It takes an enormous amount of effort not to stare directly into him, but you manage to halfheartedly make an effort to party. Fortunately, Moods is there to almost shove you onto the dance floor. It’s time for the Plottman’s Strut. No one knows exactly when this tradition emerged– most squabblers claim it started in ‘92, but Ute Corrigan and only Ute Corrigan swears they were doing it as early as ‘90– but this ridiculous line dance based on the ubiquitous Bruce Blotman novelty song is an important part of your program’s lore. It requires an intricate number of steps performed sequentially by exactly 13 people that need perfect timing, and for four minutes of pirouettes and points and spins on the butt, it occupies your time and you almost forget about Wump skulking on the balcony.
You’re in the corner a few minutes later helping Penny Jogg with one of her famous human dioramas of various history paintings when you see a scuffle breaking out on the dance floor between “Wolfman” Eddie Tufetti and Marcus “Mummy” Lintongh. The two were always fighting when they were too deeply in their monster personas, and you could see already that Eddie was about to howl and Marcus was readying his arms in what he called “mummy position” so he could start shoving him, so you yelled “paint spill!” and ran out on the dance floor. You grab Lintongh before he could shove anyone and you give the Wolfman a withering look and yell “heel” at him.
“Cut it out, you jackheads,” you say. “Let’s not make a scene tonight.” They both look at you and then start laughing before heading over to the cheese table while starting another interminable discussion about whether a werewolf could defeat a mummy depending on whether the mummy had access to a chamber where someone had left a silver chalice and you mosey away to go catch your breath.
In all of the hubbub, you had almost forgotten your mission. You glance up, and Wump has left his post. A wave crashes in your stomach. You look for Moods so you can panic. He’s off in the corner making fun of the monster boys and cackling. It’s clear he has no idea where Wump has gone. You slink off to an empty table in the corner and put your head in your hands. You let him get away. You were off partying and it’s over. Buck is going to throw the book at you. You’re terrible at undercover pants stings.
As visions of NCAA tribunals and demonizing newspaper editorials fill your head, you don’t even notice someone else pulling a chair up to the table and sitting next to you.
“I like how you handled yourself with those two knuckleheads on the dancefloor,” a man’s voice says. You look up. There he is. It’s Wump himself.
“Yeah, those two are always going at it,” you say, trying to get ahold of yourself and stop your eyes from bugging out of your skull.
“Coach tells me you're the captain this season,” Wump says. “And I can tell a fine one. “Hardtove Mangassasson, though everyone calls me Wump,” he says. “I do enjoy a fine squabble. The most elegant of sports, though one that has a beguiling poetry in the brutality. This looks like a formidable team. A formidable team. One that I think can go all the way to the finals this year. But I also look at this team tonight and I see something so awful, so unthinkable, so disturbing that a person like me cannot simply accept it. Something appalling that looks to me like an impossible barrier to success.”
“What’s that?” you say.
“It’s your pants.”
“Our pants.”
“These are not championship quality pants. Quite frankly, they’re appalling. And I aim to do something about it.”
“You know,” you say, “there are very strict restrictions about the…”
Wump cuts you off. “Of course. I would never dream of doing anything contrary to the various codes and bylaws of the NCAA.” His jowls undulate as he contorts his face into a wicked grin. “But you strike me as the type of captain who will do what’s necessary to win. And you’re not winning anything in those raggedy trousers of yours.”
He drops a card next to you. “Tomorrow night,” he says.
You shake his hand and nod and then meander off into the dying embers of the party. Moods is on the dancefloor, which has now devolved into a tearful Werewolf/Mummy summit as Eddie and Marcus embrace and vow to use their monstrous energies on carving up opposing warblers and botherers on the field.
Moods seems exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot. He has reached the limit of monster talk for probably the entire season. You bug your eyes out at him to get his attention and then mouth “it’s on” at him. He shoots you a finger gun and then the two of you huddle in a quiet corner where you show him the card showing a location and time late tomorrow night.
“We should go to Duckett’s to see him,” you say.
Moods yawns. “It’s late, dude. Let’s just head over there in the morning. Duckett’s probably asleep.”
You’re not sure if Duckett sleeps. You sort of picture him sitting around looking at a corkboard all night.
Go see Duckett now
Talk to Duckett in the morning
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