cuddling, or even sitting up talking. So you don't doze off after a hot session hoping to heaven that the guy you're sleeping next to doesn't say those dreaded three words in the morning."

"I love you?"

"Worse. Stay for breakfast?"

Torpedo laughed. It felt good to find something funny besides himself. Then he grew serious again and looked at Zinger. "Can you change me back?"

Now it was Zinger who looked heartbroken. "Oh, Torp, why would you wanna do that??"

"I think this has been great, don't get me wrong. This was a wonderful gift! But I need to get back to my life."

"Such as it is." Zinger caught himself the moment the words left his lips. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean that."

"I realize my life is… tame, even boring, but it is real. This isn't, not really."

"You're real to me!" Zinger said, louder than he'd intended to. Then, softly, "Little Brother, I've been waiting for someone like you for I don't know how long. Please just promise me to stick it out a little longer. It hasn't even been 24 hours."

Torpedo felt frustrated. "I make a good pledge, I can be a loyal brother, we've established that. But I can't even stay on top of a bottom who thinks I'm his master. I get hefted off my feet like a teddy bear. And after this pheromone things wears off guys aren't gonna be attracted to me—"

"You don't know that."

"I do! Whether I'm eighteen or forty, I'm just a geek—!"

"There is a way," Zinger said quickly.

"To change me back?"

"To have you not be just a geek."

Torpedo stared at him intently. "I'm listening."

 

Zinger and Torpedo were back at the bar. Zinger had shooed most of the nearby guests away under the pretense of restocking the beverages and the promise that there'd be more drinks for everyone soon. He led Torpedo to the golden keg.

"There's a kind of…failsafe…with the magic beer," he explained. "It's designed so that, if anyone who gets transformed gets too freaked out by it, they can go back. But it also has another possible use."

Torpedo looked very intrigued. When he spoke, his voice again had the tone of a man with four decades of life experience. "Go on."

"You can take the second beer, and you can change yourself into the frat boy you always wished you could be. I was even going to suggest it to you."

"'Cause you're not satisfied with me as a geek either?" he asked, an edge his voice.

"Because I thought you might want to," Zinger said, honestly.

Torpedo held up an empty party cup. "Fill me up."

"Just know," Zinger said, as he reached for the keg's tap, "that it only works twice. That's it, no do-overs. Whatever way you want to go next, that'll be you from then on. Understand?"

Torpedo stared into the eyes of his Big Brother, the only person in his adult life who ever showed any kind of belief in him. Torpedo put down the party cup. He then looked around the bar and found what he'd spied there earlier. A funnel with an attached hose. Beer bong. He held it up to Zinger.

"Let's do this thing."

Zinger reached for the tap on the keg, his heart starting to beat faster. He hoped that he was doing the right thing. He glanced at Torpedo and saw the longing in his innocent eyes (damn, still so innocent after forty years), and Zinger knew that giving his Little Brother what he wanted could never be the wrong thing to do. Zinger clutched the tap and began to recite to himself.

"Grasp the handle and picture the change… Nothin' you can think is out of range—"

But then he stopped. He reached over and took Torpedo by the hand, bringing him closer to the golden keg, to stand right beside his Big Brother. Gently, Zinger placed Torpedo's hand atop his own. He looked into the scrawny freshman's wide eyes and said, "Just picture what you want, little bro." Torpedo nodded.

Zinger prepared to pump the brew again, starting his recitation over. But this time with changes.

"Grasp the handle and picture the change… nothin' that he thinks is out of range."

Zinger began to pump the keg, nodding for Torpedo to put the funnel of the beer bong under the tap.

"Concentrate on what's best for the dude…'cause I know he's my Little Brother through and through."

Torpedo curved the tube of the bong in an upward arc, the release knob twisted shut, with his thumb blocking the end of the tube for good measure to ensure that nothing would spill. Zinger pumped with more vigor, knowing he was doing the right thing.

"Hurry up and pump the brew… whatever he wants is what I want, too."

Zinger pressed the tap and the beer filled the funnel rapidly. It looked slightly different this time. The beer glowed more brightly, the dancing lights within it seemed to dazzle and dash about with renewed life, with stronger magic. Frost formed on the outside of the funnel as Zinger held it carefully, guiding the tube toward the small Torpedo's mouth.

"The change will be a whole lot faster this time," Zinger warned. Torpedo only nodded, bringing the tube to his lips, taking it in his mouth. Slender traces of frost arced and twisted down the bong's tube, tiny snowflakes spilling off to the carpet below. The beer within gleamed and shone. With one more look of warning, Zinger lifted the funnel high and opened the release. Torpedo sucked tightly on the tube.

The magic beer shot downward from the funnel above, through the tube and into Torpedo's mouth. He spluttered a bit at the rush of cold brew, but after a few choked swallows, was able to open his throat and get it all down. He never spilled a drop. After the tube was empty, Torpedo's head was spinning a bit.

"Torp, you okay?" Zinger asked, concerned. "You alright?"

Torpedo bent forward and braced his hands upon his knees. "M'okay… m'okay… just… I just, still can't…"

Zinger smiled. "Can't hold your liquor?"

Torpedo nodded, smiling like an idiot. Then he let out he tremendous burp. "BRAAAAAAHLLLPPP!"

Zinger laughed out loud. "Woo!" He patted Torpedo on the back, his hand lingering there to rub his back affectionately. "I hope this gives you what you want, Little Brother."

"Me, too," Torpedo said.

Then the smaller boy stood up suddenly very straight. He looked anything but intoxicated. "Whoa! I—I can feel it working!"

Zinger pulled Torpedo aside, taking him into an adjoining room that was not being used for the party. As he guided Torpedo away, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the golden keg was already sliding silently back into the dumb waiter of its own accord. Its work done, it was not to be used again. The gears of the tiny lift emitted their soft grinding hum as the keg returned to its secure hiding place.

Alone in the small utility room, Zinger held onto Torpedo's shoulders, bracing him for the change. Torpedo was breathing very hard, his skin tingling. "Just hang on, Little Brother," Zinger urged. "It's gonna be okay… but know I'm really gonna miss you."

"Why?" Torpedo panted. "I'm not going anywhuh-whuh-whoo-!"

"Torp? What is it? What are you feeling?"

Torpedo was trying to catch his breath.

"Are you hurting?"

Torpedo shook his head. "N-no… I feel… I feel…" He gaped at Zinger, his mouth hanging open stupidly. "…I feel…really horny."

Zinger gaped back. "Say what?"

In an instant, the first change came upon Torpedo. He looked down with shock to see his dick enlarge tremendously. His small eighteen-year-old's cock engorged and stretched, replaced in seconds by the fat and hanging member of a porn star. It pushed against his lycra shorts, which now stretched to accommodate its girth.

Zinger looked down with wide eyes. "Damn. I don't remember Mr. Mitorpid packin' a club like that."

Torpedo reached out and grabbed hold of Zinger's shoulders for balance. As Zinger offered support, he watched in awe as the slim, boyish arms of Torpedo bulged and pulsed, muscles forming and growing as if from the result of months of endless grueling workouts. The skin tanned slightly, going from the stark white of the bookworm to the appealing gold of the beach boy. What small wisps of hair there were on Torpedo's arms fell away, leaving the powerful arms silky smooth, the muscle definition standing out clearly.

Zinger was amazed. This was in no way what he had expected would happen. He heard the almost imperceptible sound of what seemed like the tearing and ripping of ligaments and muscle mass that went hand-in-hand with such extensive body growth.

"Are you okay? Are you in pain, little buddy??"

Torpedo shook his head, as yet unable to speak. He was smiling.

Unintentionally, Torpedo's grip on Zinger's shoulders grew more intense, and his fingers dug into his Big Brother's flesh. He was as yet unfamiliar with his new strength.

"Agh! Okay, okay, okay, ease up there, little guy. This procedure does not require a blood sacrifice. Lemme go…lemme go…thaaat's a boy."

Zinger pried Torpedo's fingers from him and stepped back, his eyes glued to his Little Brother who continued to undergo his change. Torpedo's spindly legs rippled and grew, rock-hard muscles forming that now indicated hours running on a track and jumping on a court rather than imbibing magical beer. The flip-flops that had formerly seemed a bit too big for his feet now barely held Torpedo's enlarged size thirteens. It is a popular myth that a man's shoe size speaks of his dick size. In this case, Torpedo's huge feet spoke with more than a hint of modesty.

Torpedo fell backwards against the wall and let out a loud moan. It was a sound of rapture. His underweight chest bulged outward like a comic book monster's. Where there had been not but a skinny torso now firm pectorals appeared, the muscle growth extending upward and over to compliment Torpedo's small shoulders and give them equal size and strength.

The brilliant red shirt that adorned Torpedo's frame, which he had buttoned up tightly after finishing his encounter with Rock Bottom, now tore open, buttons popping off, seams splitting, until it hung upon the solid frame in shreds.

"Holy SHIT!" Zinger exclaimed, throwing his hands to his head in surprise.

Torpedo now had the body of a classic college frat boy. Smooth. Lean. Muscled. Hard. Hung like a horse. His shorts were pulled taut over his powerful legs, his wife beater now stretched nearly to the breaking point, his perfect six-pack visible beneath the ribbed material. He had the sleek body of a gymnast. Torpedo let out a sigh that could have been mistaken for an orgasm as his face began to change, signaling the final stage of his transformation.

