Aliens Wrecked Our Kegger - Author Commentary Edition: Chapter 3

The crowd was a mix of the upbeat, ambitious, drunk, really drunk, and sullen, with a few outliers who occupied their own category filling things out for good measure. After years of these events, it was about what Clyde had expected, although he did wish Dougie wasn’t in the “sullen” category. Despite being dressed well enough to look like he belonged, the hangdog expression and general aura of standoffishness was making sure that no one wasted time chatting with Clyde’s younger brother. Occasionally, he would swing by to check on Dougie, but as the party kicked off and things grew hectic, it was an obligation that Clyde couldn’t keep up with. Not when so many other tasks demanded his attention.

Hipster Tony had, thankfully, remembered to pre-heat the ovens. Not to the right temperature, but at this point Clyde would take any amount of competence from that one as a sign of hope. Of course, Clyde had still needed to receive the delivery, get it all set up, then coordinate with the keg and shot stations spread through the house, make sure he had the big guys working as muscle properly dispersed in case of fights or disruption, lay down plastic sheeting on the carpet, and all of that was before the first guest arrived. Once things started, Clyde’s job only had only grown more daunting.

He had to ensure every station kept the booze flowing, that food never ran low, that no section of the house got too occupied and overwhelming. The latter was handled by having special shots rolled out in the backyard every hour or so, only available until they ran out, to flush people from the crevices they’d settled into. There would also be activities later in the night, but the core goal was to keep the party circulating. Make sure people were talking, meeting new friends, and generally having a good time that kept them constantly engaged. This party was the promise of what Omicron Phi offered to its brothers; it set the standard for what pledges should expect. Anyone could get drunk on campus whenever they liked, doing it here was supposed to be an experience. It was a role Clyde took deeply serious, which was why he felt such a surge of frustration two hours into the event when Smasher showed up with an unexpected report.

“What do you mean, gone?” It was a waste of anger; Smasher could no more detect the vitriol in Clyde’s words than he could see the atoms that composed his beer.

“Gone. Just gone. I was doing keg checks to make sure none had been floated yet, and the one near the backyard gate fence is gone,” Smasher replied.

“And the brothers who were supposed to be watching it?” Clyde already had a hunch what the explanation would be, but he still wanted to hear it nonetheless.

Sure enough, Smasher confirmed his suspicions. “They went to get some of those fancy shots last time you had Sexy Tony roll them out. By the time they came back, the keg was gone.”

Of course they had. Taking a deep breath, Clyde shoved his anxiety down, using the control technique his many therapists had imparted. It was okay. He always assumed there would be some degree of error or failure during these events, and so Clyde padded the resources to account for such issues. It was early in the night to already be down a whole keg, but that was why redundancies existed.

“Smasher, go grab a new keg from the basement — there should be a few on ice. Bring it back to the gate and tell whoever is supposed to be manning it that if they lose another, they’ll be on kitchen cleaning duty with me as a supervisor for the next month.”

Someone stealing a keg wasn’t entirely unheard of; Omicron Phi had built up a stellar party reputation over the past few years thanks to Clyde’s management. The other frats couldn’t compete directly, so the occasional act of sabotage was used in a vain attempt to even the playing field. There would be hell to pay for whoever did this, eventually, but for right now Clyde had an event to oversee. And an actual sibling to check in on, for that matter.

With a quick scan, Clyde located Dougie. It wasn’t especially hard; he’d barely budged from the living room all night long. This time, thankfully, there was an unexpected surprise. Dougie was talking to two other guys. They both appeared a tad… off, when Clyde looked closer. Clothes that were a step out of fashion and didn’t fit quite right, posture that seemed a tad too enthusiastic for a simple conversation, big shining grins slapped across their faces. Given all those clues, it was easy to figure the new pair out: they were obviously exchange students. A few showed up to the pledge drive every year, and though only Sexy Tony had actually joined Omicron Phi, Clyde still tried to make an effort to welcome these folks. He just hoped Dougie hadn’t scared them off yet.

Strolling over casually, Clyde set himself down on the arm of the couch where all three were seated, putting on his best “Welcome!” expression. “Good evening, how’s everyone enjoying themselves?”

“Much!” The first of the student hopped up from his seat, eagerly reaching out and shaking Clyde’s hand. “Much enjoyment. Such refreshments, such energy!”

If that didn’t confirm Clyde’s exchange student diagnosis, then he wasn’t sure what would. Taking the stranger’s hand, he gave it a firm shake that had been practiced countless times. “Glad to hear it. I’m Clyde, the Omicron Phi social chair.”

“This is Zip Zip and Bloog,” Dougie informed him, still seated. Zip Zip was apparently the one Clyde was shaking hands with, while the slightly taller one with dark hair must have been Bloog. “They’re cool guys. We were discussing some of the new probes NASA is putting out this year and whether or not we think they’ll find any signs of life.”

“They will not. Too close.” It was the first time Bloog had spoken, and despite the cheery expression he seemed a little worried. Clyde didn’t pay it much mind — too long talking to Dougie would do that to anyone.

“Sounds like a lot of fun.” Clyde pulled his hand back from Zip Zip, who was still shaking it, and got off the couch. “You three enjoy yourselves, and maybe walk around the party a little. I think they’re going to be bringing out another specialty shot in a few minutes.”

Zip Zip and Bloog both grew visibly excited at that news, and although Dougie seemed to not care at first, he feigned enthusiasm when he noticed the other two brightening. Weird nicknames and speaking style aside, if these two could drag Dougie off the couch then Clyde would personally invite them to join. Anything that got his brother socializing meant less heat for Clyde to deal with.

Across the room, Clyde spotted Smasher hauling a keg through with one hand, coming dearly close to slamming into people several times. Clyde was off like a shot to clear the path. The last thing he needed was Smasher accidentally giving someone a concussion. That kind of event could kill a party’s vibe instantly, and he was not going to let anything go wrong tonight.

That resolve, as it turned out, wouldn’t even last through the next hour.

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Despite what many people may have thought, and the level of drunken fun that often permeates my books, I’ve never actually been part of a fraternity. Coming into college with my main passions being books and theatre, I didn’t expect it would be my scene.

However, I have attended a fair few elaborate parties in my days, and it was from those events that I drew inspiration for the Omicron Phi kegger. The specialty shot idea came from a party I attended called a Shot Scavenger Hunt where there were stations set up with people serving different shots, some good and some bad. The goal was to try them all and claim a prize… which was a shot glass.

I kind of wanted to work an event like that into this story, but one lesson I learned quickly in novellas was that pacing has to flow a lot differently. If my normal books are seasons of TV shows, then my novellas are movies, so they have to hit the ground running pretty fast.