bitty, the only good LAX bro, decides to join a frat
“Dude, what the fuck is that smell?”
Ransom, Holster, and Shitty paused on the sidewalk just outside the Haus. Holster sniffed the air, nose raised like a bloodhound on the hunt. Shitty and Ransom stared at him, bemused.
“The LAX frat,” Holster clarified after a moment, eyes narrowing. “It smells…like love.”
“To reiterate my earlier statement,” Shitty said, arms crossed. “What?”
“I think I smell it,” Ransom said turning his head towards the LAX house. “Is that…peach?”
“Arsenic smells like peach, doesn’t it?” Holster asked, eyes bugging hysterically.
“Nah, that’s almonds, brah,” Shitty said easily. “But if you’re worried…”
Holster was already across the street. Ransom sighed and looked at Shitty. “If they run out of chicken tenders before we get there, you’re buying me McDonald’s.”
“Sure, sure,” Shitty said, and they crossed the street to follow Holster in his mission. When they caught up to him, he was staring in a first-floor window of the house, mouth agape. Shitty and Ransom squeezed in next to him, eyes growing wide as they looked inside.
The kitchen of the LAX frat – once even more disgusting than their own – was spotless. Beyonce played softly from someone’s iPhone and the smell of cooking peaches and sugar and butter wafted from the open window.
In the middle of it all was a dude – a LAX bro, probably – washing bowls and pans and a cutting board, singing along to the music. He had a sweet face and wore a faded MCHS FOOTBALL t-shirt that stretched too tight over his shoulders and arms.
“He doesn’t seem evil,” Ransom said, realizing too late he’d spoken aloud. The guy turned, startled, and dropped several, soapy measuring cups to the ground.
“Oh!” He said. “Um. Hi?”
“Shits, you’re pre-law,” Holster said, tapping his chin. “Is kidnapping someone illegal if you’re saving them from the lacrosse team?”
“IDK, man,” Shitty said seriously. “That’s kind of a gray area.”
The guy frowned and stooped to pick up the measuring cups. “Can you wait until this pie’s cooked before any…kidnapping happens? I cannot abide a burnt pie.”
“Can we have pie?” Ransom asked, eyes hopeful. The guy smiled.
“Well, of course! Unless you’re on the hockey team,” he joked. “I’m not supposed to talk to hockey players.”
“Uhh…” Ransom and Holster exchanged a look.
“Do we look like hockey players?” Shitty asked with a snort. “We’re clearly…um…in a frat?”
“Yeah,” Ransom chimed in. “Delta…Epsilon…Faber.”
“DEF, yeah, that’s us,” Holster agreed. “You should, uh, consider us during Rush next week.”
“Oh, cool,” the guy said, grinning. “I’m Eric, by the way. Or Bittle, that’s what my teammates call me.”
“Nice, we’re uh…Adam, Justin, and…B,” Ransom said carefully. “The brothers of Delta Epsilon Faber. At your service.”
Eric grinned at them, sunny and sweet, and waved a hand. “Well, come on in. There’ll be enough pie for everyone, and y’all can tell me all about DEF while we wait for it to finish.”
The hockey boys exchanged a look, then quickly scrambled to the front door. Some men were led to poor decisions by thinking with their “downstairs brains;” they, however, made all of their mistakes while thinking with their stomachs.