Torpedo's geeky face, with its slightly oversized ears, his bug-like eyes, and his goofy smile softened and shifted. His ears shrank down, better complimenting his face. His eyes altered, going from buggy to handsome. His smile, which he had been unable to drop, became different, more appealing, less comical and toothy. His weak chin squared off, his features became first attractive, then handsome, then hot.

The wild hair atop Torpedo's head lost its curl, its unruly nature, and straightened out, taking on a gentle wave. A cowlick drooped flatteringly over Torpedo's brow, as those hanging curls lifted off of his ears, drawing close to his scalp in a tight trim. The very top of Torpedo's hair spiked upward, no gel or mouse in sight.

The room was deathly quiet. The muffled noise and commotion of the party in the next room may as well have been in another county. Zinger looked at the drop-dead gorgeous frat boy who had only moments ago been a scrawny and laughable pledge. The stunning and tightly-packed freshman held his arms out wide and looked himself over. Zinger swallowed hard. "Torp? Are you still in there?"

The new Torpedo looked at his Big Brother and there were tears in his eyes. He sniffed, then reached over and hugged Zinger in powerful arms. "Oh, man. Oh, Zinger, thank-you. Thank-you so much!" The voice was deeper, to be certain, but it was still Torpedo's. Of this much Zinger was positive. He patted his Little Brother's back as they hugged. He could feel the tears of joy fall upon his shoulders from the remade lad's eyes.

"I can't tell you how much… to give me this… I-I love you, Zinger."

Zinger could feel himself begin to cry a bit himself. In his wildest dreams, he had never anticipated anything like this. "I love you too, Torp. I do."

Torpedo pulled away after a long embrace, and his tears were flowing freely. He wiped some of them away with the back of his hand. "Whatever you want to do to me now is cool," Torpedo said, sniffing a bit.

Zinger frowned. "What? What d'you mean—?"

"You can stick me into the superhero tights for a week, put me on laundry duty, I'll clean the house, dress me in a bunny suit. I swear I will be the perfect pledge. You name it, I'll do it. Promise. Honest injun."

Zinger laughed. "Well, that last assurance isn't exactly P.C. anymore, but I can tell you that you're already a pretty damn perfect pledge." He paused. "Although, admittedly, you would look pretty adorable in a bunny suit." Torpedo grabbed him in a crushing embrace again.

 

The two reentered the party as discreetly as possible. Zinger was still pulling the shredded Hawaiian shirt off the super-sized Torpedo as they passed the bar. Zinger realized that now his little pal (besides not being all that little anymore) didn't fit well with the evening's theme, so he grabbed up a plastic flower lei and tossed it around Torpedo's neck.

Torpedo, now a fraternity hunk, was gazing around the room as partyers came and went. Zinger assumed he was taking in the room and scoping out his first conquest as an official hottie. He was wrong. Torpedo turned back to look at Zinger, worry in his eyes.

"How do I know if it's real?"

Zinger looked at him askance. "What? Torp, I promise you," and he pinched his arm, "you're awake. It's real."

"Hey!" Torpedo said, jerking away. "No, not that…"

Zinger had already pulled up Torpedo's wife beater and ran a finger along his ripped abs. "Yep, them's real, my friend."

"That's not what I mean!" Torpedo said through clenched teeth. He drew close to his Big Brother and whispered anxiously. "How do I know if anyone's attracted to me?" A pair of sorority girls waltzed by, eyeing the buff Torpedo up and down, then hurried along their way, clearly pleased with what they saw and sharing giggles. Zinger pointed at the departing duo, eyebrows raised. That should be proof enough, right? Torpedo shook his head.

"I mean, one of the side effects of the beer was that guys found me attractive. Now that I'm, well… really attractive… how will I know if guys are reacting to me as a person and not me as someone who imbibed I your magic beer?"

Zinger screwed his mouth to one side, his eyes searching for some response, knowing he didn't have one. Before Torpedo could insist on proof, or at least some reassurance, they were interrupted by an obnoxious guest. They turned to see Rock Bottom, back from upstairs, making his way roughly through the crowd, desperately in search of his missing date.

"Little master? Where are you? Where did you go? I've been up there waiting! Has anyone seen a really cute guy, short, curly hair, red shirt? Anyone? Where IS he??"

Zinger shoved Torpedo into the excited jock bottom's path. Zinger popped his head around Torpedo's considerable shoulder and said, "Hey, if you're lookin' for a hot top, here's somebody you should meet."

Rock Bottom stopped short in front of Torpedo, looking him over, eyes wide. Their eyes met and Torpedo felt a certain energy pass between them. Rock Bottom reached out to touch Torpedo's arm. And then he shoved him aside.

"Oh, give me a break! Like I'd settle for you!" And on he went. "Little master? I'm right here! I meant what I said about picking positions!"

Zinger patted Torpedo on the back. "And there you go. Enjoy the party, bro."

Torpedo began to roam the frat house, looking at things from a different angle. For one, it was a higher vantage point, as he was now several inches taller than he had been just moments before. He liked the feel of his legs as he walked across the room, the easy impact of his large feet against the floorboards. There was a slight sway in his torso, perhaps caused by the large arms that now hung from his powerful shoulders. Torpedo made a mental note not to let it develop into a swagger. He was hot now, true, but he was not prepared to become the stereotypical pompous ass he'd always hated.

Torpedo made his way to the end of the bar, where a steady flow of party cups were ready to be snatched up by thirsty passersby. On his way there, he garnered a few stares, one wink, and more than a few snubs from people, boys and girls alike, who weren't interested or simply didn't notice him. He liked it. He felt more real that way. As Torpedo reached over to pick up a red plastic cup at the bar's end, a slender guy in an unbuttoned lime green Hawaiian shirt moved close to him, almost spilling his drink.

"Whoops," the slender guy said, with not even a hint of sincerity. "So sorry."

Torpedo brushed the few drops of beer that had speckled his wife beater. "No problem."

"You didn't get any on you, did you?" The slender guy leered at him. "Let me help you." He grabbed a cocktail napkin from atop the bar and began to dab at Torpedo's torso.

"It's cool, I'm fine, really."

The guy wasn't listening. His dabbing hand drifted down Torpedo's abs and began mopping up his perfectly dry shorts.

Torpedo felt himself starting to get hard. "Dude, I think you got it. I'm dry there."

"Better safe than sorry," the guy said. He was now grasping Torpedo's rod gently through the napkin, feeling its length, enjoying the fact that his grip was making it grow bigger. "Can I get you another drink?"

Torpedo set his cup back down on the bar. "You know, I'm suddenly not all that thirsty."

"Wanna check to see if I spilled any on me?" The guy reached over and took Torpedo's hand, guiding it over to his crotch, trying to place Torpedo's hand there. Torpedo looked into the guys eyes and saw that they were glazed. His breath stank of booze. Torpedo knew that not only was this not attractive, but if this guy had two more swallows in him, he'd be happy coming on to the potted fern in the corner.

Torpedo withdrew his hand and slipped away from the drunken guy. Halfway across the room, Torpedo glanced back and saw that the slender guy was already hitting on someone else. This time it was a girl. Torpedo saw the guy retrieve his abandoned glass from the bar. "One more gulp until he's the plant whisperer," he thought.

Torpedo made his way toward the back yard. Before he passed the sliding glass doors, he came upon two very handsome, incredibly fit shirtless guys wearing nothing but very tight, very small Speedos. They were making out with vigor and enthusiasm. Torpedo tried to step around them, but one of them grabbed the freshman by the arm. Thinking that they were going to scold him for interrupting them, Torpedo was about to apologize. But then the first guy (gold skin, raven black hair, incredible eyes) pulled Torpedo close and kissed him fully on the mouth. Now Torpedo was ready to fend off the guy's boyfriend, ready to explain that he was in no way trying to hit upon somebody's guy.

But the second guy (bleach blond, dazzling green eyes, pooka shell necklace) was simply nuzzling the first guy's neck as Torpedo was being kissed. As Torpedo was released from the first kiss, the second guy stepped forward and took Torpedo's face in both hands, kissing him passionately. As the blond kissed Torpedo, his tongue probing his mouth, the raven-haired boy reached around and slid his hands under the freshman's wife beater. His firm hands rubbed Torpedo's smooth back tenderly, then slid downward to grip his butt cheeks beneath his lycra shorts. Torpedo began to yelp, but opening his mouth wider only gave the blond a greater opening to press on with his tongue.

The raven-haired boy pulled Torpedo closer to them and they drew the muscular lad over to the corner. Before Torpedo could get more than a few words out, "Um, uh, hi… I'm-I'm Zinger's Little Brother…who—who are…," they duo was all over him.

The raven-haired boy was now kissing Torpedo's neck, licking the spot behind his ear, chewing his lobe. The blond had begun to kiss Torpedo's stomach, pausing here and there to lick around his navel, his lithe fingers massaging and stroking his sides.

Torpedo was having a hard time catching his breath. All he had wanted to do was go out back. He hadn't expected to be pulled into a three-way. The raven-haired boy was now kissing Torpedo with abandon, and his blond companion (did these guys even know each other?) was now kneading Torpedo's inner thigh, his mouth playing with the frosh's balls through his snug shorts.

Torpedo was gasping, trying to collect himself. The party which bustled about them seemed to no longer exist. All there was in the world was this duo and their eager attentions. Torpedo was about to suggest they go somewhere more private when the kissing, licking, and kneading suddenly stopped.

