Beer Pong Tourney

[6 word request: Wrestlers Bet Size at beer pong]

Wylie wouldn’t have gone to the Omega Beta house if he hadn’t gotten the text from Chance. The Omegas were scuzzy guys and while their parties were always wild and out of control, the reputation on campus was that they had absolutely no moral compass.

“Wild shit happens there,” Chance used to say to him when they were freshmen. “If you want to hang out there, you just gotta turn a blind eye to it.”

“What, like girls getting drugged or something?” Wylie had asked.

“Nah, way darker than that.”

And the conversation had ended, and since then, Wylie stayed away when he could. Besides, wrestlers weren’t supposed to be partying at frathouses during the season, so despite Chance’s constant ribbing, Wylie liked to lay low on the weekends and hit the gym a little extra, maybe slug back some IPAs in his room while he played Xbox.

Despite Coach’s hope that Wylie’s good influence would rub off on Chance, the 260 lb heavyweight continued to head over to the Omegas for ragers. Wylie would blow off every invitation to join, only swinging by to pick up Chance when he was too drunk to stand. (At 250, Wylie was the only guy on the team big enough to lug his oversized teammate home.)

That night, when Wylie got the text from Chance (“Dude get to Omega house I need you”) Wylie had figured it was just to fireman’s carry the big galoot home. He was surprised when he showed up to the five story house, which loomed like a flashing neon cube at the very end of Frat Row, and didn’t see the 6’3 wrestler stumbling around, tossing freshmen or trying to impress girls while he couldn’t even stand.

Wylie scanned the line of hopefuls, easily a hundred bodies long, who were desperate to enter the house. The bass thumping from inside vibrated the windshields on the cars parked along the street.

“Where you at???” Wylie texted back for a third time, wondering how long he would wait before deciding to bail. He approached the stocky Omega brother in a tight t-shirt standing, arms crossed, at the door before the line of impatient students.

“You guys see a big dude? Wrestler? Chance Higgins. He here?” Wylie asked. The Omega smirked as he sized Wylie up. Wylie was two inches shorter, and while the guy had some muscle, he knew these frat guys were an easy pin.

“You’re a wrestler, right?” he said, giving Wylie a punch in the chest that the wrestler didn’t appreciate. “You can just head right in if you want.”

The two girls at the front of the line, shivering in tube tops sipping red liquid from plastic water bottles, shot Wylie a glare at the offer.

“Well, is he inside?” Wylie asked. No way was he wading into this place if Chance had shacked up with some floozy or was already home and passed out.

“Big guy?” the Brother verified, standing up straighter and puffing out his chest. “Hangs out here all the time? Chance is practically an Omega brother on his own. He’s here with a few more of you wrestling guys. Big beer pong tournament tonight.”

Despite the icy looks of the girls at the front of the line, the Omega popped open the door, letting out a waft of syrupy sweet, weed-laden air. With the door open, the bass pounded Wylie in the gut.

Wylie glanced down at his phone to see it light up with a new text message: “Come to the basement.”

He looked up at the Omega, then back at his phone, before heading in with an impatient sigh.

It was shoulder-to-shoulder inside, like a glacially slow stampede. After the third time Wylie was bumped into, he gave the scrawny guy who had crashed into his big back a stern glare. The kid didn’t even notice.

“Where’s the basement?” Wylie shouted to the first guy wearing Greek letters he passed in the crowded hallway. Even with his hands cupped around his mouth, at the top of his lungs, Wylie couldn’t be heard.

Wylie rubbed his temples, choking on the thickness of the air. So much body heat in those tight hallways, plus clouds of vape smoke and weed and more billowing everywhere made the environment intolerable. If he’s with other guys from the team, he can get home on his own.

He finally spotted a staircase and estimated a good twenty minute effort to squeeze through the masses of people there. How the hell could this place be so huge and still so packed? Are there a thousand people here?

Behind him in the hall an Omega brother threw up into a pizza box while a weary girl rubbed his back and tried to shield the crouched man from the throngs closing in on all sides. Wylie winced as a lit cigarette struck his left tricep from behind. He whirled around but couldn’t find the culprit. “You’re cute!” gurgled a flimsy woman, stumbling out of her high heels, as she spilled a red plastic cup of beer on Wylie’s shoe.

Had he not spotted a guarded staircase headed downstairs, he would have left at that moment.

