BTDT grumbled from the floor.
It was a night to
remember at the EE Roxbury.
THE END 
A Night at the EE Roxbury (Complete Story)As the sun settled on the horizon, EE'ers gathered to go to their favorite haunt in EELand: The Roxbury.
The local nightclub was hopping with ESPN classic football games, showing on the bigscreen behind the bar. The music was blasting from large speakers as the EE'ers crowded into the door. They were ready to drink and boogy the night away. The atmosphere was electric!
The bartender lined up glasses as he glanced at the screen. He was a multitasker.
Absolute silence as Artie (Atermis) entered and pulled tables together for all the drunk posting EErs. She took the first chair.
Who would sit down next and who would throw down?
Everyone was dressed like they had just stepped off the set of "Saturday Night Fever". Ready to drink and dance the night away.
Lassie took a seat next to Artie. Artie looked at her and commented on her unusual odor.
"You mean my USUAL odor?"
"No. More like smelly socks."
Lassie thought Virgil's remark was a little off the wall. But it was to be expected. He'd recently suffered heat stroke. He should be home resting instead of out getting concussions during football practice. At a nightclub, he was still far too weak and not himself.
"Go home and recuperate. Then you'll be much better."
She grabbed her wine and moved to Dawg's table. Dawg also mentioned smelly socks. Specifically: "Pee-yew! Seek help, Lassie."
So was Dawg also wrong? (Better wrong than ignored, huh?)
Lassie and Dawg sat at the bar, discussing what they could do to get Virgil snapped out of this state and back to his old, happy self.
"Maybe a double shot of bourbon will bring him around again," muttered Dawg. "If nothing else, at least he might become more fun than the party pooper is is now. He might even sing with the band if encouraged. He's already wearing leather pants."
Virgil lifted his pale face when one whiff of that Lassie perfume bolted him upright. He drew the odor eliminater from its handy holster while dispensing the clear liquid onto Lassie's blown-out flipflop. Immediately the air freshened.
"Party on Garth! Party on Wayne!" Roared the EEgulls.
The dance floor bloomed with brightly-coloured leisure suits moving in a multiple dance line to Evening at the Roxbury. The disco ball spun from the ceiling.
Suddenly the crowd parted and in strode Virgil in a while suit doing a perfect killer impersonation of Travolta from "Saturday Night Fever". BeeGee's music blasted from the speakers as he strutted and gyrated across the floor. All the EEGulls flocked to dance in perfect step behind him.
Someone grabbed a webcam to capture the synchronized rhythm of the dancers for posterity. Virgil whipped out his comb to slick back his hair and continued to strut around the dance floor. Other went back to get another drink.
It was going to be a long night. Party on, Virgil.
A spotlight shone on the crowd as they did the Hustle in perfectly timed unison.
A challenger arose.
Dr. Pig.
...who couldn't dance, but did manage to cause the walls to shake, rattle and roll with his efforts to join in the merriment with others. (I can feel the love.)
Tequila sloshed from the bottle onto ZaireHD as he looked at the worm to make sure it wasn't a tapeworm.
It was just a little tequila worm. No Problem. Meanwhile, Doc was still trying to figure out the dance moves.
Beerwench laughed at his attempts: "You're better at football, Hines."
Beerwench started to walk toward the bar. Doc swung her around and started to dance her around the room.
Zaire saw BTDT standing off to the side watching the game. Lassie asked what the score was - not that she cared.
"Steelers up by two touchdowns!"
Then the channel suddenly changed. Lassie and BTDT spun around, eyes searching for the remote... held in the Chippendale dancer's arm band. His rock hard muscle had flexed as he twirled Miss Rigby in a dizzyingly frightful spin round and round. Rigby whooped with delight.
Chippie realized his faux pas and tossed the remote back to Lassie, BTDT and Beer. Fam shot eye daggers at her hustling bustling Dr. Pig.
With ESPN back, they cheered.
BTDT sat at the bar, staring at ESPN. Everyone else was into the music and retro dance moves.
Zaire started doing the Funky Chicken. Everyone started laughing hysterically. He really has no coordination. Doc stepped in to show the moves.
Meanwhile, the bartender got up on the bar and started imitating Tom Cruise in "Cocktail".
The EE ladies cheered and hollered, "Ravens!", while BTDT sneered, ordering more rounds. (The game was in the final quarter - then they could turn the damn TV off and start to really party down. But it was Sunday and 5:45pm, only six hours until BTDT turned back into a pumpkin. The jack-o-lantern kind, with teeth.)