Torpedo opened his eyes and looked around him. The duo was gone. He soon spotted them squished together on a nearby love seat that was too small to accommodate them both. They didn't seem to mind. The blond was tucked up inside the small seat, the raven-haired boy atop him, both locked in an embrace and lost in a kiss. They also seemed not to notice that they had left Torpedo behind.

Torpedo sighed, catching his breath. He said to himself, "Man. Viva 2007." And he went into the back yard.

The back yard was alive with people, but it's open expanse allowed more room to move. A faux volcano was set up at the far side of the yard, from which gelatinous rivers of fake lava flowed into a catch at its base, circled around the outside edge, and was funneled back up to come out the top again. The lava, a concoction of raspberry Jell-O mixed with fruity punches and a host of alcoholic beverages and drunken maraschino cherries was one of Zinger's own recipes. Some partygoers scooped up the lava in cups, others leaned right over and slurped up their helping with a straw. Torpedo decided that for the time being, he'd stick with club soda. Besides, he'd already had a beer.

Torpedo hung by the fence, looking on at the activity, the horseplay, the dancing, the noise. He'd had so much experience watchign from the sidelines that this was a comfortable place for him. It seemed a good spot to wait and decide his next move. He did not have to wait long.

"Looks like I'm having what you're having."

Torpedo turned to see another college man standing right beside him. He had not seen him approach. "Pardon?" Torpedo said.

The newcomer raised his cup. "Club soda." Then, indicating Torpedo's cup, he asked, "Right?"

Torpedo smiled. "You're very observant."

The guy was short, with a boyish face of perhaps 20, but with eyes that seemed considerably older. He had straight brown hair and a strong nose. He wore a short-sleeved yellow shirt adorned with a silhouette of a single green palm tree. A considerable contrast to most of the outfits worn to the house that evening. "So, you don't drink either?"

Torpedo shrugged. "A little. I'm not much of a drinker. You?"

"Clean and sober eleven months now."

Torpedo felt pretty good. He was having a conversation with someone. They seemed to be hitting it off. Maybe something would come of it.

"You like to kiss?" the guy asked.

"Uh…yeah, I guess. I mean, sure. Sure I do."

"May I?" Torpedo nodded.

Mr. Clean-and-Sober set down his club soda and gently reached over and held Torpedo's face. Tenderly, he kissed him. It felt good. Torpedo began to feel a bit of a rush. Here he was, out in the open, letting another guy kiss him. Torpedo's eyes darted off to the side, looking around the yard, waiting for someone to tell them to get a room, to take it elsewhere, to make a disparaging or damning remark. Nothing happened. Several people saw them kissing, it was obvious, but they just minded their own business. One or two onlookers smiled. The guy guided Torpedo's attention back toward him by easing his face back with his fingertips.

"Was that okay? Is there someone you'd rather be with?"

Torpedo caught himself and looked back at the guy with the older eyes. "No," Torpedo said quickly. "I mean, yes, it was good. No, there's no one I should be with."

"Good."

The two kissed there in the cool night air, separate from the frenzy of the rest of the party, enjoying each other's touch, their lips, their tongues. The soda drinker was a skilled kisser. As his lips locked with Torpedo's, his tongue probing the muscular freshman's mouth, his fingers gently caressed his face and neck. The soft contact sent tingles across the surface of Torpedo's skin.

As they continued to kiss, Torpedo marveled at all the ways their tongues could connect, play against one another, taste each other. The more they kissed, the more the guy's hands moved along Torpedo's upper body. As skilled as his tongue was, the college man's hands were their equal. With the fingers of a masseur, he touched and stroked Torpedo's neck, his shoulders, his chest. The feeling of those gentle probing fingers in concert with his lips and tongue was amazing to Torpedo. At first.

After about ten minutes of interplay, Torpedo found himself listening to the rest of the party, the talking, the laughter. He wondered what everyone else was doing, what fun they may be engaged in. He wondered at these thoughts. He was finally getting what he'd always dreamed of. He was making out with a cute guy, out in the open, and he had had a total makeover and was even hot now, to boot. Why did this feel so flat, so empty?

Out of nowhere, Torpedo came to the realization that he didn't even know this guy's name. He also realized, disturbingly, that he didn't care one way or the other. He didn't care about this guy at all. He was a good kisser, but beyond that…eh. Torpedo pulled away.

The guy looked at Torpedo with concern. "Something wrong?"

Torpedo nodded. "Not with you… you're a great kisser."

"Thank-you."

"But… I think there is somebody else, actually."

The guy looked disappointed, but stepped back. "Well, you better go find him then."

Torpedo just nodded and left without further explanation.

For the next hour or so, Torpedo just wandered the party. He enjoyed those glances and flirting he got, but for the most part he remained detached. He played a game of pool with another cute guy, but there was no chemistry there. He played darts with two other cute guys, but they were straight. After a foosball game with a varsity soccer player, a shared round of dirty jokes with a cluster of drunks, and a dance with a theater major, Torpedo found himself wandering upstairs. He did not regret the choice to remake himself with the second beer. Far from it. But he was feeling the distance of years between himself and many of the others there at the luau.

As Torpedo walked along upstairs, he heard a thump behind him and turned to find that the amorous raven-hair and blond boy had made their way up the stairs and were thumping against the walls as they kissed and groped each other. Not wanting to get caught up in their ardent whirlwind, Torpedo ducked into a room and closed the door.

Torpedo found himself in the rarely-used study. It was sparsely furnished, with a few desks, a sofa, coffee table, and walls lined with books and reference guides. It's one distinguishing feature was a modest balcony that overlooked the front yard and the street beyond. Torpedo was simply going to wait until the flailing duo had passed in the hallway beyond, and then reemerge to slip past them. But then he spotted someone standing out on the balcony. He stuck out for Torpedo immediately, because he was not wearing the standard luau attire. No Hawaiian shirt, no shorts, no plastic lei, no sandals or flip-flops. He had on a simple white ringer T-shirt, khaki pants, and tennis shoes. He stood leaning against the balcony railing, resting on his forearms. Torpedo could see no drink by his side.

Stepping forward quietly, Torpedo removed his lei and draped it over the bust of the fraternity's founder, which rested upon one of the bookshelves. Slowly, so as not to startle him, Torpedo emerged onto the balcony. The young man at the railing turned his head slightly, indicating that he saw his visitor, but did not acknowledge him.

"Am I interrupting?" Torpedo asked.

Without looking at him, the young man answered, "I'm just standing here."

"I know. But am I interrupting?"

The young man turned to face Torpedo. He was about Torpedo's height, with a solid if trim athletic build which his T-shirt did not flatter. The white tee bore red atheltic letters that boasted no team or sports preference. It read "Easily Distracted". Above that shirt was a boyish face that bordered on handsome but lingered on cute. Reddish-brown hair. He smiled when he spoke.

"No, you're not interrupting. Please, join me."

Torpedo did. He took up a position beside the young man. They stood together in silence for a while, taking in the night, the sky, the ambience of the party going on below.

"You're without the proper outfit," the young man said at last.

"I, um, I had a pretty cool Hawaiian shirt. Well, it was more loud than cool. But it got shredded."

The young man raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know how?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

The young man extended a hand. "Collin." They shook hands. When Torpedo did not return his introduction, he inclined his head, not releasing his hold. "And you are—?"

"Torpedo."

"Really."

"Oh, uh, that's what my Big Brother, Zinger, calls me."

"What's your real name, Torpedo?"

No one had ever asked him that since he'd had his age reduced. He found the fact that this young man did ask impressed him. "Luke Varden Mi—" He stopped himself. Torpedo had never really liked his name. Luke Varden had always sound too much to him like "lukewarm," a frighteningly accurate assessment of him. He gripped Collin's hand back and said confidently. "Lucas. You can call me Lucas."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lucas."

"Likewise."

They let go of each other's hands, but their eyes lingered together. Something passed between them. Neither could define it, both could feel it. Collin licked his lips, began to ask Lucas something. "I was wondering. Would you like to—"

Kiss? Play together? Fuck?

"—get out of here?"

Lucas smiled. "Yeah, I think I would."

And so they did.

 

Collin and Lucas (formerly Torpedo) strolled the campus for hours. The many pathways, trees, and ornate buildings, all lit by low-hanging streetlights, provided a certain air of comfort, with no small hint of romance. The campus grounds were quiet. Saturday night at a university with a Greek system, most of the students were either attending parties, seeing to functions, or making use of those abandoned libraries and study centers that were open at all hours.

Collin and Lucas didn't notice the quiet. They had been busy talking ever since they departed the Beta Omicron house.

"I haven't yet taken you to task for lying to me."

Collin looked at Lucas askance. "Lying? About what?"

Lucas pointed at Collin's shirt. "You're anything but easily distracted. You've been paying excellent attention for a while now."

Collin shrugged. "Maybe I'm only distracted when there's nothing of real interest to hold my attention. You're…fairly interesting. So it's not lying, exactly."

"False advertising, then."

Collin yawned.

"Oh-ho! So maybe I am boring you, then."

"No, no… it's just that I didn't get much sleep last night and it's probably going on midnight by now. You have a watch?"

Lucas smirked, thinking of his twenty-year recognition watch Zinger had dropped like a turd back at the house that morning. As they looked around, Lucas pointed at one of the many illuminated clocks around campus. This one was by the Science building.

