Location: ► Phi Kappa Delta ► Parking Lot◄
Interacting With: ► mentions
Coach Cee Lo Green
@HalfOfLancelot, interacting with anyone still present at the fraternity ◄
Isaiah stared up at his ceiling for five minutes, sleep fogging his mind to the answer of the burning question running through his thoughts. Why the absolute, God-fearing
fuck did he set his alarm? Isaiah couldn’t think of anything important that was happening that day – classes hadn’t started yet, so there were no deadlines he had to worry about. The senior made a point to never agree to outings with friends or whatever they like to think they are to him; that option was out, too. The last category was that it was a ‘Frat Thing’ and, like all things that fall under the category ‘Frat Thing’, it was bound to be unimportant. Not because the Frat did things that were unimportant to them, but because Isaiah found them inconsequential and extraneous. Confusion still present, but curiosity abated, Isaiah drifted back to sleep.
It couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes later – a second in the dream world – when Isaiah’s phone began to ring. This time it wasn’t the irritating Christmas jingle he set as his alarm – nothing annoyed him more in the mornings than Christmas jingles. In the jingle’s place was none other than “Cotton Eyed-Joe,” the song being the bane of his existence.
His eyes opened blearily, his bedroom unfocused to his sleep-glossed eyes. When he turned his head to the sounds of a redneck singing about STDs, brightness invaded his retinas like fucking warlords racing across fields with pointy sticks (spears, his mind supplied). Flashing across the screen was the contact name “Bootleg Bill” and Isaiah sighed, any chance of going back to sleep escaping in that one breath.
“Who the fuck calls anymore?” Isaiah slurred into the phone as he heard the heavy panting of his alcohol supplier – er,
illegal alcohol supplier. Considering Bootleg Bill was called, that means Isaiah had to refile today’s event under Important and that’s goddamn annoying.
“I do. Now, where the hell do you want me to deliver it, Walcott?” Bootleg Bill asked gruffly. (His real name was
Andrew and Isaiah just refuses to have an alcohol supplier named
Andrew. Jesus, imagine introducing him to people, “Hey guys, remember that keg I brought that one time that was decidedly
not beer? Got it from this dude. His name is
Andrew.”)
Isaiah scratched his wrist hard, the sweater he slept in itching and clinging to him with sweat. The burning sensation left behind woke him up enough to answer the illegal distiller.
“Uh, just drop it off at the, uh, the thing.”Fuck, what was going on today?
“Real specific, Walcott. Got an address for the-uh-the-thing?” His supplier coughed roughly, almost like it was around a lung full of smoke and Isaiah could only imagine that he’s on the last of his cigarette pack.
Oh wait, today was the bonfire.
Isaiah cleared his throat in some weird smoker’s lung sympathy, feeling that if he didn’t he might just choke on a nonexistent cigarette burn.
“Fuck off, I’ll text it to you.”Isaiah hung up before Bootleg Bill could respond, tapping in the beach address to the thirty-five-year-old fucker. This goddamn moonshine better be damn worth it.
With that squared away, Isaiah went through the daily routine. Even though he was late, there was no point in rushing him. Isaiah would take as much time as he needed and if his alcohol supplier had to wait a little for him, that doesn’t exactly seem like his problem.
His routine was quick anyways. He never did care much for superfluous fashion and so some basic jeans and t-shirt was really all that was required of him. Isaiah peeked into the mirror hanging in his room and lazily ran his fingers through his hair, deciding that it looked okay enough to leave the house with and the mussy look could simply be chalked up to deliberate bedhead.
From outside, he could hear laughter and loud talking of
those people, i. e. his frat brothers. He preferred to call them those people in his mind, it gave him some reprieve from acknowledging the fact that he was
one of those frat bros.
Peeking through the window blinds that he always kept shut, Isaiah pulled a black sweater over his head as he dispassionately studied them all. A couple of them were standing around a car and talking about, probably, cars. From the second floor, he could see the frat president Cougar? Couch? Cooch? (
Coach, his traitorous mind supplied and he shoved the name to the back recess of his mind). The dumbass was loftily holding a megaphone and Isaiah could already feel the headache coming on. The car some of them congregated around sped away and Isaiah couldn’t really say whose car it was or who was in it. Then again, Isaiah doesn’t know half the frat brothers’ names so who gives a fuck.
Fuck, if they left does that mean he’s going to be subjected to the administrations of
Coach Cujo? Nope, nuh-huh, Isaiah doesn’t fucking wanna. The only way to possibly escape
Coach’s Christina Aguilera’s clutches was to walk out, head down, face low, presence
invisible.
With that in mind, Isaiah softly padded down the stairs with the most twisted form of fury he could manage to pull onto his face. Hopefully, if he seems irritated enough, the assholes he lived with would leave him be? Isaiah sent a prayer to the fucking Lord when he walked out of the frat house and began to slink off towards his old lady car.
1x Laugh
