Disclaimer: I do not own Animal House.
Guess what, boys and girls?! I made some more Animal House fanfiction for all of you! Because I'm such a nice person.
Anyways, you may have seen this (probably not though) in a fic previously titled Futile and Stupid Gestures. Originally I was going to publish all of my Animal House fanfics in a collection, but I decided I'd prefer to publish them eventually. It's easier on the readers' brains to separate them, so they don't have to figure what the difference would be between a new fic starting and just a new chapter of the same fic. Besides, they get more attention this way. And I'm kind of a whore for that kind of thing.
I also decided to separate the events for this into different chapters. With all the events on one thing, it was surprisingly long.
So yeah. This is the Faber Athletics Festival fanfiction I talked about in my profile. Finally here after months of me saying it would be... and you being indifferent.
I'm basically rambling now. Time for content.
It was on a warm May evening that Hoover got an idea.
Hoover got a terrible, awful idea.
But did he listen to Boon? No he did not.
It happened when he was walking along to the cafeteria, a nutritious dinner in mind. It had come to his attention that he hadn't had sufficient protein that day. Though he does not always perfectly follow the recommended amount of nutrients one is supposed to consume each day, he makes an honest effort. This is much unlike his Delta buddies, who consider something smelling okay a synonym of nutritious.
The yellow flyer had it printed in huge letters.
The Annual Faber Athletic Festival!
In the foyer of Delta House, Otter looked at the sheet that Hoover had presented him with. He looked to Hoover, then back to sheet.
"So what do you think?" Hoover asked eagerly, hands folded.
"Oh, come on! I think it would be a good opportunity to redeem ourselves! In case you haven't noticed, Otter, we haven't exactly been in Dean Wormer's good graces lately." Hoover took the flyer back defensively.
Otter continued to laugh.
"And I think it may benefit us all if you encouraged the others to participate, Otter."
The laughing wasn't showing any signs of stopping.
"There may be a prize."
Laughing until he explodes.
"You can show everyone how much better we are than the Omegas."
"Victory sex will surely ensue."
"So when's the tournament?" Otter snatched the flyer back.
"In a few days, but we can still sign up. There are some events that require us to say who exactly is signing up for that specific sport in our team."
"Like dodgeball and skeet shooting. Skeet shooting. What the hell is that?"
"You shoot at clay targets."
"Well, they don't have golf. I'll do that instead."
"I don't think they're all that similar."
"Nonsense! They're both precision-based, aren't they? And they both involve smashing targets, don't they?"
Otter already was writing something on the sheet with a cheap ballpoint pen. "Eric… Stratton… for… skeet shooting. Well, Hoover, my man, you just sit back and let me handle the rest of this, alright?"
"Alright, but when you're done I'd like to-"
"Sorry, can't talk, have to go deliver this to the dean's office!" And on that note, he was out the door, leaving Hoover with a head rush.
That night, Otter attempted to explain to Boon the pros of participating in this event. They were in Boon's room, which was musty with… something (cigarette smoke? Pot smoke? Dust? Cologne?) It was not going well, considering that Boon had the nerve to bring up logic (hissss!).
"There is absolutely no point to us participating in this," Boon said, staring at the sheet explaining the rules and requirements. The bottom had been ripped off.
"Well, yes there is. I've already entered us in. We've officially made an appointment. You should learn to respect that."
"How does that even work?" Boon shook his head. "How do you sign 'us' up? As a team? You had to create a team before you entered?"
"Looks like it."
"Well, what the hell is that about?"
"Um, I don't know, dramatic license?" Otter tried.
"What does one wear when working out?"
"Ummm… pants?" he managed lamely.
"See? You don't even know! I haven't actually done physical exercise in so long. Neither have you. We're going to suck."
"Don't be such a pessimist…" Otter's voice trailed off. He was running out of points. Not that he had many to begin with.
"I'm not being a pessimist, I'm being a realist!"
Out of the blue, Otter shot up from where he was sitting on the bed. "Isn't it worse to have tried something and failed then to have never tried at all?"
"…Not when public humiliation's-"
"I do not regret the things I have done, but those I did not do!"
Boon sighed. "Okay. You know what?" He handed the paper to Otter. "I'll come to this thing. I'll give it a go. Maybe Katy wants to come…"
"Just a 'go'? When at first you don't succeed, try, try, and try again!"
The Annual Faber Athletics Festival
Gregg Marmalard, Doug Neidermeyer, Chip Diller, and twelve other members of the Omega household were stretching and doing other warm-up exercises. In a perfectly organized fashion, they stood exactly elbow-length from each other. There were various other teams competing, including a few fraternities besides them. The other frats could only watch and feel their jealousy swell at their stretching of their supreme, tall, and toned college boy bodies. They were all in some manner of workout clothing, mostly clean sweats and matching white t-shirts.
Standing as far away from the Omegas as possible were the Deltas. They stood out because, unlike every other student there, the only people dressed in what could possibly be called workout clothes were the pledges (and Hoover).
"I thought this was an athletics festival!" Pinto said to Boon.
"You're wearing jeans! Otter's wearing khakis!"
"… So?" Otter asked.
"How do you expect to run in those?!"
Boon made a running-in-place motion. "Like that… duh."
"No… I meant… uh… never mind."
One of the Deltas, Hardbar, looked around. "Wait, you said there would be beer!"
Bluto was walking towards Pinto, Boon, and Otter. "Yeah, where's the brew?" Interesting question, considering that he was already drinking from a hip flask.
Shouts arose all around them.
"Yeah, where's the beer?!"
"I want a beer!"
"You said there would be beer!"
"Where am I?!"
"What did Otter say about beer?!"
"My head itches!"
"My stomach itches!"
"This is my first time outside in sixteen days, I came out for the BEER!"
"Okay, guys! Settle down!" Otter demanded, unnoticing or uncaring that there were many onlookers frowning disapprovingly. "Look, I will see to it that everybody in this house will get their own six-pack…"
"…Should we win the tournament!"
Shouts of anger. A few beer cans hit Otter (proving that they were now empty-handed and indeed needed beer).
Dean Wormer took the microphone at the podium onstage. "Faber Collegians, it's an honor to welcome you to the Annual Faber Sports Festival! We have a large variety of events today, and I'm certain that there's something for everybody here today…" He trailed off for a minute. One part of the crowd of competitors stood out. What the hell were they wearing? It didn't look anything like the exercise-friendly clothes he saw on his other students. Polos, jeans, sweaters, button-downs, flip-flops, what the hell?
Out of the blue, it hit Dean Wormer just as he noticed a familiar smug face in the center of the group. "STRATTON!"
Feedback made everybody cringe. Once he recovered, Otter waved in a way suggesting that he was wholly unaware of the hate being directed at him in Dean Wormer's stare.
Dean Wormer cleared his throat as he caught himself. "Mm-hmm, yes, well, let the games begin…"