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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4657 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Standing in the basement of the Pi Tau house, Booker cast a furtive eye at the other pledges. Apart from Tom and himself, there were five other candidates. Four of the young men looked like they belonged there, they were the poster children of any American fraternity; good looking, athletic, and judging by their attire, wealthy. However, the fifth candidate’s demeanor was the polar opposite of his fellow pledges. Small in stature, he wore large horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to twice their natural size, giving him the appearance of a startled deer caught in a car’s headlights. He had the unfortunate name of Harold Horshack, and with his narrow, stooped shoulders, and pale, skinny arms flecked with freckles, he was a common sparrow amongst majestic peacocks. Every pledge except Tom outweighed him by at least forty pounds, and although Hanson was not muscular, he was wiry and more than capable of holding his own in a fight. Horshack was a fish out of water, a boy amongst men and Booker felt a pang of sympathy for him. He had a horrible feeling the scrawny freshman was about to be eaten alive.
The sound of two sets of footsteps descending the stairs echoed throughout the basement, and all seven pledges turned their heads in the direction of the wooden steps. Two Pi Tau brothers entered the large room, the smaller of the two wearing a welcoming smile and standing in front of the freshmen, he studied each one in turn before speaking.
“My name is Todd Stevenson,” he introduced in a loud voice. “Your first responsibility as a pledge is to learn the history of the fraternity. Your second responsibility is to memorize the name and bios of every active and pledge brother, the latter should be accomplished by say, nine tomorrow morning. Now, I wish you all the very best of luck as I leave you in the trusted hands of your Pledge Master, Michael McCarter.”
After offering a hint of a smile as a parting goodbye, he walked back up the steps and into the kitchen, closing the basement door behind him.
McCarter stepped forward, a smirk playing over his lips as he addressed the pledges. “Welcome to Hell Week, gentlemen. During this week, you’ll be put through a number of activities that will test your mental aptitude as well as develop your personal character. We will mold you into brothers, a brother who abides honor, trust, and friendship. As a pledge, you must do anything asked of you by an active. Understood?”
Booker leaned over to Tom and whispered in his ear. “Doesn’t sound too—”
“NO TALKING!” McCarter barked, his demeanor changing from friendly to furious in the space of a few seconds. With his shoulders squared, he walked over to where the two undercover officers stood and glared into Booker’s face before yelling, “IS... THAT... UNDER… STOOD?”
Wincing slightly at the force and proximity of the young man’s rage, Booker refrained from retaliating with a smart-ass comment, but he could not resist replying with a small amount of sass. “Yes! Sir!”
McCarter’s blue eyes narrowed as he studied Booker’s impudent expression. “Dennis Brody? Am I right?” he asked with a fake, toothy smile.
When Booker once again replied with a military, “Yes! Sir!” Tom barely managed to swallow down the derisive snort that bubbled to the surface. He was finding the whole disciplinary charade farcical, and once again he wondered why anyone would subject themselves to such ridicule. But when McCarter’s glare focused on him, he attempted to play the submissive part and dutifully lowered his gaze. However, he was unable to suppress the small grin that tilted the corners of his lips when he muttered his apology. “Sorry.”
“Seems like we’ve got ourselves a couple of wannabe comedians,” McCarter stated in a mocking voice. “Perhaps Brody and Harris would like to volunteer for our first activity.”
The two officers exchanged glances, but unlike Tom, Booker remained unperturbed. “Sure. Why not?” he replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.
A cruel glint flashed in McCarter’s cold blue eyes, but he quickly disguised it with a smile. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, and walking over to a long workbench, he gestured towards an assortment of knives, forks, and spoons that lay in front of a three-slotted utensil holder.
“You’re up, Harris,” he commanded with a smile, and when Tom raised a questioning eyebrow, the Pledge Master carefully explained the rules. “It’s really very simple, guys. When I say fork, you pick up a fork in your right hand and put it in the left slot. When I say spoon, you pick up a spoon in your left hand and put it in the middle slot. When I say knife, you pick up a knife in your right hand and put it in the right slot. Always keep track of how many utensils are in each slot. Okay?”
When nobody spoke, he emitted a sigh. “Begin.”
“Give ‘em hell, Tommy!” Booker called out, a hint of a laugh ringing in his voice.
“NO TALKING!” McCarter screamed, the fury in his eyes and loud resonance of his voice causing Horshack to tremble visibly. Several long seconds passed before he spoke again, this time in a voice that was calm but cold. “Fork.”
Tom glanced at Booker before picking up a fork in his right hand and placing it in the left slot.
“Knife.”
“Knife.”
“Spoon.”
“Knife.”
“Fork.”
“Fork.”
As McCarter barked out the names of the utensils, Tom tried desperately to keep up, but he faltered, and a knife clattered back onto the wooden bench.
“CONCENTRATE!” McCarter yelled. “C’mon, Harris! What are you? A moron?”
When Tom remained silent, McCarter’s hand gestured toward the end of the table. “Now over here, we have some raw egg cocktail, some buttermilk, some prime liver and my personal favorite, chili pepper. Actually, it’s really chili rub, ‘cause the next mistake you make, your brother Dennis gets to smear it all over his lips. Got it?”