The two brothers on the basement door seemed beefier than the guy out front. Wylie held his phone up as he approached, read to show the text message beckoning him to what looked like a “Brothers Only” area, but the two men at the door stepped. One of them opened the door and gestured down the blacklit stairs.

Wylie walked cautiously; the stairs were both sticky and slippery, and somehow the basement seemed soundproofed from upstairs. He was shocked at how little he could hear of the mayhem above as he descended what felt like thirty feet to find a door. “What the hell kind of building is this?” he said, gazing back, estimating how exhausted he would be if he had to carry big Chance out of there.

Wylie reached for the handle but the door popped open a crack, a short blonde Omega stepping out. “Wylie? Hi, I’m Graydon. I’m gonna be your escort down here. As I’m sure you’re aware, this is a Brothers-Only section of the house.”

“...the fuck did you know my name?” Wylie said, put off by this clean-cut prettyboy with his square jaw.

“Oh, I’ve been talking to your teammates. They’re inside, playing Beer Pong. Richie and Taylor aren’t that good, are they?” Graydon chuckled, offering a fist. Wylie weakly returned the bump.

Richie and Taylor were Juniors on the wrestling team. Richie was a ripped 179 while Taylor was another one of the big boys, tipping the scales at 240. He was surprised to hear they were hanging out with Chance at all.

“Yeah, they don’t party much,” Wylie said. “Can I go in now?”

“Well, if you come in, the thing is… you’re going to have to play Beer Pong. It’s kind of a rule. And since you don’t have a partner, you’ll be playing a singles match. Is that all good with you?”

Wylie sighed. All he wanted to do was grab Chance and bail. But he was already this fair. He shrugged. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Wylie was shocked when he went through the door and Graydon slammed it shut, spinning a huge wheel like a bank safe to seal it up. But he was even more shocked at what he saw in the room before him.

Neon lights flashed over a twelve-foot table with the customary pyramid of plastic cups arranged at each end while EDM blared and a fog machine bellowed out some mist. The room was lined with Omega brothers, casually drinking and enjoying the show. On one side of the table, Wylie saw two shirtless hulks, bigger than professional bodybuilders and a head taller than Wylie’s six feet. They flexed and growled and pounded the tables as their fellow brothers cheered them on.

On the other side of the table, Wylie saw Chance--only he looked like he was wearing enormous clothes. Chance’s t-shirt hung down loosely over his normally massive body. He had to hold his still-buckled jeans with one hand while he stumbled around in still-tied but much too large shoes. Next to him, Wylie saw Rodney, a wrestler who had graduated the year before. Last Wylie had heard, Rodney had ballooned up to 300 pounds when the season ended and was doing some powerlifting competitions now. But now he was doing his best to hold up his own oversized pants, in a shirt that looked ten sizes too big.

It took a minute to process what he was seeing: Chance and Rodney were only about three feet tall. That couldn't be possible, Wylie knew, but there they were, two of the biggest D1 college wrestlers Wylie had ever met standing shorter than most 12 year olds.

“The fuck?” Wylie shouted as he lunged forward, spinning around at the brothers laughing at Chance and Rodney’s predicament. “What the fuck did you do to them?” Wylie shouted over the dance music.

“Shit, Wylie, fuck…” Chance said, his pants slipping from his hands. He stooped to pull them back up. The waistband looked absurd on his diminutive body now. He still had his huge muscular build, but it had all reduced by half. “Dude, they took my phone and texted you. Said they wanted you to play to.”

“What? I’m not playing!” Wylie protested. He ran to the table, ready to flip it, but froze when he saw two tiny naked men on the table, waving their arms. Wylie paused and leaned in to find Richie and Taylor, each of them only a few inches tall. “Holy… shit…”

Suddenly a red plastic cup slapped down over the shrunken wrestlers. Wylie flinched as he watched Graydon slide the cup off the table into his hand. “So as you can probably imagine, your teammates are getting squashed unless you play. That is, of course, unless Chance and Rodney over there can beat Trypp and Chet. Looking bulky bros!” Graydon pounded his fist at the enormous Omega brothers across the table, who beat their chests and roared.

The wrestlers still had five cups on the table, while the Omega brothers didn’t have a single cup missing. Chance had to stand on his tiptoes to shoot the ping pong ball. It completely missed the table. Rodney shot and and bounced off the rim of a cup and off the table.

