The Kappa Deltas gathered outside for a third night in row, singing the same incessantly droll songs, hooting at the fraternity pledges passing by in convertibles, and blathering on and on about how much spirit they had. Scott and I sat at our desks, fretting over an impending deadline racing toward us the following morning.

Scott stood, his lanky form filled the glass doors out onto the balcony; he gripped the frame of the door with both hands, squeezing them until the tendons stood out on the back of his forearms.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said quietly. Then, a bit louder, “Shut up.”

He wrenched open the door, stepped out on the balcony, leaned against the balustrade and after taking a deep breath, he screamed, “Shut. The fuck. Up!”

The Deltas were horrified and began heckling the small crowd gathered on the balcony, including both me and Scott. The lack of sleep, along with a healthy nip of proper Arkansas moonshine, are anethema to a clear, well-reasoned response. Scott retreated inside to find a weapon.