Tom rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth. “Got it.”
“Fork.”
“Spoon.”
“Spoon.”
“Knife.”
“Fork.”
“Spoon... oops, wrong slot, Harris,” McCarter grinned fiendishly. “Looks like Brody’s gonna get to try the chili rub. Nah, hold it. Horshack, give me an egg instead.”
Harold Horshack hesitated for a moment before giving Booker an apologetic look and passing a raw egg to McCarter. With a loud crack, McCarter broke the egg into a glass and passed it to Booker. “Drink up, Brody.”
After a night of heavy drinking, Booker’s stomach lurched and a wave of nausea rolled over him. However, his stubbornness and tough guy persona prevented him from publicly displaying the queasiness that billowed within his gut. Instead, he licked his lips theatrically and with a devil may care grin, he swallowed the egg whole. Without missing a beat, he emitted a satisfied ahh and forcing out a loud burp, he placed the glass back on the bench and rubbed his stomach. “Mmm, yummy.”
McCarter’s expression darkened, but like Booker, he was determined to save face and instead of commenting, he spat out the names of the utensils in quick succession.
“Spoon.”
“Knife.”
“Knife.”
“Fork.”
“Knife.”
“Spoon.”
When Tom faltered again, he shot Booker an apologetic look. He knew the dark-haired officer was suffering a hangover, and eating raw eggs would add to his discomfort, but there was nothing he could do. They both had a part to play, and they needed to play it convincingly for the sake of the assignment.
“We have all day, and all night, gentlemen,” McCarter advised the seven pledges. “We will get this right.”
The game continued for a further five minutes, with Booker downing a total of five eggs. It was then McCarter realized he was not going to get a reaction out of the tough, dark-haired pledge, and so he changed tack. Smiling a tight, thin-lipped smile that did not reach his eyes, he ignored Booker and wrapping a companionable arm around Horshack’s narrow shoulders, he addressed Tom in a faux pleasant voice. “The next time you get it wrong, Harold here will get to swallow two rotten eggs.”
An unsettled expression furrowed Tom’s brow. “Hey, man. Isn’t that a little—”
“DID I ASK FOR YOUR OPINION?” McCarter screamed, the force of his words spraying a fine mist of spittle over Hanson’s face.
Screwing his eyes closed for a moment in disgust, Tom wiped the tiny droplets of saliva from his skin. “No,” he replied through clenched teeth, “but eating rotten eggs is gonna make him sick.”
Ignoring Tom’s comment, McCarter began his recital. “Spoon.” When Tom remained motionless, he stepped forward and yelled directly into his ear. “SPOON!”
Hanson threw Booker another look, but all he received in return was a slight nod of the head, and so with a heavy sigh, he picked up the spoon with his left hand and placed it in the middle slot.
“Knife.”
“Knife.”
“Spoon.”
“Knife.”
“Fork.”
“Spoon.”
“Knife… WRONG!”
The color drained from Harold Horshack’s freckled face, giving him the sickly appearance of a man who knew his fate was sealed. An evil grin played over McCarter’s lips and picking up two eggs from a separate bowl, he cracked them into the glass. Immediately the offensive stench of hydrogen sulfide gas rose from the tumbler, filling the room with a foul odor, and several pledges pinched their nostrils closed in protest. Horshack’s skin pallor turned green, and he took a step back, his magnified eyes appearing even larger as they filled with fear. “I can’t drink that.”
Seemingly unperturbed by the repugnant smell of the putrid eggs, McCarter held the glass out to the horrified pledge. “You will drink it,” he instructed in a low, menacing voice. “Because if you don’t, your dream of becoming a Pi Tau ends here.”
When Horshack reached out for the glass, Tom stepped forward and grasping hold of his thin wrist, he flashed him a warm smile. “Hey, man, it's not worth it. You’re better than this.”
Horshack’s panicked eyes flitted from McCarter to Tom and back again. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I have to. My father and grandfather are Pi Tau alumni. It’s a tradition. They’ll be so disappointed in me if I don’t get accepted.”
Unable to stomach Horshack’s pathetic demeanor, Booker attempted to reason with the Pledge Master. “C’mon, McCarter, this is bullshit, and you know it. You’ve made your point. Let’s move on.”
A sinister shadow passed over McCarter’s face, but when he spoke, he was surprisingly calm. “Okay, hero, maybe we should try a new activity. How about a friendly boxing match between you and your oh so caring buddy Harris.”
But Booker was not that easily fooled and tilting his head on one side, he gave the Pi Tau brother a wary look. “What’s the catch?”
McCarter’s lips twitched at the edges. “The catch, Brody, is if one of you doesn’t knock the other one out, Horshack here not only gets to eat the eggs, if he vomits, he gets to eat that too.”
The two undercover officers exchanged worried glances. Neither of them wanted to witness poor, pathetic Harold ingesting rotten eggs, but they also did not take kindly to McCarter’s obvious use of manipulation. However, they were there to expose alleged brutalities at the Pi Tau house and therefore, they both came to the conclusion they did not have any choice. They had to go along with what was asked of them… at least for the interim.
