This aggression will not stand, man.

Ok, I promised all of you to do this today. And damn it, I'm going to keep my promises. I also promised to sleep with Jennifer Connelly tomorrow. So Jen, if you're reading, please shave your legs. Stubble's a turn-off.

Thanks.

On with the story!

I have not yet officially reviewed Knock-Knock or Flipside, nor does it ever look like I ever will during the summertime, what with their insane hours. That, however, is where my newest story occured...a story that would change the face of stupidity for all time. Change it to my face.

Adam and I were at the lower part of the club (the dance portion had not really opened yet, it being only 8 or 9.) There are a couple of pool tables there, and where there's pool..there's Adam playing it. Tragically, my "sit at the bar" technique didn't work here, so I was playing too. We were busy schooling some people, using our patented doubles technique: I would figure out the better player, and go right before him; not trying to sink a ball, but giving him absolutely no shot. Then he'd mess up, and Adam would drop a few balls, being a much better player than me. Meanwhile, I'd make snide comments and enrage the opposing players beyond belief, causing them to be even sloppier. Just ask any of my friends how sarcastic I can be: Even baby Jesus would get pissed off if I'd really set my mind to it.

Well, we'd been there for an hour or two, and we had a sizeable little nest egg built up. A break was in order, and we went up to the bar. There were two people behind it, one of whom I knew - her name was Tiera (well, that's how it's pronounced. No idea how it's actually spelled, since I never asked for her number.) The other guy was unfamiliar to me, but he was big. Taller than me, much broader than Adam, a "fuck-you-guy" goatee, and his name was Bubba.

And Bubba was gay as hell. Not just a little gay, but reaaaal gay.

He was sitting behind the bar playing terrible 80's music as Adam and I are ordering our drinks, and my keen mind goes to work on the problem. The problem being this: We have to pay for our drinks. Not like we didn't just win 30-40 dollars, but we'd have to spend eight. That seemed unfair to me. I quickly came up with a solution. A terrible one, but still - in the land of the thirsty, the one-free-drink man is king.

Ellis: So, Bubba. Can my friend and I get a free round if we do a dance number?
Adam: No, I'm just paying for mine.
Bubba: What kind of dance number?
E: Well, 80's dance to 80's music, but we get to pick the song.
A: Dude, I'll pay for yours too if you're that broke, I'm not going to (cut off)
E: Done and done! Give us a few minutes of prep time, then we'll show you how real men dance.
The next couple minutes were spent in a frantic haze. First I had to convince Adam that yes, we were doing this, no, I wasn't high, no, it wasn't gay, and yes, we had to do the robot. While we were plotting, Adam's friend Holden shows up and orders a rum & coke.

( In case you haven't figured it out yet, my friends and I really love R&C's. I mean, really. And every bar in the world has them...although some don't serve them with slices of lime, which pretty much automatically gives them a D rating. Even if I got laid that night. Ok, back to the story.)

So our friend Holden grabs his drink and walks over. From his "interesting" center of gravity and the fact that he has to lean against a wall, I can tell he's already drunk. Which is perfect for my plan, because I now have not one, but two people I can con into doing this with me. Our dance lineup consisted of this:

Song: Simply Irresistable

Adam & Ellis - the Fishhook, Adam being hooked and pulled across the room, to be netted by Holden.
Adam & Ellis - Stacking Boxes, Holden - the Shopping Cart taking our boxes
All Together - Shopping Cart (synchronized), Random Flailing
Ellis, Adam - The Robots...fighting.

At least, that's how it was supposed to be. It really just turned into a drunken debacle. Holden mostly stood there and drank, but Adam and I did surprisingly well for people who were either drunk (him) or had no rhythm (me.) We were so enthusiastic, girls came down from the dance floor and joined in. Bubba even put in a second song, and we performed through that too.

But, like any beautiful thing (read: hot chicks dancing with us), it couldn't last forever. So, when the music cut out, I walked over, collected our drinks from Bubba, and we went back to playing pool, dragging Holden's semi-comatose body with us.

About an hour later, we go up to the bar to settle our tabs. Teira gets our bills, (Bubba by then had left, although he gave us his number and address, adding that there would be a party later. Which I figure is probably slang for "I want to do you two little white boys.") and I reach in my pocket to pay...and then I freeze. Now, we keep careful track of how many drinks we've had, and there was something odd about this bill. Then it hits me. It's eight dollars more than it should be. Eight..dollars. Feverishly, my mind works at a lightning speed, calculating, analyzing.

Then Adam leans over and says "hey, dude, it looks like they charged us for those free drinks."

