Instead of the dulcet repetitive tones of my alarm, I could hear the strident voice of Longhorn just outside the door. This meant that it had to be Sunday. It had to be 12:07 PM on Sunday, because the fire-and-brimstone adjectives of Longhorn had worn a verbal furrow during the weekly seven minute commute he made with his congregation of like minded friends after mass. His weekly sermon vilified my absent person. My usual response was to insulate myself from his intolerance with my comforter and keep sleeping.
But since my slothful body was actually awake prior to the conclusion of his ranting, I decided to respond to his allegations subtly. After all, I had a raging hangover from my Saturday intemperance. I slipped over to my mirror, and teased my naturally unruly hair into to opposing sets of hair-horns. I then threw on some dark, dirty clothes from my hamper, and slunk over to my desk and sat in front of a pile of half-opened books. The verbal castigation ceased. This was the point when the puritans usually pranced into the room and branded scarlet letters on my sheet covered form with righteous eyes.
Instead of the usual quiet room of acquiescence, the group spied me, lit from behind by the devilish glow of mid-afternoon sun. I bared my teeth and waived. If I had a pitchfork, I would have shaken it furiously. The door swung back shut and didn’t re-open, which led me to cackle madly as I heard them run off down the corridor in search of holy water. With my daily objective of roommate annoyance satisfied, I went in search of the “cabal” to see who would be interested in using their remaining weekly meal plan points to buy copious amounts of dry cereal to stockpile for late night snacking. Everyone was gone. Finally, I tracked down Secret at his computer working at an efficient pace.
“What’s going on?” I asked, disregarding all of the idle drunk banter of the previous night.
“This!” He said with a flourish, whipping a sheet off the printer. “Our comrade, the Party Member, and Sweet are out making the requisite copies.”
The paper proclaimed a simple message pertaining to the under-garment situation in the Men’s room.
“Nice. And here I thought you were actually doing schoolwork.” I chuckled.
“No – E-mailing.” He said. “So, what do you know about making fake ID’s?”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “We’re actually going to do this? We’re going to form this – what was it – “junta” – that you talked about – and do stuff?”
“Sure, barbarian.” He said amicably. “We’ve already taken our first club action, and note that you’re now a co-conspirator of our little bunch, as we’ve satisfied whatever conditions you had. But it’s a ‘cabal’, as a ‘junta’ already rules, and we’re more of less trying to subvert power, so ‘cabal’ it is. And also note, that we declined to offer admission to Home School, because he can’t hold his liquor, pees himself when he’s drunk, and it also turned out that he was the owner of the nasty undergarments in the restroom, and The Man and I merely tolerate him here, because he’s good people, but really, we don’t want to hang out with him all the time, now, do we?”
“Alright.” I said sitting down. “This is a lot to tell someone before he gets eight cartons of cereal.”
“Ah, I need to procure some Apple Jacks as well for the coming drunkenness.” He noted. “So I will journey with you to the paragon of price-gouging, the Mart of Bears. When we get back, you and I will take care of the requisite identification card we will need to complete this scheme.”
“Alright.” I said, rising and moving toward the hall. “So who’s in?”
“Everyone! Except Home, as noted earlier.”
“Hmph.” I said eloquently. “Well, at least we’ll all have company in our cells.”