But before Booker could accept the challenge, Tom spoke up. “What if we refuse?” he asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Horshack’s stressed face. “Then what?”
“Then, Mister Harris, Horshack will be forced to eat the rotten eggs and when he spews them back up… and he will spew them back up, then everyone gets to enjoy the taste of his vomit because you’ll all be licking it off the floor.”
With narrow, angry eyes, Booker stepped forward and slapped Tom companionably on the back. “C’mon, Tommy, let’s just get this over with.”
Although unconvinced they were doing the right thing, Tom nodded. “Okay.”
“Excellent!” McCarter exclaimed with a wicked smile and strolling over to the shelves adorning the length of the back wall, he grabbed two pairs of boxing gloves. “Here you go, fellas,” he called out as he tossed the gloves to the two men. “Just remember, you’re to fight, not spar, got it?”
After a pledge had laced up his gloves, Booker knocked them together and grinned playfully at Tom. “Seems straightforward enough. Ready for a thrashing, Harris?”
Unafraid, Tom waggled his eyebrows and raising his gloved hands, he gave Booker a bring it on look. “In your dreams, Brody.”
The two young officers locked eyes and slowly circled each other; their brows creased in deep concentration. Several seconds passed before Booker threw the first punch, a jab-right cross, his fist harmlessly connecting with Tom’s raised gloves. Enthusiastic cheering from the sidelines encouraged them to spar, and he continued to circle Tom, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet and throwing punches when he saw an opening. Hanson fought back, but he was easily outmatched by his opponent, and sweat soon slicked his slender body. Adrenaline pumped through Booker’s veins, heightening his senses and he landed several vicious punches on Tom’s torso. Worried that he might hurt the smaller officer, he immediately pulled back, but McCarter’s loud voice soon echoed throughout the basement.
“GET FIGHTING, GENTLEMEN, OR HORSHACK’S GONNA BE FORCE FED THOSE EGGS!”
With McCarter’s threat ringing in their ears, the undercover officers' innocuous sparring soon turned into a vicious fight. Booker pummeled Tom relentlessly, his fists connecting with the soft tissue of the smaller man's upper body. Tom kept his arms raised, desperately trying to protect his face from the savage onslaught. But when Booker shoved him violently, he staggered backward, and his arms dropped as he tried to regain his balance. Dennis saw his opening and with lightning speed, he landed a stinging right uppercut to Tom’s jaw, the force sending the smaller man reeling before his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor.
Dropping to his knees, Booker threw one, last, brutal punch before leaning forward, and pressing his mouth against Tom’s ear. “Stay down,” he whispered, his heavy breath tickling the perspiration soaked flesh of Tom’s face. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
Humiliated by the beating Booker had given him, Tom desperately wanted to jump to his feet and continue fighting. But he knew he lacked the stamina and expertise to take Booker down, and unable to deal with the shame of being overpowered so easily, he blinked back tears and violently shoved his opponent away. “Gerroff me!”
Booker sat back on his heels and held his hands up in surrender. “Take it easy, Tom,” he placated quietly, the pain in his partner’s voice softening his dark eyes.
McCarter’s face came into view, and he grinned maniacally down at Tom. “One… two… three…” he counted. When he reached ten and Hanson remained lying on the floor, he grabbed Booker by the wrist and held his arm above his head. “We have a winner!”
Disgusted by the Pledge Master’s jubilant jeer, Booker pulled his hand away. With his gloves inhibiting his dexterity, he clumsily tried to help Tom to his feet, but Hanson pulled away, his lower lip pushing into a stubborn pout. “I don’t need your help,” he muttered and scrambling to a standing position, he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Worried Tom might have a concussion, Booker thrust his hands in front of Horshack. “Get these fucking gloves off me and someone help Tom.”
“I’m fine!” Tom snapped, but despite the exertion of the fight, his face was devoid of any color.
Once free of the restrictive gloves, Booker hurried forward and laying his hands on Tom’s shoulders, he gazed into his tortured eyes. “Are you sure you’re—”
“I SAID I’M FUCKING FINE!” Tom yelled and pushing Booker away, he stormed across the room and stomped up the wooden staircase.
When a warm hand rested on his shoulder, Booker spun around. “What?” he growled at Horshack, his concern for Tom bringing his anger to the fore.
Horshack’s pale eyes filled with tears. “I just wanted to say, thank you,” he muttered. “You know, for what you and Harris did.”
Booker’s dark eyes softened. “Don’t mention it,” he murmured and turning away, he addressed McCarter. “Are we done?”
McCarter’s mouth split into a grin. “For now. Enjoy the rest of your day, gentlemen.”
The five other pledges made a hasty retreat, leaving Booker and McCarter in the dimly lit room. When the basement door slammed shut, McCarter’s grin vanished, and his expression hardened. “You’re a tough nut, aren’t you, Brody?” he commented in a low, taunting voice. “I think I’m going to enjoy getting you to crack.”
Unwilling to give the sadistic college senior anymore of his time, Booker turned away without answering and exited the basement.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness