An excerpt from The Young Martens – love, sex, loss and vigilantism of a secret Midwest fraternity.   “That’s a lot of beer, Irish.” “Yea Wyatt, it’s a lot of beer. It’s a lot of beer.” I’ve been in the basement of our “frat” home several times since I joined the group a week ago. I never knew there was a hidden storage area. Behind an old bar, actually, which was fitting since there were about 3 dozen cases of beer back there. “Yea it is, yea it certainly is,” said Wyatt, our leader, if you can call him that. No one had any real titles in this home, and we technically weren’t a frat. If anything we were an anti-frat. In a way…