Slowly Going Bald

A recent comment diversion on Pajiba asked readers to relate their favorite tales of the pranks they've pulled or heard about, and it wasn't long before a college friend of mine asked if he could tell a story involving me, some classmates, and two handfuls of flour. I of course told him he could share the adventure, and I'm reposting his words here:

'Twas a crisp December evening in Texas, and revenge was in the air. Our fraternity brothers had grown fond of the Jackassian art of "antiquing," grabbing a handful of flour and hurling it into the grill of an unsuspecting foe.

Since one of our brothers was departing at the end of that fall semester to pursue a nondescript West Coast internship (to protect the guilty, his name has been changed to Can Darlson), we wanted to send him off with one last hurrah. In this case, he wanted nothing more than to deliver the antiquing of a lifetime to a college nemesis who we'll call Custy Dooper.

This deep-seated hatred we had for Custy went back a few years, to when he manipulated hundreds into electing him class president. He abused the office to get girls with normally high standards to dramatically lower them for him, then kept schluffing his way through college — annoying the hell out of anyone in his way. Custy pledged the same fraternity that Can's father did in the '70s, and labeled him a shameful traitor for not following in dad's footsteps. Can resented the implication as he went his separate way, and vowed that he would exact revenge at the proper moment.

Which brings us back to that fateful evening. Our recon team spotted Custy smoking cigars with a group of his frat brothers in their favorite after-hours hangout, Denny's. We put spotters in place and waited for the right moment. I, the getaway driver, drove Can to a convenience store, where he picked up a 2-pound bag of Gold Medal All-Purpose Bleached — a blend of select hard and soft wheat that sticks just right to a 5 o'clock shadow.

Can pocketed two handfuls in each jacket pocket and meandered into the restaurant. He declined a menu and paused to let the cold fog fade from his glasses, fixing his eyes on the table of unsuspecting targets. The plan was for a quick in-and-out job, and so my concern grew when Can took his sweet time walking over to the table to make small talk. I didn't realize at the time that this was a clever tactic to lower their guard. After about 5 minutes Can said his goodbyes and met eyes with Custy for what would be the last time. He still smiles when he remembers the way those dopey eyes blinked twice after the first handful of tightly packed powder distinguished Custy's Swisher Sweet and blanketed his face. Time stood still as Can unloaded the second handful into the despicable mouth of his nemesis, provoking a gagging sound.

Custy's frat brothers sat motionless as Can turned heel and ran the fastest 20-yard dash of his life and dove headfirst through the open door and into the passenger seat of my '91 Nissan Sentra. Adrenaline-filled jubilee ensued as the night ended with laughs and a case of Shiner Bock.

What the prank lacked in intricate thought, it made up for in a precious culmination of 4 years of buildup.