Home to some 60 inhabitants, all women, Alpha Omicron Pi projects an outward sense of elegance, even respectability. But for those who make their home within its bleak, labyrinthine halls, it is something else altogether.
The air reeks of estrogen and stale perfume, and the faint aura of bi-curious girls desperately trying to prove themselves as women. Yet there is one lone resident who shines through this darkness. He is Alpha Omicron Pi’s protector; its hero.
Alpha Omicron Pi. Day.
Sharon McIntyre and Leslie Cohn are chatting peaceably with handsome Sean Smith, who also happens to live somewhere in Alpha Omicron Pi, for reasons no one can quite figure.
“Looks like the floor’s been mopped,” Sharon observes casually. “I wonder who did that.”
“I bet it was the Houseboy,” Leslie gushes, a gleam of excitement in her usually vacant eyes.
Sean chuckles. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you believe in that ‘Houseboy’ nonsense. That’s nothing but a house myth.”
“Don’t laugh, Sean, it’s true. Karen even saw him once.”
“Sure, that could have been anyone. She might’ve just seen me.”
Now it is the girls’ turn to laugh. “Oh honestly, Sean. As if anyone could ever mistake you for the Houseboy.”
“I guess you’re right. I still say it’s a load of bunk, though.”
Suddenly, from the depths of the hallways, a muffled shriek.
“Sorry, girls, I just remembered–I’ve got a lot of homework to do.” Before they can say goodbye, Sean is gone.
Alpha Omicron Pi. A bedroom.
Today , Tanya Tiffler knows true horror.
Birth control. Missing. And she, so otherwise prepared for a night which will inevitably end in sex with a stranger.
An ear-splitting CRASH fills the room, followed by shards of broken glass. A caped, masked figure crouches silently in the middle of the room.
“Who–who are you?!” Tanya chokes, voice quivering.
“Just call me Houseboy,” says the figure, with a friendly smirk.
With practiced speed, Houseboy produces a package of birth control pills from one of the many capsule-sized compartments on his uterity belt.
“Thank you,” says Tanya, voice tinged with wonder.
“Pregnancy? Not in my house,” replies Houseboy, and plunges gracefully out the window. Tanya gasps and rushes to the windowsill–but already, he is gone.
Mere seconds later, Sharon and Leslie burst in.
“Tanya! Is everything okay?”
“I-I lost my pills, but Houseboy saved me.”
“See Sharon? I knew he was real. Too bad Sean wasn’t here to see this. It seems like he’s always running off whenever trouble’s afoot.”
“Yeah, what a loser.”
Alpha Omicron Pi. Thursday Night.
Houseboy reclines in his state-of-the-art basement lair, his massive supercomputers humming softly. It is a moment of relief from the neverending cacophony of squealing girly voices that fill the night, a grating yet comforting backdrop for the Houseboy’s crusade for justice.
The Houseboy’s stony features form a grim frown as he contemplates the drunken debauchery in which his girls find solace–the Frat parties where bump-and-grinding neanderthals and ubiquitous stolen road signs serve as poor substitutes for genuine human affection. Out there, he can’t protect them. But within AOPi is his territory.
Not in my house. Never in my house.
Outside the tiny basement window, the light grows faintly brighter.
Houseboy rushes to look, and finds the familiar Omicron-shaped searchlight illuminating the cloud-covered skies.
The signal.
Alpha Omicron Pi. Kitchen.
The House Mother shivers at the chilly night air blowing through the open kitchen window.
“Trouble?”
She turns and sees that, yet again, the Houseboy has soundlessly appeared right behind her. “Always the showman,” says the House Mother quietly, and takes a drag on her cigarette.
Houseboy’s microfiber-Kevlar cape flutters softly in the wind. “So what is it this time?”
“Dishes.”
“Leave it to me.”
“I’d hoped you’d say that. Houseboy–”
“Yes?”
“It never ends, does it?”
“This? No. But someone has to keep up the fight.”
She turns away, takes another drag. Smoke billows from her nostrils.
“You should quit.”
“Maybe someday, Houseboy. When this job will let me.”
No reply. With a start, House Mother turns around. Gone. Dishes clean, and neatly stacked. “Thanks, old chum,” she whispers softly, and with a faint smile, she extinguishes her cigarette.
