If you’ve been outside at least once this week, you have probably seen a strange sight. Dozens of sorority girls cluster around small tables at Russell House, outside Darla Moore, on Greene Street, on that bridge that’s near Gambrell that I can’t remember the name of, waving their giant inflatable cheek swabs and shouting passive aggressively at you for five minutes of your time. I don’t care that it only takes five minutes, Emily, I gotta get to class. Bitch.
The sorority girls claim that they need DNA samples to see if you are a match for potentially lifesaving cancer surgery or something like that, but we at the Third Spur aren’t so easily satiated. We knew something was up, and we wanted to get to the bottom of it.
Recall, if you will, back to September of 2022. Rumors begin spreading that cloning tubes had been found under sorority houses in Greek Village, and that these social clubs were not clubs at all, but nefarious institutions bent on world domination. The interfraternal council scrambles to cover it up, but the rumors keep spreading. A brave delegation of students volunteers to break into a sorority house and uncover the truth, but then, all of a sudden, the football team starts winning. And keeps winning. And like an unintended fart in my 200 person lecture hall, the rumor fades into obscurity.
One day, as I was out on one of my weekly outside journeys (we Third Spur writers avoid going outside, the sun burns our tender skin), I decided to do some investigative reporting. I would find out once and for all why the sorority girls really wanted my cheek swab. Was it for cancer research? Doubtful. For a “good cause,” as they chant on the street? Unlikely. Something more nefarious? Perhaps.
Nervous, I clenched my hands into tight fists, gluing my arms to my sides. My breathing quickened, if my cover was blown, the consequences could be dire. I could hear my heartbeat throbbing through my body. My face turned cherry red as I approached the table. The girl standing there said, “Hi, have five minutes to help a good cause?”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so.” I squeaked out.
“Ok…” she gave me a weird look, up and down. “Let me see if I can get you a swab.”
As I waited for her return, unsure of my fate, another victim approached, a simpleton, drawn in by the siren song. A tall, thin girl with bleached blonde hair, wearing Lululemon gym clothes approached. Almost instantly, another volunteer appeared:
“Hi, have five minutes to help a good cause?”
“Of course, just tell me what I need to do!” the newcomer responded, excitedly.
“Great! Just follow me, and we’ll get you all set up!”
That’s odd, I think to myself, waiting patiently for my volunteer to return. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Now I’m late to class. And finally, my volunteer returns:
“You’re a reporter, right? For the Third Spur?”
How would she know this, we publish anonymously and have no social lives. Something nefarious is clearly afoot, but I press on, for the sake of truth.
“Yeah, I do. How did you know?”
“We have our sources. If you follow me, I can give you more details and let you talk to our president. We’d love to use your outlet to get our message out!”
Nervous, I oblige her: “I guess that’s fine, where do you need me?”
“Just follow me.”
I am taken back to a small trailer where a bag is placed over my head. All of a sudden, I feel a fist on the top of my head.
“OW, WHAT THE HELL!”
“Ohmygod, Jenna, you’re so weak! Let me do it”
“Sorry I only run on the elliptical, Emily.”
Then, a harder blow, and it fades to black.
I awake in a dark, damp basement. The room reeks of Febreze and scented candles, and I can hear Taylor Swift in the distance, faintly. Three tall, bleach-blonde, identical figures appear out of the shadows, Starbucks Pink Drink in hand.
“Welcome to Zeta Alpha Chi! We’re so happy you’re here. I see you’re new clothes fit.”
I look down. I’m wearing a crop top, one that shows a little too much cleavage, and some skin tight Lulu shorts. I must admit, it does feel buttery soft.
“You look thirsty, here, we got one for you.”
They hand me a Pink Drink. It looks like the bodily excretion of some horrific alien creature. I refuse to take a sip.
“I don’t want to. It looks gross. And- and for girls.”
“Ohmygod, just like, tryyyy it. You might love it!”
“No. I refuse.”
The girl in the middle snaps her fingers. Two more identical girls pop out from the sides, they restrain my arms. I try to resist, but the tight fitting clothes restricts my movement. The girl in the middle approaches me, feeding tube in hand.
“You could’ve like, done this the easy way, but now we have to do it like, the hard way.”
I strain with all my power to resist. I become delirious from the oxygen loss, as the cute top restricts my breathing. The tube is forced down my throat, and the fluid begins to flow.
Two months have passed since I’ve been in the ZAlphaChi basement (Go Zetas!). The Lululemon has been permanently fused to my skin. I sustain myself purely off of Pink Drink and Starbucks cake pops (also salad, to keep my hourglass figure). My favorite activities include jamming to Meg with my sisters, and playing hard to get with frat guys at TLC.
“Ohmygod, Tammy, your tan looks, like, so natural!”
“I know! I’ve been going to this new place near the Vista, and they’re like totally…”
The conversation fades as I remember my old life as an antisocial Third Spur reporter. The memories are distant, mere whispers a former life. My life is now Zeta Alpha Chi (Go Zetas!). And I love it.