The Fighting Snare Line

Hometown: Fairfield, Connecticut
Major/Year: Computer Science, 2020
Instrument: Snare
Previously Known As: "This Was Easier Without A Girlfriend", "GummyTBD"
This is not the story of my life. This is the story of the day my life changed forever.

It was at some high school event, the details of which I’ve forgotten. I didn’t even care at the time what is for. The only reason I attended were those four immortal words, those which still haunt me to this day:

“Snacks will be provided.”

Young and foolish as I was, I believed these lies, these promises of grandeur. I went to the event. I sat through the opening speech - the longest, most painfully dull speech I’ve ever endured. Only the promise of free, tasty snacks kept me from crying out in agony and rushing from the school.

Eventually, mercifully, the speech ended. The announcer invited us to go obtain our hard-earned award: donuts. I leapt eagerly from my seat, rushing to the snack table. I selected what appeared to be a plain powdered donut and took a huge bite.

As my teeth sank into the donut, I realized the terrible truth:

It was jelly-filled.

I didn’t cry out in disgust or anger as I chewed the unfathomable monstrosity. I didn’t say a word. I just stared, heartbroken, into the distance. What world is this, I pondered, that can so quickly betray a teen on the cusp of greatness? That can hide its dark, gooey, “fruit”-flavored secrets so easily behind an inviting facade of sugar and dough? That can, in moments, destroy any perceived notions of trust?

The answer came easily: it is not a good world. But, I slowly realized as I crushed the remains of the offending pastry in my hand, perhaps I can make it one.

And that is the day I decided to become a supervillain.


Hometown: Lorbrulgrud, Brobdingnag
Major/Year: Underwater Basket Weaving, 2020
Instrument: Snare
Previously Known As: "Lime Bike Banksy", "Fk You Triscuits", "Slightly to the Right"

✋︎♐︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♋︎❒︎♏︎ ❒︎♏︎♋︎♎︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎📪︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♒︎♋︎❖︎♏︎ ♌︎♏︎♏︎■︎ ⬧︎♏︎⧫︎ ♎︎□︎⬥︎■︎ ◻︎♋︎⧫︎♒︎ ♐︎❒︎□︎❍︎ ⬥︎♒︎♓︎♍︎♒︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎❒︎♏︎ ♓︎⬧︎ ■︎□︎ ⧫︎◆︎❒︎■︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ♌︎♋︎♍︎&︎📬︎✋︎ ♍︎♋︎■︎🕯︎⧫︎ ⬧︎♋︎⍓︎ ❍︎◆︎♍︎♒︎📪︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎⍓︎🕯︎❒︎♏︎ ⬥︎♋︎⧫︎♍︎♒︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ❍︎⍓︎ ♏︎❖︎♏︎❒︎⍓︎ ❍︎□︎❖︎♏︎📬︎❄︎□︎ ●︎♏︎♋︎❒︎■︎ ❍︎□︎❒︎♏︎📪︎ ♑︎□︎ ⧫︎□︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ♍︎□︎□︎❒︎♎︎♓︎■︎♋︎⧫︎♏︎⬧︎🖳︎ 🗐︎📁︎📬︎🖰︎🗏︎🗐︎🖰︎⌛︎⌛︎☠︎ 🖮︎🗄︎📬︎📁︎📂︎🗏︎📁︎🖰︎📂︎🕈︎ ♋︎⧫︎ ♋︎⧫︎ 📂︎📁︎🖳︎📄︎🗐︎🖳︎📁︎📁︎📬︎📁︎📁︎ ◻︎❍︎ □︎■︎ ☺︎◆︎■︎♏︎ 🖲︎⧫︎♒︎📪︎ 📄︎📁︎⌛︎🗐︎📬︎🕈︎♒︎♏︎■︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♋︎❒︎❒︎♓︎❖︎♏︎📪︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ⬥︎♓︎●︎●︎ ❍︎♏︎♏︎⧫︎ ♋︎ ❍︎♋︎■︎ ■︎♋︎❍︎♏︎♎︎ 👎︎❒︎♋︎⍓︎♐︎♎︎♎︎📬︎☟︎♏︎ ⬥︎♓︎●︎●︎ ♋︎⬧︎&︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♐︎□︎❒︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ⧫︎♓︎❍︎♏︎📪︎ ♋︎■︎♎︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ❍︎◆︎⬧︎⧫︎ ⬧︎◻︎♓︎■︎ ⧫︎♒︎❒︎♓︎♍︎♏︎ ♌︎♏︎♐︎□︎❒︎♏︎ ⬧︎⧫︎♋︎⧫︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ⧫︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎ ♓︎⧫︎🕯︎⬧︎ ♋︎ ●︎□︎❖︎♏︎●︎⍓︎ ❍︎□︎❒︎■︎♓︎■︎♑︎📬︎✌︎⧫︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ◻︎□︎♓︎■︎⧫︎📪︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ❍︎◆︎⬧︎⧫︎ ♐︎♋︎●︎●︎ ⧫︎□︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎❒︎ ●︎♏︎♐︎⧫︎ &︎■︎♏︎♏︎ 🕿︎☠︎⚐︎❄︎☜︎🖳︎ ☞︎♋︎●︎●︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ⧫︎□︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎❒︎ ❒︎♓︎♑︎♒︎⧫︎ &︎■︎♏︎♏︎ ⬥︎♓︎●︎●︎ ❒︎♏︎⬧︎◆︎●︎⧫︎ ♓︎■︎ ♓︎❍︎❍︎♏︎♎︎♓︎♋︎⧫︎♏︎ ⧫︎♏︎❒︎❍︎♓︎■︎♋︎⧫︎♓︎□︎■︎✆︎📪︎ ♋︎■︎♎︎ ◻︎❒︎□︎♍︎◆︎❒︎♏︎ ♋︎ ❍︎♓︎■︎♓︎♋︎⧫︎◆︎❒︎♏︎ ◻︎□︎□︎♎︎●︎♏︎ ♐︎❒︎□︎❍︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎❒︎ &︎♋︎♍︎&︎♏︎⧫︎📬︎

