50 Shades of Purple, Chapter Two: The Battle for the Keg

“At first I was like, ‘You know, it might not be such a great idea to go skinny dipping in the Amazon with a bottle of Patron and the entire San Diego Chargers Charger Girls squad,’ but then I was just like, ‘YOLO.'” -Morton O. Schapiro It’s a Monday evening, and my roommates are pregaming the pregame for the Keg. I’ve had a pretty stressful day in Journalism 301, filled with lots of hard-hitting pestering of innocent yuppies reporting for my enterprise story, and it’s time for me to kick back and relax. I pop a bottle of Peach Andre and my night has begun. “How was your interview with Ross Packingham?” asks Beverly Brooke, my roommate and consummate frenemy. “Intriguing. There’s something secretive about him that I can’t figure out. Is it true he once had a threesome with a Theta and Willie the Wildcat in the library stacks?” “I heard it was with Stephen Colbert and two theater majors on South Beach while Andrew Bird played in the background,” Beave answers, “But that’s just what I read once on College ACB.” We finish off our bottles of Andre while watching Say Yes to the Dress and head over to Alpha Delta for the true pregame. The second we step into the basement, our senses are assaulted by skunked beer, bros in tank-tops, and Katy Perry. Lots of Katy Perry. “WOOOOOOOOOO” shouts Beave as “Teenage Dream” comes on, and immediately begs a frat brother who looks suspiciously similar to an Asian Nic Cage (and almost as belligerent) to let her take a beer pong celeb shot. I leave to get myself a drink. I pour myself some Mohawk vodka into a solo cup of Busch Light, which I affectionately dub ‘The Bobb,’ because the drink’s always a party and smells like piss. The Alpha Delta brothers are getting rowdy. Some jackass tries to hit on me by asking which Vice President I’m most sexually attracted to, only to leave the next moment muttering to himself about the similarities between House Republicans and gonorrhea. “KEG! KEG! KEG!” The Alpha Delta brothers shout. I down my drink and steel myself for the heinous that is to come. ————————————– HE’S HERE! OMIGOD HE’S HERE!!! It takes me a little while to recognize the man before my eyes, but after I adjust to the hedonism around me and get over the brief torrent of terror that shot through me as the Keg bouncer took an additional five seconds to ensure that I truly am the 25-year-old Beyonce Lovato from Anchorage, Alaska that my ID said I was, I realize that I really am beholding the elusive Ross Packingham, HERE, in the flesh, at the Keg! Gorgeous as all hell and with a gleam in his eye, Packingham is freaking the night away with some co-ed like he’s Channing Tatum on ecstasy. “Carla!” He shouts, “Carla Rossi! Over here!” He’s beckoning me over to join him and his slam-piece on the dance floor, and I head his way. And then, with a tremendous blast, the door of the Keg comes crashing down. A dark, shrouded figure looms large in the doorway. For a moment everything stops, douchebags freeze mid-thrust where they were dancing, and even that one townie playing pool turns to look. The only sound is that of Ludacris’ verse on “Baby” as Mayor Tisdahl, clad in combat boots, night-vision goggles, and a James Taylor t-shirt, fully armed with a crowbar and flanked by a cadre of Evanston cops, steps into the neon light of the Coors Light sign. “My sources tell me that there’s been underage drinking in this establishment,” Mayor Tisdahl growls, tossing the disemboweled corpse of an engineer into the stunned crowd. “You can thank this snitch here. Now I’m going to shut this motherfucker down once and for all.” All hell breaks loose as Elizabeth Tisdahl and her police posse attack. Intoxicated and sweaty bodies frantically jostle with one another (not unlike the Keg on a normal Monday night) as Tisdahl brutally swings her crowbar with reckless abandon at poor defenseless English majors and ETHS seniors while the cops gleefully cite students for underage drinking by the score. “That’s for yacking on the Evanston Post Office!” screams Tisdahl as she brains a Comm Studies student with her crowbar as he tries to scuttle up a stripper pole. “And this will teach you to holler about blowjobs on MY streets!” she adds, sucker-punching a Tri Delt like she’s Michael Barrett squaring off against A.J. “Say blowjob one more time. I FUCKING DARE YOU!” I can’t bear the sight of her pile-driving two foreign students through a window, and quickly duck under a booth and pray that God will save me, or at least turn off the Bieber that’s still playing if I am to be summarily executed by Mayor Tisdahl in this den of debauchery. The Keg has all but cleared out as I cower in fear, watching Tisdahl and her cops methodically pour big cups of Bud Light and handles of Svedka and Wild Turkey all over the Keg’s walls and floors. Tisdahl shoulders her crowbar and lights a cigarette. Turning with a menacing gait, she addresses the few remaining students. “Based on what I see here, I think that the Keg has some grave public safety concerns. I’m revoking the Keg’s license,” she flips her cigarette onto the booze-soaked floor, “Permanently.” The flames erupt immediately, burning away years of sin and memories. Students scream, and Tisdahl laughs, but just as she turns to leave a gallant figure, wearing nothing but an enormous purple cape, bursts through the Keg’s window riding on the back of a dashing wildcat. “MORTY SCHAPIRO!” everybody cheers as the lionhearted president rushes to their defense. His body is lithe and stately, glistening in the fiery inferno as his beard bristles with the white-hot intensity of a hundred thousand Pat Fitzgeralds. “Oh no you don’t, Tisdahl!” cries Morty, slapping the Mayor back with his massive […]