BTDT finally passed out with a beer in one hand and the remote in another. MDW grabbed the remote and threw it in the beer. He cued the music and the EE revelers got moving back on the dance floor.
BTDT snored soundly in peace. (BTDT pumpkin light shines bright.)
"That's BTDT's nose shining from drinking too much beer. Snoring and snoring from brew?"
Karaoke had started.
Virgil was belting out a crowd favourite: "Friday", by Michelle Black. He had no idea what the lyrics were, but managed to belt out his own rendition:
Have I Told You Lately,
that poor Lassie smells greatly, ...
BTDT: *
Snore, SNORE, Snore, snore... e x h a l e.*
She slipped a $20 into the tip jar, secretly hoping the "singing" would cease.
"Aw - Virgil Likes my new cologne. I smell 'great', he whispered, in between singing tunes. He's still not hitting the right notes though. More practice?"
"Practice?", BTDT mumbled. "Football practice?"
"How 'bout those Raiders?", BTDT mused, with a gleam in her encased "Immaculate Reception" news-clipping. Then BTDT passed out ... again.
The crowd was getting restless and hungry. All that drinking and dancing worked up some cravings for some munchies. But should they leave and try to find a restaurant that was still open, or stay and wait 'til breakfast time?
"Biscuits and gravy sound good," BDTD declared.
Virgil pondered the meaning of life while reviewing the 24 hour breakfast menu. He was so intent on reading the menu, that nobody bothered pointing out to him that he'd inadvertantly picked up a worn out copy of Seuss's "Green Eggs and Ham", which looked like a menu to him.
(BTDT was no help, either.)
"I would like to order a box with a side order of fox, dear Garcon," said Virgil, shimmying away from the insufferably pungent aroma wafting up from Lassie's socks.
But it really wasn't her socks that smelled. It was emanating from the box of greasy take-out Virgil ordered.
"I guess the eggs weren't so farm-fresh after all," mumbled Virgil, swilling his coffee.
"The takeout is fine," BTDT said. "The problem is that Lassie put her socks in the box with the fox."
"Blessed be!" Cried Lassie. "Is the poor little fellow OK?"
BTDT briefly examined the box.
"No," she replied, "He's dead. Stench poisoning. From your exceptionally odoriferous socks. And that means--"
"Oh blessed be," Lassie interrupted, "We'll have to bury the socks-killed box fox at the Roxbury! Oh how terribly dreadful."
"I'll find some rocks," sighed Virgil.
BTDT got up with him.
"This socks," she said.
They wandered off in search of rocks to bury the fox at the Roxbury.
Meanwhile, Lassie treated herself to a pedicure and donned some sandals. Then she wondered why Virgil was talking so darn fast. He barely took a breath. He sounded just like Seuss.
With endless rambling and rhyming
And perfect metered timing.
Maybe from shots of jello,
He sounded just like Longfellow.
The clock had just ticked past 1:00, which meant that Iggy was probably hitting the sauce again. Sure enough, as Lassie searched for a safe space to stow the fox she'd killed, a bleary-eyed Iggy and Artemis were staggering off the karaoke stage, arm in arm and both completely blotto.
"Hey La... Lasshie!" Iggy called, "Come an... join us. You can be like... our Cher."
"If I could turn back time," Lassie belted out in a sultry yet sexy voice.
Virgil's knees went weak. He'd just heard an angel sing.
Iggy plopped down onto a comfy bar stool, and thought to herself:
Did the game rules change? How did I get here? And she started humming "This is not my beautiful wife. This is not my beautiful house..."
She hopped back onto the Karaoke stage and began belting out the infamous Talking Heads.
Tired from singing for 24+ hours, she motioned to the handsome bartender. "Another round over here, Barkeep!"
Kicking off her shoes, Iggy turned to Lassie and asked if she wanted to knock back some shooters.
"Why not?" she said. "Maybe the bartender can do his 'Cocktail' impersonation for us too."
Foom! Flames suddenly shot out of Iggy's brassiere.
She'd damaged a neon sign when she'd kicked off her shoes. It had thrown out sparks, igniting the two quarts of liquor she'd dribbled down her chest during her latest bender.
"
OOOOOUUUUIIIEEEE! I'm on fire, oh-chilly-oh!" She hollered, flapping her arms like a flaming headless chicken.
