There are no broken windows, and it’s not for lack of trying. The walls of this place are made out of something engineered to resist the stupid destructive impulses of the drunk and drugged and our best minds can’t figure out any way of penetrating their defenses. Someone screams out, “Fireworks!” and a squad of partygoers takes off to find the auto-doc and see if they can convince the damn thing to produce black powder with all the magic it has in its glowy guts. First, do no harm. Second, sulfur and carbon and saltpeter, please. Normally this is the sort of thing I’d be overseeing, but I’m just intoxebriated enough to remember that I don’t remember anything from any chemistry class I’ve ever taken, or if I’ve ever taken a chemistry class, or what the password on my Commconn is so I could look up the definition of chemistry. I think I changed the password on the thing to keep myself from destroying my social life, but it’s also possible that I’ve simply stolen someone else’s device. I don’t recall setting my Commconn to have a cute kitten on its home screen chastizing me and insisting that I return it to Molly Scott-Wheeler at once.
But damned if that doesn’t give me the idea to try and convince the auto-doc that we need methylendioxy-methamphetamine so we can all bond more and get that entactogenic goodness on.
Fireworks first, though. A man’s got to have priorities, and right now Googe is prioritizing being a human salt lick, laying out on the dining room table while the triplets perform some kind of arcane ritual on him with agave liquor, sodium chloride, and citrus. There’s a gathered crowd, laughing and whooping as the women take turns nipping and sucking at his flesh, but I can only watch for a moment. I’ve got no appetite for watching one of my oldest dearest friends be devoured as part of a ritual to some blasphemous ancient god.
In the corner of the living room furthest from the speakers (a geometric paradox, since the speakers are wired into the walls of the villa themselves,) Erb and Monk are playing some bizarre combination of chess, Matchstick Corbo, and what appears to be Twister. There are six people playing, and each of them has members of the opposite sex draped on them like so much meat. Judging from the intense look of concentration on both Erb and Monk’s faces, this is a legitimate challenge and handicap. I’ve never seen too men so utterly uninvested in the women hanging off them, laughing and squirming and whispering (what I assume to be) sweet nothings into their ears.
Papa Chub I don’t see at all, which I assume means that he’s vigorously inserting his penis into and out of some random stranger. Or maybe he’s just in the bathroom. I resolve to go looking for him, but then I remember that I have a stranger’s phone, and I should probably go see the auto-doc about Molly.