"Holy crap, it's going on three!" Collin blurted.

Lucas laughed. "So I'm really not boring then. Admit it."

"Admitted. But I am about ready to pass out." Lucas was certain that this was going to be the part where the handsome young man would wish him well and then disappear into the night, never to be seen again. But again, Collin surprised him. "Walk me to my house?"

"Sure."

It was another twenty minutes before the duo reached Collin's house. Lucas noted the letters mounted on its facade. "Delta Lambda Phi? That is so cool! You're in—?"

"The gay frat, yeah. That's not a problem?"

"Far from it." Collin made to step up onto the front walk leading to the Delta Lambda porch but was stopped short. He looked down, as did Lucas, to find that they were holding hands. They both looked at each other, equally caught off guard.

"How long have we been doing that, do you think?" Colin asked.

"I dunno. But it must have felt natural… felt right, or we wouldn't have done it."

"Or at least noticed."

Lucas did not let go of Collin's hand, but instead moved closer to him. "Before we say goodnight, I just wanted you to know that this has been really nice. It's the best time I've had since I got here."

"We should do it more often," Collin smiled.

"Hey," Lucas said, brightening, "I was hoping to go out and get some new clothes tomorrow. I'm…kinda limited right now. You wanna come?"

"It's a date." Collin lingered, swinging their arms back and forth before letting go, then he turned to go into his house. He was practically skipping.

Lucas waited until the front door of the Delta Lambda Phi house closed before he began to walk away. In short order, he broke into a gallop and ran to burn off the sudden rush of energy he was feeling. Halfway down the block he leapt high in the air, whooping loudly and tapping a hanging street sign with his fingers.

 

SUNDAY

Morning came far too early to the house of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta. Sunlight streamed in to find the snoozing bodies of college men draped everywhere, including couches, floors, atop the pool table, and scattered hither and yon throughout the back yard. Rooms were filled to capacity with crashed-out buddies on air mattresses, sleeping bags, or face-down on the floor. Hookups varied from boy-boy couples to boy-girl couples to a threesome when poor Gumball got sandwiched between the raven hair and the blond as they were running out of steam and he couldn't extricate himself in time. That, and the same brother who had formerly fallen asleep in his plate of nachos would awaken in the congealed river of volcano lava clutching what he believed to be the girl of his dreams, who would turn out to be nothing more than a pool toy (an inflatable flamingo).

Zinger, ever the gallant one, assumed that his Little Brother Torpedo would need his bed again. In fact, he hoped that the little guy would score. Without bothering to check his own room, Zinger had crashed elsewhere. Lucas found him in Arnold's room. He nudged Zinger gently, trying not to wake the attractive naked guy in bed beside him.

"Zinger? Psst, Zinger!"

Zinger groaned himself to semi-wakefulness, and for a moment was taken aback by the face of the handsome stranger who stood over him. "Hm? Wha… who the hell're you?"

"Zinger, it's me. It's Torpedo. Your Little Brother."

Zinger stared at him through confused, squinting eyes, which widened slightly as the clouds lifted. "Torpe—? What, you're not—oh, right. Right, right, right. Second beer." Zinger let his face fall back onto the pillow, his eyes closing again on impact.

"Zinger? You still awake?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Just resting my eyes."

"Where's Arnold? Isn't this his room?"

"He left with a cuite-pie around one. I assume he spent the night at his date's dorm. Or apartment. Or naked on the football field." Zinger squinted through one eye at his Torpedo, who looked disgustingly bright-eyed and alert. "What do you require, my newly-rejuvenated, hunkified little bro?"

"I'm going out. I wanted to tell you."

"At this ungodly hour?" Zinger looked at his bare arm as if he would find a watch there, realized there wasn't one, put his arm back down. "What time is it?"

"10:30."

"I repeat my previous statement. Ungodly. You have a good night in your new bodily duds?"

"Did I!"

"Score?"

"Nope."

"My condolences." Zinger's head plopped back down on the pillow, eyes closed again. "Next time for sure. You can decide if the new you is a top or a bottom."

"No, no, it was better! I met someone."

Zinger opened one eye. "Yeah? Your first time out?"

"Yes!" Lucas beamed, his former geeky self shining through. "He's cute, and he's got reddish hair, and he's smart, and he's got the most amazing arms, and we held hands, and Zinger!—He belongs to Delta Lambda Phi!"

"Good people."

"I know how we were going to go get me some more clothes, like for my new body." He looked anxiously at the naked boy beside Zinger, afraid he may have said too much.

Zinger glanced over at the boy he'd slept with. "Yeah, so we're still on to split the atom then?" Nothing. A soft snore. He looked back to Torpedo. "He's out. Don't worry."

"So, would you mind if I went shopping with him, Collin, the cute smart guy with the reddish hair, instead of you?"

Zinger let out a truncated snort of a laugh. He couldn't help it. Eighteen and geeky, forty and dumpy, or hot and muscled, Torpedo would always be a spaz. "You going out with a cute guy? Hell no, I don't mind. Go, go. Have fun. Avoid snooty clerks."

"Thanks, big bro. You're the best!" Lucas kissed Zinger on the forehead. He spun on his heel and dashed to the door, where he stopped and said, "Oh! By the way, my name's Lucas now. Instead of Luke Varden."

Zinger nodded sleepily. "Good. We'll need something besides 'Torpedo' to put on your student I.D."

Lucas dashed out of the room, hollering back, "And I changed your sheets!"

Zinger grinned. "Good man." Zinger rolled over and faced the sleeping naked boy, seeing again why he'd taken him to bed the night before.

Without opening his eyes, the naked boy muttered, "You guys're gonna split the atom later…?"

"With an egg beater. Go to sleep, you're dreaming."

 

Lucas ran out of the house to find Collin coming up the walk. He looked even better in the daylight. "Good morning!" Lucas said gleefully. Collin was in tan shorts, heavy-soled sandals, and had on another ringer T-shirt. This one bore what looked like a nutrition label that read: "WARNING: May Contain Nuts". Lucas wasn't sure how to greet his new friend (a handshake? a kiss?), but Collin saved him the awkwardness of having to guess by giving him a firm hug.

Collin looked his new pal over. "Isn't that what you were wearing last night?"

"I told you, I'm in desperate need of new clothes."

"Well, let's not tarry, then."

And he even used words like 'tarry'. Lucas had quite a spring in his step as they walked off, holding hands.

It was well into late afternoon when the duo exited the mall, laden down with shopping bags, seeing lights go out and safety doors being lowered behind them. Lucas was freshly dressed in a baby blue deep V-neck tee, tight Hampton denim pants (which flattered him considerably), a pair of new black Alexander leather slip-ons, and as an added indulgence, a wrist cuff. His bags were stuffed with hoodies, jeans and cords, jerseys and a couple spandex singlets. Collin carried the three boxes of new shoes (basketball shoes, checkerboard flats, and his flip-flops were tossed into the box which formerly held his Alexanders).

"Let me guess," Collin said, "we just blew your entire textbook budget on clothes." Lucas simply laughed, putting on his fancy new sunglasses. "It's as if you've never bought clothes before," Collin marveled. "You're like a kid at Christmastime. Do you get this exited about everything?"

"I didn't used to. But I'm beginning to look at life in a whole new way." Collin looked at him oddly, wondering what he meant, but Lucas continued before the question could form. "C'mon. I want you to meet Zinger."

 

Lucas and Collin entered the Beta Omicron house still chatting away. Their conversation was cut short when they got no more than a few feet in the door and saw their greeting party. Lined up before them, looking very official, was a committee of most of the senior members of the house, Zinger standing at the center of the lineup. Each man stood firm, feet planted at shoulder width, hands behind his back. Their expressions were stern. Zinger spoke in a tone that indicated supreme annoyance.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

Lucas and Collin stopped in their tracks. "Um, hey," Lucas said. "I was just coming to see you. I wanted you to meet…" But he stopped talking when he saw the angry legion he was facing. "Um… what's going on?"

Zinger stepped forward and looked Lucas over. "Quite the makeover you've given yourself there, Torpedo. Very fancy." He began to pace back and forth before the nervous freshman hunk. "I notice that you didn't consult with me before making your selections."

"B-but you said I could—"

Zinger held up a hand. "Ut! No back-talk, pledge. Understood?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes what??"

"Yes, SIR!"

"That's better."

Zinger turned to one of the brothers. "Would you be good enough to escort this…person—"

"Collin," Lucas (Torpedo still?) interjected. "Um, his name's Collin. Sir."

"Ah yes. The infamous Collin, the cute smart guy with the reddish hair with whom you hold hands." Collin looked insulted by the remark. Addressing the brother again, Zinger continued, "Please escort this Collin away to give us some privacy with the pledge."

The brother came forward, relieving Lucas of his bags and courteously taking Collin by the arm. Collin looked back at Lucas, clearly concerned, but all his new friend could give him was a baffled look. Lucas had no idea what was going on, but he was growing frightened.

"You, pledge," Zinger said once Collin was well out of the room, "have made a most egregious error in thinking you had any say in how you may present yourself within this fraternity… MY fraternity… without my consent, my approval. MY design."

Lucas's heart was pounding. He was eighteen again and he knew, since the second beer, that there was no going back. Was he going to be hazed, treated as any other dumb freshman, now that he was remade to appear attractive and fit? What had he gotten himself into?

