“'Chyeah. Hah. There’s your crew, Whisk,” said Chad R. He nodded to the Founder’s side of Lake Quad where the hockey team was approaching like a cartoon dust cloud.

“The fucking hockey team,” said Chad S. “No offense, but every single time I look over from the lax house, like, those guys are listening to shit music and eating a bajillion cakes and prancing around like–I used to hang with hockey guys back in high school! But here, brah? Fuckin’ Samwell…”

“Pies,” said Whiskey. Chad and also Chad looked at him. “It’s weird.”

Chad R. shook his head. “'Chyeah.”

(Quick sketch from AX!)