Laura gets you into the ChiO party

You send Laura a text, asking her (not so subtly) about getting into the ChiO party tonight. You’re surprised when your phone rings back a minute later. Laura’s calling!

“Hey, just saw your text,” she says, her voice almost drowned out by all the shouting and music in the background.

“You’re at the party?” you ask. “Any chance that you could…”

“I already used up boh my invites,” she says.

There’s a pause as you hear the sound of glass breaking, and then shrieking.

“Sorry, the girl covering me at the bar has got serious butterfingers,” she laughs. “But uh… I was saying—”

“Both your invites are gone,” you say, trying not to sound too disappointed.

“But I’ve got enough clout to get your name on the list,” she says. “You want in?”

“Is that even a question” you ask.

“Gimme a sec,” she laughs. “I just need to pass it to the bouncers. Tonight’s a great night to get wasted!”

“Are you drunk already?” you ask her.

“Had a couple drinks,” she says slowly. “But not drunk, no, the night’s still much too young for that.”

“Alright,” you say, sounding skeptical. “Thanks for getting me in. I owe you one.”

“Make it up to me tonight,” she says in a sing-song suggestive voice, and then the line drops.

After freshening up and changing into clothes more suitable for a night out, you make it to the bar twenty minutes later. As expected, there’s a horde of people outside all trying to get in. The big guys at the door are checking for ID—not for ages, but for names. They’ve got a list on their phones, and they’re checking it twice, all to find out who’s naughty and nice.

It turns out that you’re nice, and that just about everyone else is naughty. Thanks, Laura.

The inside of the bar is packed and sweaty, frat bros and srat girls pounding down beers by the dozen. Everybody here’s loud and rowdy, the tables all pushed to the side to form a massive dance floor that’s jammed to the max. The bar, unhelpfully, is all the way across the room, and you don’t feel like moshing your way across the floor to get to the other side. You need some **** before you dive into that mess of limbs.

So, you pick your way along the side of the room, elbowing past newly formed couples hooking up, trying not to trip on the assortment of chairs and barstools in the way. You must look out of sorts, because some guy hanging by the wall in a black shirt and jeans gives you a chuckle as you walk by.

“Not having much luck tonight?” he asks. “No girls want a bite?”

“Just got here,” you say. “I’ll find someone.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sounding utterly unconvinced. “You look like you need some help.”

“So do you,” you counter. “Not exactly making a big impression out on the sidelines, are you?”

“I’m biding my time,” he says with a lazy smile. “I can have any girl that I want in this bar. I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.”

“You’re bullshitting,” you say, because he must be.

“Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic baggie filled with white pills. “I’ve got these babies. It’s the good stuff, rohypnol. She won’t even remember your face the next day. You know it works, you know you want it.”

Rohypnol. Roofies. You’ve heard about the date-**** **** before, but never gotten your hands on any. If what you’ve heard is true, then slipping this into a girl’s drink is sure to make her yours for the night. The thought of any girl in this club, willing and yours to take...

“I see the way you’re looking at it,” he smiles, waving the bag at you. “But I don’t just hand these out for free.”

Your hand drops to your wallet, when you hesitate, hand hovering there. Are you really the kind of person who would roofie a girl and fuck her afterwards? Or should you enlist the help of a ChiO sister and stop this guy in his tracks?