The room erupted into cheers as two Omega pledges fetched the ping pong balls and returned them to Trypp and Chet, who bashed their massive chests together and roared like apes. Trypp’s shot landed in the frontmost cup across the table. Chet’s landed in the same.

“That’s three cups, fuckers!” Graydon shouted as the room cheered. Chance and Rodney exchanged anxious glances before grabbing their cups of beer. As they downed it, Wylie watched in horror as Trypp and Chet exploded with even more size. Meanwhile, Chance and Rodney sank down into their clothes, their faces disappearing behind the table.

“You see,” Graydon explained to Wylie as if this weren’t a hostage situation, “it’s a simple transfer of size. Loser shrinks and all the size goes to the winners. If your buddies were winning, they take the size for themselves, but your noble teammates were playing to grow these jabronis back to full-size, or something close to it.” Graydon shook the cup in his hand, jostling around the tiny Richie and Taylor inside. He pulled a flask from his pocket and poured it over the two hairy muscular men in the cup. The miniature wrestlers sputtered and coughed as bourbon splashed over them.

“Fuck! Stop that!” Wylie said, grabbing a handful of Graydon’s shirt.

Graydon’s fist started to close around the cup. “You wanna wrestle me? Hope you’re ready to wrestle the whole room--and not before I pulp these two little shits first. Maybe I’ll smear the mess they make on my face like warpaint.”

Wylie’s grip relaxed. He hated how powerless he felt there--hated more that his teammates had gotten him into this in the first place.

“You hear that, boys? Your buddy Wylie doesn’t want to see you get smushed!” Graydon said into the cup. Then he raised it to the lips. The two men inside held on as their world tilted, Taylor trying to prevent Richie from tumbling into Graydon’s wide-open mouth. They relaxed as the cup tilted back, and the two continued to wade in liquor.

Two Omega brothers went over to the piles of Chance and Rodney’s clothes. Wylie could see the piles wriggling around--not quite as tiny as the guys floating in Graydon’s cup, but still a good third of the size they’d been when Wylie walked in. A Brother plucked a struggling Chance, nude, from his clothes, setting him on the table next to Rodney. The two slapped their hands over their dicks as the Omega brothers hooted and hollered.

“Oh, what, is it too cold in here?” one brother shouted.

“Muscle guys always have the smallest dick!” another laughed.

“Not me!” Trypp said, grabbing the massive dick that threatened to burst from his stretched-to-capacity pants.

Graydon sipped the last of his bourbon, then dumped the two tiny wrestlers on the table. Richie and Taylor looked to be only a couple of inches tall, while Chance and Rodney, enormous by comparison, were only about a foot tall each, like a tall action figure.

Richie and Taylor ran to Chance and Rodney huddling behind the hairy muscular legs towering over them. An Omega brother slammed his fist down on the table, knocking all four of them down--an instantaneous reminder of just how insignificant they all were.

An Omega pledge handed Chance the ping pong ball. It looked like a basketball in his hands. Clearly fighting past his nudity and his size, Chance shot the ping pong ball as hard as his beefy arms could. It sailed through the air, landing in the center cup on the other side. Rodney’s shot barely cleared the table, bouncing and rolling away.

“Fuck yeah, Chance!” Wylie cheered. The sound made the little guy jump with a look of panic Wylie had never seen on the powerfully built man before. As Chet drank from the cup, some of the size drained away from his form. He shrank to a couple of inches shorter than Trypp, his body losing dozens of pounds of muscle.

But Richie actually surged with size, shooting up a few inches until he was looking Rodney and Chance in their thick chests. Poor Taylor remained tiny.

The wrestlers’ victory was short-lived, however. Trypp and Chet sank the last two cups on the wrestlers’ sides.

Wylie had thought it was something in the beer that was causing the shifts in size, but despite Rodney and Chance backing away from their final cups, the two still shrank away until they were the size of Taylor, just three inches tall. Richie continued to tower over the other three--not that it mattered, as an Omega brother snatched him off the table and slammed a plastic cup over the other three.

“You ready?” Graydon said. “We’re up next.”

“Size goes to the wrestlers, right?” Wylie said as he took the ping pong ball. Brothers set new cups in a pyramid shape, each half-full of beer, then backed away.

“Whatever you want!” Graydon said, bouncing his own ping pong ball. “And since we’re playing singles, it means the mass shifts are doubled. You ready to end up less than an inch tall, meathead?”

Wylie didn’t even respond. He glared back at Graydon and shot first.