[h1]Injae Park[/h1]
[@Mr Allen J]
[hr]
Ratchet rolled her eyes. "Um, yeah. I'm surprised that she didn't, like, explode after downing three shots and a bottle of vodka," she said to Meifeng. She looked around; there was a guy holding two bottles of liquor, dancing on a table with a lampshade on his head. She kind of expected a little bit more properness and mannerism from the wealthy; coming in here wearing Converse and a tool belt without a hitch is [i]one[/i] thing, but she certainly didn't expect some oil tycoon or corporate owner to have a kid that would do... well, most of what's going on in this room.

Ratchet sat on the barstool on Jen's other side. "Nothing for me," she said, casually waving the bartender away. "I don't drink."

Ratchet thought that something sounded a bit off with Jen's behavior. It seemed a bit... abrupt, even for a drunk person. But Ratchet didn't think too much of it; after all, it [i]was[/i] a party.

Ratchet took off her driver's cap and smoothed out her hair. "So... have you done anything other than get irreparably drunk?" Ratchet asked, lightly slugging Jen in the arm with her wheel. "I'm sure that rich folks have more to do in their homes than go into an alcohol-induced stupor."

Ratchet looked around and thought she looked a bit out-of-place. She had parked the Volt between a Rolls and a Ferrari. She looked like a half-dressed Newsie sitting amongst the ranks of J.P. Morgan and John D. Rockefeller. She absently rolled her wheel on the bar. "Jen, are you sure you're alright? You're falling over on Meifeng," Ratchet remarked. She then glanced over at Meifeng. "Did you put her up to this?" she asked.