"Zinger…"

"SIR!"

"Sir! Sir, I-I-I can explain," Lucas stammered, hoping he could do just that.

"Zere vill BE no explanaSHUNS!" Zinger yelled in a very bad German accent. "Men! Shee to zee puh-LEDGE! Mach schnell!!"

The brothers descended on Lucas, grabbing him by the arms and legs, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than he did when he was the geeky and underweight Torpedo of the day before. They tipped him forward, rapidly, so that he faced down at the floorboards, his body parallel to them. As he was tilted again, so that his head pointed down and his feet were straight up, the brothers set to work. They began to strip Lucas down.

Turned end over end, losing his sense of direction and position completely, Lucas felt the brothers pull off his shoes, his socks, his pants, his shirt. He was buck naked within one turn around. Lucas thought he heard Zinger say something to another pledge.

"Here, little man. You know what to do with these."

Then young freshman feet scampered off. Where was that pledge going with Lucas's wonderful new clothes??

Lucas had no time to worry about it. As he was spun in midair, the brothers began to tickle him. Much to his horror, Lucas found out that he was now extremely ticklish. "No! N-n-n-no! Hahahahahaah-NO-hahahahahaa! St-st-stopp!!"

The fingertips of multiple brothers played along his sides, on the soles of his feet, underneath his arms. Lucas was helpless. He was getting dizzy, and was now convulsed with laughter. One brother toyed briefly with Lucas's beautiful cock, giving it a playful tug and caressing it between his fingers.

"Ah-ah!" Zinger scolded. "We'll have none of that, now!" he chastised, sounding more like a grandfather than a frat president.

As Lucas laughed and twitched in the strong hands of his brothers, he felt something get slipped over his legs. It was loose and lightweight. An elastic band snapped across his waist. Then it all happened very quickly. Lucas felt himself dropped into loose flaps of denim as he was twirled around, something else slack and baggy yanked over his head. As he spun forward again, getting glimpses of his body and what could be pants and a shir— he wasn't sure—Lucas felt something snug tugged onto his feet, followed by something equally snug but of heavier weight.

The hard floor appeared beneath Lucas's feet without warning, making him stumble and sway. He was standing (more or less), he was clothed, but he had yet to get his bearings. He was still laughing.

Someone was at Lucas's side and yanked something atop his head, further disorienting the pledge. Whatever had been put there was then jerked sideways, making Lucas fall nearly over. As he tried in vain to hold his footing, noticing that all the brothers had moved back in a wide circle, giving him room, Zinger stepped forward. Standing staunchly before his Little Brother, Zinger watched as the giggling, trim muslceboy twink wobbled left and right.

Then Zinger blew on him. Phwuff. Right in his face. That was all it took.

Lucas toppled over, landing flat on his ass. Still laughing.

Zinger said, "Gumball?"

"On it, chief!" The tiny pledge dashed in front of Lucas with a digital camera. "Say cheese!" There was a flash of light and then the diminutive boy was gone just as quickly as he'd come.

Lucas sat there, dazed, confused, delighted. After he caught his breath, he gasped, "What the hell was all that?!"

Zinger helped him to his feet. "Easy, now, bro. You're probably still a little dizzy." Lucas nodded. No argument there. Zinger propped Lucas up in front of a full-length mirror that the brothers had wheeled into the room. Before him stood reflected the perfect image of a freshmen skater boy. Lucas had been redressed in wildly-colored boxers, and hanging on his hips nearly four inches below the waistband of the underwear, was a pair of ridiculously baggy jeans, the cuffs of which came only to mid-calf. Lucas could only wonder how high they'd ride if they were actually pulled up to his waist. A cloth weave belt was strung uselessly through the pant's belt loops, left mostly dangling off to one side.

Lucas now wore a T-shirt that looked to be two sizes too big. His pecs were plainly visible under the low-hanging collar. Across the front of the shirt, in a haphazard thrasher's logo, was the legend sk8tr boi. On Lucas's feet were a pair of ankle socks and some real lace-up skater's shoes. Atop his head was a ball cap twisted to one side, so that the bill protruded out over his left ear. The front of the cap bore the four Greek letters of the house.

Lucas kept right on laughing. He looked quite the little buffoon, but now because he seemed for all the world to be the typical college party boy. How different, he thought, from his last time discovering himself in front of a mirror, as the regressed Torpedo still wearing the oversized suit of the corporate drone.

Zinger approached his Little Brother and placed his hands on his shoulders. "Sorry, kid, but this is kinda how I always pictured you. Or, the guy I was looking for, anyway." Ignoring Lucas's confused expression, Zinger kissed him on the forehead. He then slung his arm around him and addressed the group.

"Gentlemen! In the sorrowful wake of that adorable little geek you just met's departure, due to some plausibly-explained reason or other, I would like you to welcome my NEW Little Brother, Lucas. He, ironically enough, is also nicknamed Torpedo, due to his relation to the other kid and him having the same last name (he's like his brother or his cousin or adopted foster exchange student or something). I trust you will make him feel welcome here." One of the boys began to raise a hand in question, but Zinger cut him off. "And yes! Before you ask, this Torpedo is every bit the mathematical accounting whiz that his predecessor was. Crazy, huh?"

The brothers just sort of stared at one another, then shrugged. Okay. They all offered Lucas a polite golf clap, then went on their way in various directions. Zinger stood beside Lucas, looking at them both in the mirror. "You did look sharp in your spiffy new ensemble, but I think I prefer you this way."

Lucas grinned. "I feel kind of like an idiot."

"Get used to it." Zinger gave his Little Brother a squeeze with one arm. "Oh, and I am so still calling you Torpedo."

"Okay."

Zinger whispered in Lucas's ear. "Got another surprise. C'mon."

Zinger led Lucas down a hallway past the stairs to a small room Lucas did not recognize. "Isn't this a storage room or something?" Lucas asked.

"Used to be," Zinger admitted. "Ages past. Back before our ranks grew. But it ain't no more." Zinger tapped his finger on the door, indicating a 5x7 sticker sign glued there. The sign bore the cartoon image of an astonishingly cute sailor all in white, hand flung in the air and a joyous expression on his face as if he were riding a water park slide. What he was astride was an old-fashioned torpedo. Below the sailor was the legend "TORPEDO'S ROOM".

Lucas looked at Zinger, eyes bright, his mouth open with surprise. Zinger smirked. "What, did you think I was gonna let you keep crashing in my room forever?" Lucas thought he might cry. Only a pledge, and he already had his own room. Lucas looked at his Big Brother with moistening eyes, but Zinger prevented his gushing by pushing Lucas toward the door. "Go on, you've got company."

Lucas stepped into his new room. It was much smaller than Zinger's, but was still quite nice. It already had a bed, a desk, and a small bookcase. There was a nightstand with a small lamp upon it as well as an overhead light up above. A small window looked out onto the back yard. There on the bed lay Collin, smiling as he saw Lucas enter.

"Nice place you got here."

"Thanks. It's new."

"A little cozy," Collin smirked, noting the somewhat cramped quarters.

"Actually, this is only a little smaller than the efficiency apartment I'd been living in," his friend confided. As Mitorpid, he tended to spend his money on things other than accommodations.

Collin sat up. "You know, I thought your brothers were a bunch of assholes at first, until I found out what they were doing." He looked Lucas over and let out a quiet laugh. "You look like you're twelve."

"I don't suppose you know where they put my other clothes, do you?"

Collin pointed to the slender door near the corner that was no doubt the closet. Lucas opened the door to find all of his new purchases neatly hanging up on plastic hangers. The shoes were lined up along the floor. His sunglasses and wrist cuff were set upon a small shelf to the right.

"I don't think I've ever seen anybody hang up clothes so fast," Collin remarked. Whatever their majors are, these guys have one hell of a future in housekeeping."

Lucas noted that beside the closet there was a full length mirror on the wall. It had a sticky note on the glass that read Thought you could use this. ~Zinger

Lucas paused to look at himself in the mirror. He was still amazed at his new body, his new life. He lifted up his baggy skater boy shirt and ran a happy finger over his abs. If he ever doubted whether he'd made the right decision, he didn't anymore.

Collin patted the bed. "C'mere." Lucas sat down beside him. Gently, Collin touched Lucas's shoulders. "What do want to do now?"

Lucas felt himself getting hard in his enormous pants. He felt a real attraction to Collin, and their day together showed him that they shared a connection, besides. But he was afraid of ruining things if he tried to rush it. "You hungry?" he asked.

Collin paused, a look on his face indicating that food was not what he had in mind, but then his expression changed. "Now that you mention it, I am pretty famished. I don't suppose your housekeeping brothers provide room service too, do they?"

As if on cue, the door burst open and Arnold stuck his head in. "Zinger ordered takeout for everyone. Hope you like Chinese." He set multiple white cardboard buckets on the desk and then departed.

Collin blinked. "Well. They could learn how to knock, but beside that, one can hardly complain."

The duo brought their sweet and sour, Mongolian, and Kung-pow delights over to the bed and began to dig in. Within moments, the door flew open again. Arnold said, "Sorry, Forgot. Zinger said to give you this, too. Compliments of Gumball." He pitched a small plastic card at Lucas and then vanished again.

Lucas held up the card and saw that it was a student I.D. Smiling back at him was his own face, complete with skater T-shirt and cap, caught in delirious mid-laugh. The name underneath read "Lucas 'Torpedo' Mitorpid". Birth date: 9-24-89. A smile spread across Lucas's face as dopey-looking as that on the card. He had his first documented proof of his new identity.

