50 Shades of Khaki

It was a quiet night on Zebra Company’s deck. The sergeant of the day’s desk was empty and the sound of cadets gently snoring could be heard from the hallway. Despite the peaceful exterior, there were dark forces at work. One sophomore, Richard Hardonne, lay in his rack fighting a losing battle against the primal urges that commanded him. As he lay there, tossing and turning, one thing was on his mind: fish Muffley needed to pay.

As the clock ticked to 2:00 a.m., Hardonne finally made his decision. He stood up quietly so as not to wake his sleeping roommate, quickly donned his clothes, and slipped into the hallway. As he stealthily moved down the passageway, his mind was focused on all kinds of ways to torment the defenseless freshman. These thoughts began to stimulate him in ways he had not experienced since he was a fish.

As he reached Muffley’s room, he quickly jumped inside and expertly locked the door behind him without making so much as a creak. He saw a set of eyes turn towards the source of the light, then quickly shut as they saw the muscular frame silhouetted by the sink light.  “Muffley, get out of bed,” grunted Hardonne. He was answered by a dutiful “sir, aye, sir” as the freshman’s smooth, slender body bolted up and stood upright at his bedframe.

For a few moments, Hardonne looked the freshman up and down, mentally visualizing the ways he would overwhelm the the young man’s body. “Get on your face,” he growled in his very best drill instructor impersonation. Muffley started bouncing up and down. “One sir, two sir, three sir,” Muffley said meekly as his breath began to quicken. By the time he reached 50, Muffley was visibly tired. His skin now moist with perspiration. Hardonne stood there, hiding the emotions growing within. The sight of the servile freshman oscillating downwards and upwards aroused something deep within his spirit. Once the freshmen reached triple digits, Muffley was not the only one who was visibly sweating.

The mirrors began to fog up and the ground became slippery with the supple freshman’s bodily fluids. Muffley’s hands slipped out from under him as he finally reached the redass 121. “On your ass, you’re doing sit ups,” commanded Hardonne as the feeble being beneath him rolled onto his back. With each push upwards, the fish slid a few inches forward on the freshly lubricated floor. Eventually, he reached the feet of his upperclassmen. Hardonne kicked the greased freshmen back across the room, leaving a trail of sweat as he slid back on the linoleum.

“You’re at monkey humpers,” whispered Hardonne. Muffley bent down, grabbed his ankles, and began to violate the imaginary primate that lay on his floor. For the next few minutes, neither of them said a word as Hardonne stood towering above the crouching freshman. As Muffley’s knees began to tremble, his domineering pisshead became filled with the power of the Aggie Spirit. Hardonne felt the presence of generations of cadets who had made love to phantom apes before him. “This is what makes A&M truly great,” he thought, tears in his eyes.

After a quick command to stop, Hardonne returned to his room a renewed man. He had just taken part in the Corps of Cadets’ most sacred tradition. From the outside looking in, there is no way to explain what truly happened in that room. However, in the words of Old Rock himself, “Nothing is more beautiful than pisshead, a fish, and a roomful of sweat.”

 

—Hazed and Confused