♓︎♐︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♒︎♋︎❖︎♏︎ ♍︎□︎❍︎◻︎●︎♏︎⧫︎♏︎♎︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎⬧︎♏︎ ⬧︎⧫︎♏︎◻︎⬧︎ ⬧︎◆︎♍︎♍︎♏︎⬧︎⬧︎♐︎◆︎●︎●︎⍓︎📪︎ ♎︎❒︎♋︎⍓︎♐︎♎︎♎︎ ⬥︎♓︎●︎●︎ ⧫︎♋︎&︎♏︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ⧫︎□︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ❒︎♏︎⬧︎♓︎⬧︎⧫︎♋︎■︎♍︎♏︎ ⬧︎⧫︎❒︎□︎■︎♑︎♒︎□︎●︎♎︎📬︎⍓︎□︎◆︎ ⬥︎♓︎●︎●︎ ♌︎♏︎ ⬧︎♏︎♎︎♋︎⧫︎♏︎♎︎ ♐︎□︎❒︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ⧫︎❒︎♋︎❖︎♏︎●︎ ♋︎⬧︎ ♋︎ ⬧︎♏︎♍︎◆︎❒︎♓︎⧫︎⍓︎ ◻︎❒︎♏︎♍︎♋︎◆︎⧫︎♓︎□︎■︎📬︎♑︎□︎ ♐︎□︎❒︎⧫︎♒︎📪︎ ⬧︎♋︎❖︎♏︎ ◆︎⬧︎ ♋︎●︎●︎ ♐︎❒︎□︎❍︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎ ♎︎□︎□︎❍︎ ⧫︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎ ♋︎⬥︎♋︎♓︎⧫︎⬧︎ ◆︎⬧︎📬︎



Hometown: Clarksville, MD
Major/Year: Economics, 2022
Instrument: Snare
Previously Known As: "Buy My Donuts"
I have crash landed in foreign territory.

I look around. I’m in a fairly small enclosed space, some sort of room. I’m elevated, possibly on a mountain or an elevated protrusion of bedrock.

“Come in, Star Command.” No response. “Star Command, come in. Do you read me?” Nothing. Why the hell don’t they answer??

Something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. Oh, gosh, my ship! Blast! This’ll take weeks to repair. I need to put this in the log.

[Mission log, stardate 4-0-7-2] My ship has run off course en route to sector 12. I’ve crash-landed on a strange planet. The impact must’ve awoken me from hypersleep. Terrain seems a bit unstable. No readout yet if the air is breathable. And there seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere.