It was verily on like Donkey Kong at that point. I asked Teira what was going on, since Bubba had promised us a free rounds, and she replied "Oh, Bubba doesn't actually work here. He just stands behind the counter."

What the fuck? Now you see why this place got an F-. Any bar that will allow some tool to stand behind the bar, serve drinks, and change the music for hours without him working there will probably put roofies in your drink, if you're lucky. If not they will just promise you free drinks and then never give them to you. I hear it is under new management these days, though, so things could be different.

So I ask Teira to call him and confirm. He denies ever promising anything. I am so very angry at this point, it's amazing that I did not beat up Holden (he wouldn't have felt it anyway, and Adam was stronger than me, so he would be a bad target.) Instead, I turn to my boys, and we come up with a game plan.

Our game plan is this: We will go to Bubba's house, crash his party, and intimidate him into giving me my eight dollars. Yes, we were prepared to go to jail because of eight...freaking...dollars. Why? Because we were drunk, I'm a smooth talker, and because it was about the principle of the matter.

We all pile into Adam's Rav4, but first I grab the sawed-off axe handle I always kept in the trunk of my car. My dad gave it to me when I moved to Columbia, and I never took it out. That night, I understood why. Well, I thought I did. I doubt my dad intended it to be used for intimidating people or collecting bar tabs. Meanwhile, Holden has already ensconced himself in the back seat, and had somehow produced a six-pack of Heineken. The man was like a beer ninja. Well, as Adam is driving us to our destination, Holden pops one and starts drinking.

At this point, I consider my options. I could:

A: Bail out of the car (legally safest, but I would not get my eight dollars)
B: Stay in the car (eight dollars, here I come!)
C: Have a beer (uh, they can't arrest you twice, can they?)

You can guess which one I picked. So, we end up at Bubba's house, with the full intent of intimidating him, collecting my eight dollars, and leaving. I lend Holden my windbreaker, and he sticks the axe handle up the sleeve, rendering that arm immobile. Holden, being Holden, picks his right arm. We slip out of the Rav4 and saunter up to the doorway, and I realize that I have grossly miscalculated. Not only is it a very large house, but there are two very built guys standing near the door. As we approach the entrance, this conversation ensues:

BAMF: Hey, where're you going?
Ellis: Uh, we have this thing...Bubba told us we were invited...(translation: "Kick Holden's ass hard enough to give me time to run to the car)
BAMF: Oh, ok, go on in.

The first obstacle dodged, we enter into a world of gay. Don't get me wrong, the house was well-appointed, and there were even paintings of naked women hanging on the wall. But no one was looking at them (sign one) and no couples were making out on the couches (no straight couples, anyway, sign two.) Also, there were a lot of people at this house. My best guess would be over twenty. The three of us were in fighting shape to maybe take out...a dog. I pull Adam to a corner, and we consult for a bit, finally coming up with this agreement: If we cannot get my eight dollars back, we will at least tax him for it another way.

We do that the best way we can. I immediately go to the liquor cabinet, and have a double Bloody Mary. Adam finds the pool table and starts betting money. Holden finds the kitchen...and starts eating all of the bacon Bubba is cooking.

Three double Bloody Mary's later, I am in the back area of the house, watching Adam take another bet when Holden comes out. He looks pale, but I assume that's because he's just ingested enough grease to lubricate a train engine. He gestures to us, and we saunter (or stagger, depending on your view) over to him.

H: Dude, we have to leave now.
A: Man, I've got one ball left, and if I sink it, I'm up another ten.
E: Huh?
H: Listen, I was in the kitchen, and Bubba pulled out a Glock. Someone asked him if it was loaded, and he said "There wouldn't be much point to it if it wasn't, would there?" Then he said that he had some "stuff" to do, and looked at me!

Penetrating deeply into my mind are two memories. Bubba revealed that he was a lawyer. I also told Bubba upon entering the house that he shouldn't worry about the eight dollars because "he obviously needed it more than me."

We were in deep shit. Adam got his money, Holden was already out the back door...and I was finishing my drink. As I was joining my noble compatriots (who, by the way, already had the Rav in gear) I saw a shape coming around the corner, holding another shape. A gun shape.

I threw the glass on the ground, leaped into the side door they had jammed open, and we sped off into the night. All told, I had probably drunk $25 of liquor, Adam made off with $20 of money...and Holden ate $20 worth of bacon. (editor's note: I know, he probably didn't eat $20 worth of bacon, but he tried his best.) I called it even.

Later that week, though, Holden told Adam and I the crucial factor in the whole story...the clincher, if you will.

The Glock was pink.