[b]The Captain’s Quarters, Fantasy Island, North West Side, in the City[/b]: 

“What the fuck is this shit?’ ‘ATC, I think,’ ‘Shut the fuck up, bitch. I don’t fuckin’ pay you to talk,’ ‘Well, technically Ken’s paying her, Felix,’ ‘Fuck you, Damien. Ken still owes me twenty bucks,’ ‘Belle here charges four hundred an hour, yo,’ ‘Shut the fuck up, you fuckin’ Jew,’ ‘Says the fuckin’ Muslim,’ ‘Both of you twats shut up and cut me another line,’ whether it was a vain attempt to impress the ladies he otherwise seemed to despise in all but their most base appeal, or because surrounding himself with women of questionable morals and dubious cleanliness truly offended him was unknown, but nothing put Felix in a fighting mood quite like the Captain’s Quarters, in stark contrast to Damien who seemed to be enjoying himself a great deal, and Ken who dearly appreciated anyone who would serve him a drink at odd hours of the night (and occasionally day) whilst topless. Though the prospect of throwing an illicitly over the top goodbye party for Damien complete with hookers and blow had been tossed about a time or two in the end they had decided on the usual, Kim, Belle, and Cheri in the VIP Lounge. 

Of course, they still brought along enough blow to put down most crack heads, so in retrospect all they really did was replace their apartment with their regular place, and the hookers with strippers. Belle, a brunette who happened to be the most, well, endowed of the three was currently lying on her back, head resting in Damien’s lap whilst her left leg was draped pretentiously over Felix’s shoulder, knee resting behind and just above his head, foot absently playing with his opposite shoulder, a fresh line being cut on a small board covering much of her stomach all the while, the only part of her which was garbed by anything as it so happened. “La la, la-la la,” the blonde, Cheri, whispered in Ken’s ear as she danced in place, hips and shoulders gyrating in time with the beat of the music blaring throughout the establishment, embracing his upper body with her own from behind as the third, Kim, a dark, silken haired beauty whom Ken had taken an immediate liking to just after moving to the City held him seated under her own body weight in a matching leather loveseat as she, “danced,” about on top of him. 

“Hey, if a girl’s gonna strip for nasty old fucks while having one dollar bills thrown at ‘em they get to pick the fuckin’ playlist,” Ken shouted across the room at his less accepting compatriot as Kim rose to meet him eye to eye, stopping momentarily to ever so softly brush his lips with her own before, casting him a glance more smirk than smile, began rising to place his face at her chest, picking up his bourbon Old Fashioned and slowly pouring its contents over her flesh into his mouth, laughing at the greedy manner with which he guzzled the poison down. This was the very woman Felix insisted was, in secret, Carly Rae Jepsen, despite her being of South-East Asian descent and her continued stance that she was, in fact, not a famous pop star, and were she, what was she doing working as a stripper? To which Felix most often replied with something misogynistic, usually along the lines of all women being hoes, to which she would generally reply with a witty remark or two on how he’d be a much more enjoyable person should his dick not have forgotten to catch up with the rest of him during puberty, oft’ leaving him speechless. 

The past day had been spent lounging about the apartment eating take out and playing Xbox in between extended bouts of sleep and Netflix binges, as the day after a successful cook usually was, and with the next day already scheduled for reconnaissance on their local prescription drug distribution center, or, more specifically, on the commercial vans and their routes from the outskirts of the City to its every interior nook and cranny, and the day after that the last Damien was to spend in the country before boarding his flight and returning home to London today was the last they had to give a proper send off for their chemically minded partner in crime, and even less the hookers they were well underway towards reaching the, “all-out,” mark. Several lines and quite a few drinks in and the reserved, proper Englishman was howling at the moon, or at least the ceiling, very nearly knocking the cutting board, and the rest of the cocaine with it, off of the naked woman he was using as a table in his jubilation. “Fuck, Andrew! Careful with that shit, it’s worth more than she is,” Felix fumed, clearly referring to Belle. 

Truth be told, the six of them were all pretty messed up at this point. Ken was currently guzzling his eleventh drink in the past two hours, and was at least a few lines in, Felix was snorting lines like his life depended on it, and the girls had each had a few. A fourth woman entered, tall, dark, beautiful, bearing a bottle of Dom Perignon and, messily popping the cork and raining the contents down all about Damien, Belle, and Felix, brought the entire room to raucous laughter. Pouring the remaining contents into seven glasses the lot moved from their former positions to cheers, “to Damien, that fuck,” before drinking it down in a single swallow. “Gonna miss you, man,” Ken confided, as the hostess took her leave and the six returned to partying, reinvigorated by the extravagant display of friendship, or something like friendship. “I fuckin’ hate you, Damien,” was all Felix seemed to have to say, but the girls each had more than affectionate words for the subject of their little party. “Next time I have to put up with you two assholes, we’ll be in London,’ ‘Yeah man, doing shots on top of the Millennium Wheel,”.