The distinct smell of hotdogs searing on the grill brought me back to Babylon.

The smoke twisted and turned, the wisps of grey dancing, enveloping me until they gently dissipated in the breeze, lost in the vibrant blue sky smiling down on Langdon.

Food. That's something normal people do, but I'm not one of them. Discovering the fluid, writhing mass of orangish-purple rush shirts gathering on the front patio below me, I had a sinking feeling food might be the least of my worries.

"Blivas, can you lend me a helping hand setting up for the rush event, Brother?"

My eyes were closed but, but the voice was heard. The voice -- who does it belong too? It doesn't matter, the request was made. He invoked the Helping Hand; nothing I can do now but acquiesce. Arthur Chase and Frederick Norton Freeman -- Theta Chi founders -- are watching. The magic words were spoken. Losses can be cut, however, should I nail this setup without blowing my cover. Maybe I can slip back into my room unnoticed.  

However, something tells me --

"Hi, man! What's your name?" uttered the mouth attached to the oddly shaped blonde head. Focus, steady yourself. It appears as if this person, no -- this freshman, is trying to greet me in the traditional manner as dictated by our western capitalist society. Good, god, I thought, I'm getting ahead of myself. This kid hasn't even experienced a game day, yet, and here he is face to face with a monster three years down the rabbit hole. No way would he understand what lies ahead. 

Whatever. To quote the good Doctor Thompson, "No point mentioning those bats. The poor bastard will see them soon enough."