EVERY TUESDAY, the Betas gathered for a meeting to deal with fraternity matters, such things as setting annual dues or deciding whether vomiting off the second-floor balcony was an acceptable activity. The brothers hated these meetings because it was the only time all week when no alcohol was permitted. This had the salutary effect of keeping meetings remarkably short.
Tug herded the brothers into the common room. Most had been in the pong room, where they were playing Splat, a traditional Beta pastime in which brothers scored points by hocking loogies to the ceiling and then catching them in their mouths when they eventually succumbed to gravity.
Tug called the meeting to order. He waved the latest Devon Daily in the air. “My brothers. We have a serious problem. We are under assault.” He began reading.