"Blessed be!" Lassie called back, "Your brassiere's a blazin' brazier! I killed that poor fox. Blessed be, I'm not going to lose you too, Iggy!"
"Fear not, me Lass, as this brassiere is made of metal," Iggy assured, as she ripped off the red-hot garment in question. "Now, where did that handsome bartender go?"
"I'm right here, hotcakes." Dr. Pig said, popping back up at his station behind the counter.
He raised an eyebrow, licked his lips, and rolled his tongue to make a growling noise: "R-r-r-r-r-r-r."
Iggy swooned.
"You're such a tease, you hot hunk of ham," she tittered. Pig gnashed his teeth.
"Can't help it," he said. "You're not the only one with a fire in your bosom. Now... about that 'Cocktail' impersonation you and Lassie wanted."
Interrupting, BTDT repeated the song:
Here we go, (go!) Steelers,
here we go! Pittsburgh's going
to the Super Bowl! (yeah!)
Iggy turned down the Steelers game and ordered a whiskey with a beer back.
"Piggy," she stammered, "Nice 'Cocktail' moves!"
Doc was in his glory, showing off his latest moves. But it wasn't quite what Iggy & Lassie had in mind.
"The RedBull is kicking in," announced Iggy, "Let's go dance!"
She grabbed Lassie's hand and headed for the dance floor.
"Shake what momma gave ya," shouted Lassie, eagerly joining in.
"Yer mama didn't give yu nuthin!" A bitter voice drawled from a nearby table. It was Archie, nursing a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.
His cold eyes were on Lassie. Glowering.
"You don't really mean that you silly old cr--" Lassie started, but was cut off.
"Yer mammy gave ya nuthin' but ugly and ain't nobody here gonna tell you otherwise," Archie bellowed, slamming the table.
The club patrons fell silent.
Only Virgil dared speak up: "Arch!" He growled. "How dare ye insult the fair maiden Lassie."
Virgil stood up, towering over Archie's drunken body. He quickly regretted his bravado when Archie also got up from his chair, rising to his
full stature of 9' 3".
"Breath mint?" Virgil squeaked, moments before Archie's anvil-sized fist sent him careening into a wall with enough force to leave a Virgil-shaped crater.
Iggy frowned.
"Looks like this situation will require a woman's touch," she muttered with a note of disdain. "I'll do it. But you owe me one, Lassie."
Iggy puffed up her bosom, now encased in a new bone-lined corset. Quickly launching herself from a nearby table, she jumped onto Archie's back. Reaching around, Iggy began scratching at Archie's bloodshot eyes.
"How dare you strike down Virgil, he who abhors snow leopards so?"
But before Archie could utter a word of reply, his body went rigid with a sudden cataleptic jerk.
His eyes opened wide. His lips fluttered mutely. And with a thunderous crash, he collapsed face-first into the table, stone cold dead.
"Blessed be," Lassie said happily, "That takes care of that."
Iggy climbed down from Archie's back, her mouth gawping open.
"What did you do to him?" She asked, noticing the chilling confidence in Lassie's grin.
"Arsenic." Lassie said matter-of-factly. Then when Iggy simply continued to gawp, she added, "It's Poison."
More gawping.
Lassie sighed, exasperated.
"A woman's touch, right? Men fight; women use poison. Duhhh. Now let's see if they've got some of Diana Ross's greatest hits on this karaoke-mabob.
"
"Poison was a good band," nodded Iggy in agreement. "Oooo! Diana Ross?! My mom listened to her in the 80s."
Lassie and Iggy sauntered off into the karaoke bar's darkness.
"Yes, poison was good," replied Lassie. "Their music apparently has a strange effect on Archie. He convulsed into a frenzy then fainted away... not dead. Brett Michaels has that effect."
(Meanwhile... BTDT snored loudly... again.)
"Not dead?!" Asked Iggy, as she stepped over BTDT's sleeping body.
"Did someone check Arch's pulse?" She asked, eyeballing the corner where he lay.
"The only dead he is", said Lassie, "Is dead to the world". He was having a chugging contest with BTDT. Now they're both just wasted. He'll wake up later wondering what the hell hit him."
"it wasn't the Steeler D," BTDT grumbled from the floor.
It was a night to remember at the EE Roxbury.
The End 
~ Friendships Are Warm ~ True Passions are Fire ~ 
"If I could turn back
"
