"This means war."

“Okay,” says Jasmine, grimly, a few days later. “This means war.”

She and three hundred other Epsilon girls are gathered at the sorority’s annual alumni slumber party, on top-secret Pajama Island in the Caribbean. They’ve just wrapped up the pillow fight, the massive truth-or-dare game and the experimental makeout sessions, and are now ready to get down to serious business.

“Those scoundrels at Delta have gone too far this time,” she says. “How dare they prank us? Don’t they know who they’re dealing with? We rule half the country! We’re going to get them back. I’ve hired an all female-**** of mercenaries from the little-known South American nation of Verguenzuela to kidnap those stupid frat boys right out of their beds and bring them here in their underwear. We’re going to pull down their pants, measure how big their dicks are and take pictures. And then… we’re going to make them do gay stuff.”

Cheers and cries of “Gay stuff!” from the assembled Epsilon girls, who of course are wearing negligees and cute pink panties and bunny-rabbit pajamas and that kind of thing. Jasmine raises a hand for silence.

“Yes,” she says. “This brilliant plan, suggested to me by my newly-promoted executive assistant Chadlene, can’t possibly fail. Look, here come the boys now!”

A ship has moored at the far end of the dock, beyond the Pajama Island mansion’s extensive complex of gardens and swimming pools. Jasmine watches a line of shuffling figures move towards the patio in the shade of the palm trees where the girls have set up their sleeping bags. It’s the frat boys, shepherded by tough-looking but still incredibly hot Latina mercenaries in combat fatigues.

But something’s not quite right. The frat boys aren’t in their underwear. They’re in their letterman jackets, laughing and joshing each other. And as they look at the Epsilon girls, they smile.

A dozen shadows step out from behind the palm trees, surrounding the Epsilon girls.

“Hello,” says The Viper.

There’s a struggle. It doesn’t last long. Within minutes, The Viper and her squad of mercenaries have all the Epsilon alumni firmly secured. Jasmine manages to slip between two of the mercs, despite their strong grasping hands, and sprint for dear life down a garden path. Not looking where she’s going, she bumps right into a familiar figure.

“Chadlene,” she gasps. “My ruthlessly efficient middle-aged female executive assistant, who came so highly recommended! I don’t know how you got here, but you have to help us! Quick! The frat boys tricked us somehow! Those mercenaries you told me to hire were actually working for them all along, and they’ve taken us prisoner! You have to come up with a plan! Oh, thank God you’re here, Chadlene… wait, what are you doing?”

Chadlene is taking off her dress. And her wig. Underneath, she, or rather he, is wearing a bulky blue-and-orange letterman jacket.