 

After dinner, Lucas and Collin sat on the bed, talking until the light outside the window faded and the room was lit solely by the glow of the bedside lamp. They seemed unable to find an end to the things they could discuss with each other. As they talked, laughed, and shared, Collin reached over and set his hand atop Lucas's. A distinct spark passed between them with that simple contact. Their eyes met and they just looked at each other for what seemed like a very long time, saying nothing.

Collin finally spoke. "Does that door of yours have a lock?"

Lucas got up and checked. It did. After fastening the bolt, Lucas turned around to see Collin already taking off his shirt. His body was amazing. Taut, slender, ripped with defined muscles. For a moment, Lucas just stood there, admiring him. Again, Collin patted the bed beside him. Slowly, expectantly, Lucas shuffled over to him.

As Lucas stood before the toned college man, Collin gently guided the skater's T-shirt up and over Lucas's head. Lucas looked down as Collin slowly undid his belt for him and slipped his baggy jeans down to the floor. Lucas crawled into the bed, kicking off his shoes as he went. Collin had already stepped out of his sandals. Collin laid back, and rested his hands on either side of his hips. Lucas took the cue and eased his friend's shorts off. Collin had on no underwear. Lucas just stared at Collin's member, which lay soft upon his abdomen. It was enormous. It was smooth, and hairless, and utterly beautiful. It seemed almost too big for Collin's body. Were it not for his defined muscles, it would have been.

Lucas shook his head slightly, admiring the tool which was thicker than any he had ever seen. Collin reached over and took his shorts, which still hung from Lucas's hand, and tossed them aside. He then fingered the waistband of Lucas's new boxers.

"I trust you've got one, too," Collin said. Lucas could only nod dumbly.

Collin slid the boxers down Lucas's hips, releasing the age-regressed freshman's own member, which hung long before him. Collin admired it just as Lucas had admired his, moments earlier.

"Wow. You're big, Lucas."

Lucas swallowed. "I-I think it's about to get bigger."

Collin smiled, dropping the boxers down to the floor. He could see how nervous Lucas appeared. Though he found it difficult to believe, given his appearance, Collin surmised that this could well be Lucas's first time. "Have you ever—you know, been with—?" Lucas shook his head, looking downward. Collin placed two fingers under Lucas's chin and raised his head up till their eyes met.

"Then we should go slow," he said.

Again, Lucas nodded.

 

The two young college men knelt upon the bed, naked, facing one another. Lucas still had his crooked ball cap upon his head. Thinking it looked cute, Collin had left it there. For a while they just looked at each other, savoring the moment. Their large cocks rested upon their legs, pressed close together. Tentatively, Collin reached out with his hands. He began to trace Lucas's shoulders and arms with his fingertips. The light touch of his fingers upon Lucas's bare skin sent tiny jolts of excitement through Lucas. As he reached down to touch Lucas's hands, Collin intertwined his fingers into Lucas's. He held hands with Lucas for a moment, rubbing fingers together, caressing his palms. Then Collin lifted Lucas's left hand to his lips and began to kiss Lucas's fingers.

For no reason Lucas could identify, he found his breathing was becoming a bit labored. For reasons he could identify, he found he enjoyed the feeling. Easing his right hand from Collin's fingers, Lucas rested his palm against Collin's chest and felt the warmth there beneath his hard muscles. Lucas slid his hand across Collin's pecs, pressing against him, stopping at Collin's shoulder where he felt and squeezed.

Collin moved forward, resting Lucas's hand upon his right shoulder even as the freshman squeezed the left. Collin massaged Lucas, moving upward to knead the taut muscles in his neck, and then drew his head closer. As their faces came close, Collin tilted his head to kiss Lucas. Lucas let him. Gently, ever so gently, their lips met. And for a brief and everlasting second, they kissed.

Lucas's eyes were still closed as their lips parted. This felt nothing like his kiss of the other night with the boy in the back yard. It was not extended, there were no tongues, but it sent waves of thrilling energy down his body. Lucas found that his fingers and toes were tingling. His head felt light for a moment, and for a split second the room spun. The feeling was as fleeting as it was unnerving. It was one that Lucas wanted back.

Releasing Collin's shoulders, Lucas's took his friend's face in his hands and kissed him fully. Collin kissed him back. As they lost themselves in the kiss, Collin brought Lucas closer and they embraced. Both young men stroked and caressed each other's backs as they held tight. Collin kissed Lucas's neck as Lucas breathed deep of his scent. Lucas nuzzled Collin's shoulder as Collin kneaded Lucas's ass.

They fondled and hugged for many minutes before tumbling backwards upon the bed, Lucas atop Collin. Collin pulled off Lucas's cap and sailed it across the room. Lucas smiled down at him in a way that lit up the dim room, inspiring Collin to grab Lucas and pull him down into another prolonged kiss. They rolled onto their sides, then back again, kissing and clutching.

Lucas was overcome by an instinct he'd resisted for decades, and pulling away form the kiss, made his way by tongue and lips down Collin's chest and abdomen to stop at his penis, which was now very hard, tall and thick. Lucas licked and kissed Collin's member, servicing the underside with his tongue, kissing the head. Collin clutched Lucas's shoulders and gasped. Collin tried to say something, to tell Lucas how good it felt, how much he liked it, when Lucas's hungry mouth slid over the shaft, swallowing most of the massive cock, and then all that filled the room was Collin's jubilant moan.

Lucas went up and down the shaft, amazed at what he was doing, at the freedom it brought, the arousal. He couldn't believe how good another man's penis could taste. He licked and stroked in a tantalizing manner, moving at first fast enough to bring Collin to the edge, then easing off so that the feeling receded, denying climax for a little while longer. Eventually, after fifteen minutes of agonizing oral taunting, Collin pulled out of Lucas's mouth and shot his load. It was a tremendous amount. Geysers of cum erupted all over his chest and shoulders. Collin gasped and laughed joyously as Lucas scooped up all the spooge with his fingers and offered them to Collin. Collin licked those fingers clean, then sucked them for good measure.

As Collin gathered his second wind, he pushed Lucas over, dropping his friend onto his back upon the bed. Collin then went down on Lucas, no longer content to suck only his fingers. Now it was Lucas's turn to gasp and moan as Collin took the massive cock into his mouth. More skilled than Lucas, Collin teased and sucked him for nearly half an hour before allowing Lucas to blow. Then, As Lucas tried to push Collin off of him so he could fire, Collin grabbed hold of Lucas's ass roughly. Not about to be dislodged, Collin singalled with his eyes that it was okay for Lucas to cum. He did, powerfully. Collin took in all of Lucas's load, and then sucked furiously for some time afterward, milking him dry while Lucas shuddered.

As Lucas lay there, spent and exhilarated, Collin decided not to allow him time to recover. Flipping the beautiful college boy over, Collin straddled his back. Lucas knew what was coming. He did not resist. By reflex, Collin reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled it open. There were condoms a' plenty within, as well as lube. The brothers had thought of everything. Collin put on the latex sheath as he began to finger Lucas's hole. Lucas groaned with pleasure as Collin prepared his entrance, lubricating liberally. Slowly, he entered Lucas. Lucas began to cry out, but forced himself to relax, for the muscles below not to contract. In short order, Collin was inside him and it felt incredible.

Lucas was wholly unprepared for the sensations as he was penetrated by someone with whom he felt a connection, someone he cared about. As he was filled by Collin, Lucas felt lightning blots of sheer pleasure jolt upward through him, from his ass up to the top of his head. Lucas gripped the blankets and sheets on the bed as he accepted Collin thrusts, rocking forward with each push, feeling his own member pulse to life with a new erection, rubbing eagerly against the bed. When Collin shot into the condom, Lucas could swear that he could feel the energy of the orgasm resonate inside him and reverberate throughout his body for several minutes after.

Collin fell away from Lucas after withdrawing. His head hit the pillow and his breath came in rasps, a look of bliss upon his face. But as Collin felt himself drained, Lucas became energized. Grabbing up a condom from the still open nightstand drawer, Lucas got up on his knees and put Collin's legs over his shoulders. Collin nodded, wanting Lucas inside him. Lucas obliged.

Lucas pushed and pumped into Collin, feeling his energy and strength grow with each thrust. As he continued to push his member into Collin's hole, Lucas feared he might be hurting him, but then Collin took hold of Lucas's waist to aid in the thrusts. Collin nodded again, encouraging his partner to push harder, stronger, faster. Soon the two were breathing in concert, each of them panting and moaning, as the pumping grew faster and more frenetic. Collin gripped Lucas's torso, and Lucas held Collin's ankles tightly, throwing his head back as he came. Both of them shook with the lingering tremors of the climax.

Lucas fell forward and kissed Collin passionately. The two continued to kiss and caress one another as their perspiration dried upon their bare bodies. Their lovemaking had lasted more than two and a half hours. But slowly, steadily, they lost momentum and allowed exhaustion to overtake them. They fell asleep in each other's arms.

 

MONDAY

The first morning of the week seemed to come to Lucas's bedroom before any other in the house. Sunlight peeked into his window almost hesitantly, furtively bathing the two young men in an orange-yellow glow. Lucas awoke first. He lay there, a sheet draped over his body, staring at the sleeping form of the college boy who had made such a connection with him, and whom he suspected could potentially love.