Suddenly, a foolish cowboy man appears out of nowhere, screaming, “HELLO!” In the face of extreme danger, I immediately activate my defense mechanisms. I am ready to blast him into oblivion. He says something, but I am not listening. I circle around him, analyzing the most vulnerable part of his body to strike with my unstoppable laser.

But wait, he has a badge! Finally, it’s about time local law enforcement got here. I explain the situation, and it’s not a good one. But wait, danger! New life-forms! Ah, they’re friendly. I introduce myself to the native species. They’re a weird bunch, but everyone seems to admire my various talents, as they should. Well, everyone except for him!

How dare he insult me?! I am no toy. As a member of the elite Universe Protection Unit of the Space Range Corps, I protect the galaxy from the threat of invasion from the Evil Emperor Zurg*, sworn enemy of the Galactic Alliance. He doesn’t think I can fly? I could fly around this room with my eyes closed! I’ll show him. Stand back everyone! I climb up to the edge of the mountain, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.

To infinity and beyond!


Hometown: Mentor, OH & Fulshear, TX
Major/Year: Underwater Basket Weaving, 2022
Instrument: Snare
Previously Known As: "Bruises Are Bigger in Texas"
I’m fish,
Pro-fish,
RED fish,
Bro fish.
Black & blue knees
‘Cause I zoom, bish.

This knee has a giant scar.
‘Cause this fish zooms fkin’ far.
I am one who likes to run.
I run on North and drop my drum.

Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!
I face-plant, but I don’t cry.

I am a fish who has two feet,
While I march, I tend to yeet.
Cadencing near Gates Hall in four,
*trips* AHHHH-- shoot, I’m on the floor.

Why fish have legs, I don’t know...
Some are fast. And some are slow.
But I’m the fastest, I just GO!
Can’t wait for winter with the slippery snow.

Say! What a lot hills there are.
Some are steep. And some are far.
Some I think give me bad luck,
One of which is by Louie’s food truck.
Some are long, and some are bad.
Don’t believe me? Go ask my dad.
He would say:
“He has adapted to college pretty well given we dropped him off at a toga party on our way to the hotel last night!”


Hometown: Constantinople, Turkey
Major/Year: Culinary Studies, 2023
Instrument: Snare
What the fk did you just fking say about me, you little b*tch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Campbell's Academy, and I've been involved in numerous secret recipes on the [REDACTED], and I have over 300,000 confirmed spills. I am trained in both microwave and stovetop techniques and I'm the top chef in the entire Culinary Institute of America. You are nothing to me but just another broth. I will wipe you the fk out with whisking the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me in the kitchen? Think again, fker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of chefs across the USA and your restaurant is being traced right now so you better prepare for the kitchen fire, maggot. The fire that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your tongs. You're fking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can sauté you in over twelve hundred ways, and that's just with my bare spatula. Not only am I extensively trained in julienning, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Pantry and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable chowder off the face of the continent, you little sh*t. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" stew was about to bring down upon you, maybe you wouldn’t have burnt your fking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you gdd*mn idiot. I will sh*t pho all over you and you will drown in it. You're fking dead, kiddo.


Hometown: Ding Dong, Texas
Major/Year: Underwater Skiing, 2023
Instrument: Snare
My alarm goes off at 3am every Sunday morning. It’s time to feed Frank, the spider that tends my crops. I run to the market to ensure that I have enough mushrooms, barley, and cilantro for his breakfast. He only eats these three foods, even though his kind doesn’t usually eat vegetables. When I arrive, there are no more mushrooms. My panic rises, I feel my throat closing up as tears well up in my eyes-- What do I do? Who will guard my tomatoes? The closest thing I can find is canned shiitake, but he always says he will only accept fresh produce. I drive home, carefully scanning the damp ground for any newly budding fungi, but there’s nothing, nothing--- Oh ! There’s something. I find a huge mushroom, bright orange and the size of a football. Frank will love these, I think. I hope. I need. My car takes me back to my house, and Frank is waiting on my doorstep, all eight of his legs crossed in his usual sassy manner. “So?” I bow before his wide abdomen, presenting the banquet at his feet. He scans it all, sweeps it up in one quick motion before disappearing beneath the porch. I will not know until sunrise if he will let me and my family live. I watch the sun peek over the horizon, and I see one of Frank’s legs reach out and place one singular oat on the steps. We’re safe, I say to myself, Me and my tomatoes are safe for one week longer.