It started with Andy, I'm sure of it. He was doing it, and somehow, it just evolved into something we all took part in. Frequently. I'll describe:
It required a starting point. Furniture was best. Ideally a couch. Then, multiple cans of engine de-greaser. A long drive out to the Menan Buttes. Then, Andy, Sam, and once, James, with guns.
From there...you know...you can make the connections (actually, does anyone know what the statute of limitations is on criminal mayhem?).
Once, while lost trying to drive out of the miles and miles of pitch-black, winding pathways in the Buttes, James's brother Allen scaled a low hill next to where we were waiting to be rescued (by Andy). It was dark and he was out of my eyeline, but I could hear him. Then he said, oh my gosh, and stopped talking. I called his name a couple of times, normal-like, and when he didn't answer, my voice raised in pitch thisfast to hysteria as I started to scale the hill. When he reappeared, he looked confused and I felt absurd, but--you weren't there. You don't know what it was like. If there was anywhere to dump a body, this was it.
I don't know about you guys, but I can never smell furniture burning without thinking fondly of college.
*photo stolen from Shiloh