About ten minutes later, Collin awoke to find Lucas smiling down at him.

"How long have you been up?" he said, his voice groggy and still thick with sleep.

"Not long."

Collin propped himself up on one elbow. "What are you looking at?"

"Just you."

Collin stared back into Lucas's eyes, and again something they felt pass between them. Lucas wasn't sure what to say, if he should say anything. Collin touched Lucas's arm lightly, rubbing the warm skin with his thumb. Then he spoke.

"Stay for breakfast?"

Lucas laughed so hard he pitched right out of the bed. Collin sat up, alarmed, and almost shouted down at him.

"What? What's so funny? I can stay, can't I? WHAT?!"

 

As Collin showered in the small bathroom down the hall, Lucas jumped into his gigantic skater pants in preparation to make breakfast. He then took a look around his new room, to better familiarize himself with the new abode. In the drawer of his desk, he found a new laptop. Nice. He paused then, thinking of something he could do with it while waiting for Collin to emerge from the shower.

Not twenty minutes later, the two college boys were enjoying a meal of eggs, toast, and Peanut Buttery-Crunchies. "An important part of this balanced breakfast," Lucas smiled. The rest of their meal was enjoyed in silence, peppered here and there with glances when their eyes met, followed by shared grins. They had finished washing their dishes before the rest of the house had begun to stir.

It was still not quite seven when Lucas saw Collin to the door. They stood facing each other, holding hands, exchanging awkward words about how much they had enjoyed the time they'd spent together. They lingered a bit longer in a kiss, soaking up the contact and all that it meant. Each of them knew then, without saying anything, that this was the first of many nights spent together, of many quiet breakfasts. Before mid-terms, certain subjects would be broached, and words would be used such as "overnight bag," "spare shaving kit," and yes, even "boyfriend".

"Goodbye, Lucas," Collin said.

"Goodbye, Collin. I'll call you—"

"Tonight. No, this afternoon. After classes."

And then Collin was gone, leaving Lucas, still dressed in nothing more than his baggy skater pants, to lean back against the closed front door, sighing, where he then slid down to the floor, his head awhirl with a score of romantic images. His reverie was broken by the sound of applause.

Lucas opened his eyes to see Zinger, Arnold, and several other brothers, freshly woken from their slumber, clapping for their new pledge. "Congratulations," Zinger smiled. "It looks like my little bro finally scored."

Lucas scampered up to his feet, feeling embarrassed and proud all at the same time. "It—it wasn't that—I didn't—"

Zinger wagged a finger at him. "Don't you deny it, Torpedo. I can see that afterglow you're basking in from clear cross the room." The other frat boys laughed, a few were hooting. Lucas shook his head, hands up, trying to quiet them.

"No, no, no," he said. "I'm not denying it, it was awesome." A loud whoop from a brother at the back of the group. "But," Lucas clarified, "I wouldn't say I 'scored' or 'got laid' or anything like that."

Zinger inclined his head toward him. "Welll—?"

Lucas felt the dopey smile spread across his face. "I think I made love."

The brothers booed and hissed, several waving dismissive hands and emitting jaded groans. Zinger walked up and clasped his hand on Lucas's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Torpedo." He then switched gears almost instantly. "But! It is a Monday, and the last day of Drop/Add, and most of the brothers have classes today. Several of them are even planning to attend."

"So what do I do?" Lucas asked, honestly uncertain.

"Come with me."

Zinger escorted Lucas back to his room, and sat his Little Brother down at his desk. "Now, you may not know it, but you've been supplied with a—" Zinger stopped, seeing Lucas's laptop already out of the desk and set up. "Oh. You've found it already. What have you been doing?"

Lucas tapped away at the keyboard. "I've been checking my financial statements and making preparations to have some checking, credit, and savings accounts transferred into the name of my "nephew" ," and he made quotation marks with his fingers, "Lucas Mitorpid. I also e-mailed my credit card company to tell them that the purchases made this weekend were authorized and not to flag them or freeze the card. I checked my investments, which are doing well, and then did something I'd been waiting ages to do."

"What's that?"

"Send my letter of resignation to my boss at work."

Zinger shook his head. "You accountants. You think of everything. Almost everything."

"Almost?"

Zinger nudged Lucas aside and called up a site for the college. He clicked his way through to scheduling, entered a password, and then a class schedule appeared. "Here." He swiveled the laptop for Lucas to see better. There on the screen was the following class listing:

Mitorpid, Lucas T. Freshman

Gay Studies

Human Sexuality

Homosexual Imagery in Myth & Literature

Introduction to Gay & Lesbian Film

Advanced Modern Accounting

Lucas's eyes bulged. "Wha—you signed me up for classes? Gay Studies? Human Sexuality?"

Zinger nodded. "That one's a psych course. You have a lot of catching up to do."

"At least you gave me one accounting class."

"Hey, had to give you a class you could ace blindfolded."

"B-but… I've already been to college, I've already taken—"

"You haven't been to college as far as anyone here is concerned, and don't tell me you took classes like Introduction to Gay & Lesbian Film back in the eighties." Lucas shook his head. No, he hadn't. "I started you out with an average class load, Torp. You can pile on more later. Or cut back. Your call, bro."

Lucas nodded, staring joyously at his new schedule, his new life. He was really a college kid again. He was really going to be able to start anew.

"BUT!" Zinger said, index finger raised for emphasis, "there is something else I think you must consider before you begin your first class, which is at—" he glanced at the screen, "—this afternoon at 2:00."

Lucas shrugged. What would that be?

Zinger pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk and produced an old hardcover book he'd put there. It was a Beta Omicron alumnus directory. "I took the liberty of looking up my newfound Little Brother," Zinger announced.

"And yet you couldn't be bothered to find out if I was married or had kids before rewinding my life by two decades."

Zinger waggled his finger. "Tut-tut! As I was saying, I found a few pretty interesting things about you." He opened the directory to a bookmarked page and there was a photo of Luke Varden Mitorpid, all curly hair and buggy eyes, circa 1987. "You distinguished yourself during your time at Beta Omicron Iota Zeta for academic excellence, for your mid-term and finals study groups, as event planning overseer, as part of the Designated Drivers team, and etcetera and so forth."

Lucas nodded. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Zinger tossed the book over his shoulder, where it landed with a thud. "So where's the fun? Where's the lunacy?? You were in college, Torpedo! You had your whole life to be respectable! Did you have to start being upstanding so damn early?!"

Seeing that Lucas was a bit overwhelmed by his Big Brother's verbal assault, Zinger toned it down a bit and knelt down beside Lucas's chair. "Now just think for minute, bro. If you were given the choice to go back in time, to relive that era," and he pointed to the discarded directory archive, "the greatest part of your life, and yet do so with some more…shall we say, mischievous revisions, would you do it?"

Lucas made a frowny face, understanding what Zinger was getting at, but also knowing it was an impossibility. "That's purely hypothetical," he pointed out.

Zinger pulled his boy Torpedo up out of his chair and stood him before the mirror, where he saw his reflection. And there he stood. Shirtless, buff, openly gay. "Not anymore, it's not," Zinger said flatly.

Zinger took Lucas by the shoulder and spoke confidentially to him. "Now, you've already been through the pledge initiation process. Hell, you did it before most of us were born, no offense."

"None taken."

"So if you were to be given the opportunity to oversee a kickass fraternity prank, to officially kick off your new (excuse me) your renewed life… what would you do?"

Torpedo looked blankly at his Big Brother in the glass. Of course, he had never been presented with such an opportunity. He had no idea what he'd do. Then he smiled. Yes, he did.

 

Lucas and Zinger rode the elevator up to the main offices of Malaschend & Sween, Certified Public Accountants. Lucas had ridden up to the seventeenth floor more times than he could count, but always with a sad, lonely feeling in his belly. He'd never felt any level of anticipation, of excitement. Not while in this building. Until today.

Zinger and Lucas stepped off the elevator and though they did not belong there, they garnered no odd stares or glances. Clad in matching delivery service uniforms of ugly brown, they still seemed very much in their element in a bustling corporate office building. "This is the one, down here," Lucas said.

He directed Zinger to a large office with double glass doors bearing the name "SWEEN" all in capitals, arcing just above eye level. The office itself was crammed full of rows upon rows of desks, each occupied with a tired-looking man or woman, dressed in oppressive browns, heavy blacks, or murky greens. Their fingers worked hurriedly across computer keyboards and large multi-function calculators as they spoke snivelingly into headset phones with clients or superiors, their dead eyes staring at screens clogged with spreadsheets.

"Geez, I've died and gone to corporate hell," Zinger mumbled as they entered.

"You're not far off," Lucas answered. Then he pointed to the one man who was standing, or rather, tromping around like an outraged bull. "That's him. That's my boss," said Lucas, and he cringed a little just to be in the same room with him.

"Was your boss," Zinger corrected.

The man in question, J. Richard Sween (known to his employees as "Swine"), was stomping about bitching up a storm. "Goddamn idiot Mitorpid! Worst fucking time to up and quit! Worthless bastard doesn't even have the balls to come here and face me!"

"Don't bet on that," Lucas said to himself.

Sween continued raging. "Quarterly reports due! Accounts for seven different major clients due! That fucker!" He began shouting at other employees. "Curtis! I was supposed to have that Brendan Corp file on my desk an hour ago!"

