The pounding on the door is less a knock and more of a sustained assault. It reverberates through Damon's skull, each thud a fresh spike of pain. Last night's bourbon has not aged well. He groans, pulling a pillow over his head in a futile attempt to silence the insistent hammering. It is no use. The pounding continues, relentless and unforgiving.

"Go away," he mumbles. He vaguely registers that he's still wearing the shirt he wore last night, which probably means he also slept in his jeans. Classy.

The pounding doesn't relent. If anything, it intensifies. With a Herculean effort, Damon rolls out of bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He sways slightly as he squints at the clock on his nightstand. 10:00 AM. Too early for this.

He stumbles toward the door, his hand fumbling for the handle. He considers ignoring it, but whoever is on the other side seems determined to break the door down. He finally unlocks it and yanks it open, blinking against the surprisingly bright morning light.

Standing there is a woman he vaguely recognizes from the university administration. She's holding a clipboard and wearing a crisp, businesslike suit that seems entirely too formal. Her expression is… well, it isn't exactly friendly. It's more like a mixture of annoyance and thinly veiled disapproval. Which, considering his current state, is probably fair.

"Mr. Salvatore?" she asks, her voice clipped and professional.

Damon blinks again, trying to focus. "Uh… yeah. That's me. Or, at least, the barely functioning version of me." He winces. His voice sounds like gravel gargling with whiskey.

The woman doesn't crack a smile. "I have a message for you. Dean Whitmore requests you report to his office immediately."

Damon's eyebrows shoot up. "Dean Whitmore? Immediately? Is this about the… uh… the… Shakespeare incident?" He vaguely remembers something about a toga party and an unfortunate incident involving the drama department's prop room.

"I'm not at liberty to say. Dean Whitmore specifically requested your presence. And I was instructed to deliver this message personally." She holds out the clipboard. "Please sign here to acknowledge receipt."

Damon stares at the clipboard and then back at the woman. "Look," he says, rubbing his temples. I'm… not exactly at my best right now. Could this wait? Perhaps… after I've had some coffee, maybe a shower, and possibly a small blood transfusion?"

The woman's expression remains unchanged. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Salvatore. Dean Whitmore was quite insistent. He said… and I quote… 'Tell that Salvatore rascal that if he isn't in my office within the hour, there will be hell to pay.'"

Damon sighs. "Hell to pay, huh? Sounds like my Tuesday." He glances back into the dimly lit room. "Fine. Give me five minutes to… become slightly less of a biohazard." He takes the clipboard and scribbles his signature, then hands it back. "Tell Dean Whitmore I'm on my way. Though he might want to invest in some air freshener."

With a lingering bourbon haze, Damon stumbles into the Dean's office, where the room seems to waver. He blinks, trying to focus on the figures seated in the plush chairs facing the imposing oak desk. Kai Parker is casually flipping a knife between his fingers. Enzo, looking impeccably dapper even at this ungodly hour, is examining his perfectly manicured nails with a bored expression. And Marcel, radiating an air of quiet intensity, is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, observing the scene with a calculating gaze.

"Ah, Salvatore," booms Dean Whitmore, "I'm glad you could finally join us. Take a seat. We have much to discuss."

Damon collapses into the remaining chair with a groan, his head throbbing in protest. "Seriously, Dean Whitmore? A Saturday morning? Couldn't this have waited until, say, next week? Or, you know, never?"

Dean Whitmore glares at him over his spectacles. "This is a matter of utmost importance, Mr. Salvatore. As you are all well aware," he gestures to the assembled group, "your academic performance leaves much to be desired. To put it bluntly, you're failing miserably."

Kai snorts. "Failing? That's a bit harsh, don't you think, Dean? I prefer to think of it as 'academically challenged.'"

Enzo drawls, "I find the curriculum rather… uninspiring. Not to mention dreadfully middle class."

Marcel remains silent, but his expression conveys a similar sentiment.

Whitmore slams his fist on the desk. "Enough with the excuses! You're all brilliant young men, with potential that's being squandered on frivolous pursuits and… and… questionable extracurricular activities!"

Damon raises an eyebrow. "Questionable? I'll have you know my extracurriculars are legendary."

Whitmore ignores him. "Which is why I've devised a plan. A challenge if you will. An opportunity to redeem yourselves, prove your worth, and bring some much-needed glory to this institution!"

The four students exchange bewildered glances.

"Every year," Whitmore continues, "Whitmore College participates in Oregon's annual collegiate raft race. And every year, we lose. Miserably. This year, that's going to change!"

Damon stares at him in disbelief. "A raft race? Seriously? You dragged us here on a Saturday morning to talk about a raft race?"

"Not just any raft race, Mr. Salvatore," Whitmore counters, leaning forward conspiratorially. "This is your chance to prove yourselves. To show the world that you're not just a bunch of… of… reprobates!"

Enzo scoffs. "Reprobates with excellent taste, I assure you."

"If you win this race," Whitmore continues, ignoring Enzo, "I will guarantee your graduation. Regardless of your current grades. You'll have your degrees, your futures secured, and the eternal gratitude of this institution."

Kai's eyes light up. "A guaranteed degree? Intriguing. But I'm not exactly known for my… aquatic skills."

Marcel speaks for the first time. "And what if we refuse?"

Dean Whitmore's smile vanishes. "Refuse? Mr. Gerard, let me be clear. This is not a request. This is an ultimatum. Win the race or face the consequences. And trust me, you don't want to know what those consequences are."

Damon sighs. "Fine. A raft race it is. But I'm going to need a lot more bourbon."

Thank you everyone for reading. I tried to write a more humorous paranormal story but that got more serious than I wanted it to be so I tried with this one. I hope it'll bring some much-needed laughter. It may be a couple of weeks before it updates again.

This is my 190th story, Wow! :D

Thank you, Eva.

Massive thanks to wattskerrylou for the cover image. Do read her stories, she's amazing, kind, and exceedingly generous with her time.

I hope you all have a great day.