I don't know if this counts as a prank per se, but . . .
One afternoon when I was a freshman living in Stockard (the 12-story Ole Miss freshman dorm), my roommate (“Rufus”) and I noticed that the lone lightbulb in one of the two elevators was exposed. After a brief deliberation, we determined the proper course of action would be for Rufus to poop into a paper bag, knock out the lightbulb with a hammer, place the bagged poop on the elevator floor, and then ride on the dark elevator to gauge the reaction. A social experiment, if you will. So Rufus pooped in a paper bag.
(Here I should pause to note that adult human poop, neither constrained nor diluted by the forces of water, is a remarkably foul-smelling creature. And this was no ordinary poop, friends. Rufus laid one down for posterity that day; it was the size of a rabbit, the consistency of peanut butter, and gave off an overpowering bouquet of the prior night’s Taco Bell, with subtle undertones of Natural Light.)
I then took a hammer, waited for an opportune moment, knocked out the lightbulb, and Rufus tossed the bagged poop onto the elevator floor with a sickening plop. Then we boarded the dark elevator (I standing in one back corner and he in the other) and the doors closed.
Fact: An elevator with no light is the darkest place on earth. I mean there was no light at all (there were no fancy illuminated buttons), just pitch darkness and the overwhelming aroma of poop. As the elevator descended to the ground floor, I found myself fighting off panic and dry heaves. In the dark the poop odor became its own physical entity. I could feel its very presence in the air. It was terrifying.
So we arrived at the ground floor, and the doors opened to a small crowd of fellow students waiting on an elevator. Some were reluctant to enter the dark elevator. But five brave souls (two females) came on board. The doors closed (before the doors shut there was just enough light to select a floor button), and there were a couple of moments of nervous laughter from our co-passengers in the dark before the poop odor registered.
And then . . . pandemonium. Panicked sounds of gagging, retching, dry heaving between choked screams of WHAT THE 17!! and WHYYYY!!? and assorted obscenities. Time stood still. One girl vomited loudly and then began whimpering. Above the din I heard the muffled sounds of Rufus trying to suppress his laughter, but then the dam burst and he began cackling uncontrollably, maniacally, like demonic elevator music, he unfazed by the wretched stench of his own feces.
Then began a mad dash by our fellow travelers to press a button to stop the elevator at the next floor, but this had the unfortunate effect of causing one poor soul to step on the bagged poop, bursting the bag, spilling its contents (as we would learn later), and intensifying the odor. This was all in pitch darkness, mind you, but it became apparent from the chaos and the trajectory of their voices that one or more of our co-passengers were on the elevator floor groping, struggling to reach the door and the bank of buttons. And still Rufus laughed, nearly hyperventilating by the sound of it. I reached my breaking point and began to laugh uncontrollably, but this had the unfortunate effect of forcing me to draw air through my nose, triggering waves of nausea and dry heaves.
Mercifully the elevator finally came to a stop on the sixth floor and everyone but Rufus rushed out. (Even when breathing through my mouth, I swear I could taste the poop in the air and I could take it no longer.) As the doors closed behind me, I looked at the others, my eyes watering, struggling to catch my breath. They were smeared with poop and a dash of vomit and were looking at one another wild-eyed, bewildered, trying to make sense of the 30 seconds of poop-induced terror they had just endured, while Rufus’ maniacal cackling rose up the elevator shaft. Slowly they turned and looked at me, perhaps noticing that I alone had emerged from this sordid affair unsullied. I pointed in the direction of the elevator: “I - I - I think there’s something wrong with that elevator,” I stuttered before making my escape down the stairwell.
The next day I noticed the lightbulb housing was fixed, so I like to think we did some good that day.