A nervous man in glasses and a bad haircut flinched. "But you have me working on the tax forms Mitorpid left, sir!"

"Oh, for God's sake! Are you still working on that??" He spun to face another employee. "Witherspoon! You have got another fifteen minutes to produce those letters or you can pack up too!"

A jittery woman with her hair in a bun spluttered. "But Mr. Sween! You said to see to the Kaye documents Mr. Mitorpid left. Should I not do those first, or—?"

As Sween raved like a psychopath at the poor woman, Zinger leaned over to Lucas. "Looks like you did a helluva lot of work here, Torpedo," he whispered.

"Not to hear Sween tell it," Lucas sneered.

Zinger gave a curt nod and stepped up to a small reception desk just beyond the main doors. "Good morning!" he beamed. "I am in need of a signature here, if you would be so very kind, milady."

"Um, yes, I suppose so, just a minute." She was fussing with various lines on her telephone and juggling two different agenda books. Zinger handed the electronic document pad to her, and she snatched up the attached stylus. She was about to dash off the standard illegible scribble that passes for a signature on such things, when she stopped. "Oh, dear. Oh, my. This calls for the specific signature of Mr. Sween."

Zinger leaned over, looking innocent. "Oh, does it? Imagine! You'd better call him over here, then."

Reluctant to do so but seeing no alternative, the receptionist summoned Mr. Sween. He thundered over, his face red and nearly apoplectic. "What now? Haven't I got enough to deal with? Can't you sign for a lousy package yourself? Do I need to do everything around here?!"

Zinger handed the e-pad over to Lucas. He got to do the honors. Lucas stared at the furious Sween, the man who'd made his life hell for over fifteen years (he wasn't there yet when Mitorpid joined the company). Lucas liked the fact that this blowhard gasbag had no idea who he really was. Or who he had been. "So sorry, Mr., 'Swine,' is it?"

"Sween! It's Sween, dammit! It's on the doors in foot-high letters fer Chrissakes!"

"Ah, well then, Mr. Sween, this does call for your signature specifically."

"What the hell is it, then? We're not expecting anything! Who's it from?"

Lucas flipped the pad around and feigned the act of looking up the name of the sender. "I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Swine. It's from someone named… Weinstein?"

"I said it's SWEEN! And I'll be damned if—did you say Weinstein?"

"Yes, sir. Client of yours, I presume?" Lucas knew full well that Sween had been fawning over and sucking up to the Weinstein company for years now. It was well known that when Weinstein went exclusive with any service company (shippers, computer servers, accounting firms) that they sent a congratulatory package along with the announcement. Sween nearly drooled on his lapel.

"Give me that pad!" Sween signed rapidly, very nearly dropping the stylus when he was done. "Well? What did they send? Where is it?"

"It's an oversized parcel, sir," Lucas said. "We'll need you to allow our delivery men to bring it directly to your office by way of the service entrance."

Sween's eyes were darting about as he imagined with what gift he'd been blessed. "It's big. They sent me something big. Good, good. Well, don't just stand around, bring it in, bring it in! What are you getting paid for?"

Lucas touched the brim of his cap. "Right away, sir."

Arnold and Scott wheeled the small crate into Sween's office. They removed it from the dolly quickly and vanished without another word. They didn't stay to see if Sween was satisfied with his package. They didn't linger to explain why there were holes carved in the wooden box's lid. Nor did they stick around to fill him in in regard to the smell.

In the elevator, already descending past the tenth floor, Lucas and Zinger could still clearly hear the scream of outrage and disgust that poured forth from Sween's office. In fact, it was safe to say that just about everyone in the Western hemisphere heard it. Zinger turned to his Little Brother and smiled. "Why, it would seem that your former employer did not appreciate his fine gift of the greased pig whom we fed all those laxatives."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "The ingrate."

As building security hurried to the elevators in search of four young men from the parcel delivery company, no one paid any attention to the quartet of young professionals departing the main lobby, dressed impeccably in their business suits, smiling pleasantly, all seeming to have just shared some private joke.

 

Collin laughed hysterically. "So where did you ditch the uniforms?" he asked.

"We didn't!" Lucas said. "We stuffed them into the briefcases Scott and Arnold hid in the service stairwell. We had the suits on underneath."

Collin shook his head. "That is just crazy. So what made you decide to punk that guy, in particular?"

Lucas paused. "Well…he was always really mean to someone I used to be close to."

"Remind me never to piss you off then," Collin asked.

"Not likely," Lucas assured him.

Zinger stuck his head around the corner. "Sorry to interrupt, Torpedo, but if your little friend would be good enough to excuse us, we do have some fraternity business to attend to."

Lucas frowned at his Big Brother. "Zinger! That's rude!"

But Collin got up immediately. "No, it's cool. I have stuff to do this evening at my house, too. I should go."

He kissed Lucas, and though Lucas tried to linger, Zinger cleared his throat loudly.

"Down, boy." Lucas ignored him.

"Call me," he said to Collin.

"Bet on it."

As Collin made his way to the door, Zinger remarked, "Nice shirt." Collin had on another one of his infamous T-shirts, this one promising "Your Son Is In Good Hands." Collin smiled appreciatively. He and Zinger shared a knowing look. Zinger's said, He's my Little Brother, be good to him. Collin's answered back, I understand. I promise. No words were spoken, but Zinger did smile pleasantly at Collin, who then departed.

"You don't have to be so protective of me, you know," Lucas said. "He's a really good guy.

"Just looking out for my Little Brother. C'mon."

Zinger and Lucas made their way toward the common room, where planning was afoot for the busy week to come. As Lucas started to make his way into the room where so many of the brothers had gathered, Zinger pulled Lucas to the side, bringing him into the utility room where Torpedo had undergone his transformation from zero to hero. Zinger had brought Lucas there for a private conference. He walked admiringly around his Little Brother, clearly pleased and impressed with the new pledge's first big prank. Zinger had a duffel bag at his feet which he'd previously set in the room. Lucas had no clue what it contained.

"Hell Week starts tomorrow, my Little Bro."

Lucas blinked. "You actually have a hell week? Back in the day, we called it—"

"—Heck Week," Zinger grinned. Yeah, it's pretty much the same now. No torture, no abuse, no forced binge drinking. But! We do have a tableful of snacks, lots of cute boys, and a delightful variety of truly humiliating outfits. We gotta make sure you get to experience the joy all over again. Strip."

Zinger tossed Lucas a pair of giant, suspendered rainbow clown pants and a pair of floppy, fire-engine red rubber clown shoes he'd pulled from the duffel bag.

Lucas gaped at him, but found it hard to suppress a growing smile. "You said I'd already been through pledge initiation."

Zinger smirked. "Never said you wouldn't have to do it again."

Lucas flashed that brilliant smile that was already melting many a brother's heart. Without hesitation, he tossed his Big Brother his clothes, standing there with his eight inches swinging free, unembarrassed and actually beginning to get comfortable with himself. Yanking on the clown pants and stepping into the giant shoes, he could think only one thing.

"God, I love it here."

Zinger stood behind Lucas and strapped a huge, garishly-colored bow tie around his neck. It matched the pants. "Repeat after me, pledge."

Lucas could already feel himself getting hard inside his comical pants. "Yes, sir."

"I am big dumb pledge clown boy."

Zinger smiled, repeating, "I am a big dumb pledge clown boy."

"I am loyal to the house of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta. I am now and will ever be." Lucas answered, "I am loyal to the house of Beta Omicron Iota Zeta. I am now and will ever be."

Zinger then leaned in close to Lucas's ear and whispered, "And I am one hot stud muffin that any boi would love to fuck."

"You speaking about me or you, now?"

Zinger pinched his ass, hard. "Who do you think, pledge??"

Lucas recited, "I-I am one hot stud muffin that any boi would love to fuck."

Zinger turned him around and faced him. "And believe it, Torp." Then he kissed him. "Welcome back to your house, Little Brother."

Zinger once again stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his small digital. He pulled Lucas close and snapped the photo. As he did, he said, "Welcome back to Family."

Lucas's eyes flashed with gratitude, and as he started to tear up, Zinger slapped him on the ass and sent him on his way to join the other brothers, and his fellow pledges, in the common room. Off he went, giant clown shoes flopping and slapping against the floor.

Before joining the group himself, Zinger slipped back to the hidden room in the cooler. He went to the small shelf with its two items of the photograph and the envelope. Zinger brought from his pocket two photos which he'd pause to print off of his digital only a moment earlier. The first showed him arm-in-arm with the rejuvenated yet geeky Torpedo, dressed in his new Hawaiian shirt, an overwhelmed expression on his face. The second was him and the buff Lucas, the handsome frosh shirtless in clown suspenders and bow tie, flashing an appreciative and joyful smile. He slipped the printouts into the envelope and, on a small slip of paper he'd brought with him, scrawled a quick note. He knew not only that he'd made the right choice for his successor, but to whom he could trust the legacy of the Golden Keg.

Zinger tucked the envelope back where it had been and left the way he came, locking the door behind him and moving quickly upstairs to assist in outfitting the other waiting pledges. It would be some time before Lucas would be given the key and would read the note that had been left for him.

Torpedo~

Choose wisely, Little Brother.

Zinger

Until then, there was much joy to be had. Friends don't let friends' lives suck, and Zinger knew that Lucas had one awesome college life ahead of him. L'chayim.

END

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