Part One

    Alexander and Kristof sat smugly in the dimly lit cocktail lounge, sipping (glugging) their martinis----they were now up to three apiece.  They had been there less than an hour, but were already fairly inebriated. 
    After a few minutes of silent, contemplative drunkenness, Alexander boisterously exclaimed, "Let's go whoring!!!"
    "Where do you propose we do that?" mumbled Kristof, already beginning to slur.
    Alexander's eyes sparkled and a shit-eating grin spread across his face.  "Geighbor's."
    Disgust registered on his compatriot's face.  "You bastard----- that's a gay nightclub!!!"
    "Yeah!" exclaimed Alexander, the grin spreading further.  "That's the whole point!  Some straight girls go there too, and they aren't expecting to get hit on, so when we go in there and start groping the hell out of them, they'll just think we're a couple gay dudes doing some new Madonna dance."
    Alcohol had likewise impaired Kristof's reasoning ability.  "Ok, let's go."  And with that, they paid their bill and departed, making sure to keep enough money for at least eight or nine more drinks apiece.

Part Two

    One hour and some 12 drinks later at Geighbor's, Alexander and Kristof were very intoxicated, indeed.  Amazingly though, they were still not drunk enough to approach any of the attractive females that were spread out and scattered amongst the hordes of writhing homosexual men.  Such was the depth and breadth of their social ineptitude.
    "I totally gotta get another drink." Alexander belched.  "Totally gonna get laid."
    "I am going to nail that girl with the tits!" bellowed Kristof, resolutely.  The strength of his conviction brought a swallow of vomit up into his mouth which he helplessly coughed out onto the floor.  He quickly wiped off his chin with his sleeve, but it was a moot gesture as a second, much larger rising of puke surged violently forth and exploded from his mouth in an acrid gush.  Several pairs of suddenly soaked feet stopped dancing; but Kristof's drunken instincts came to the fore and he deftly switched into damage-control mode.  With strings of vomit dripping from his lips, he darted his eyes vaguely towards a group of people standing over to his left and shouted, "Motherfucker puked on my face!  I'll fuckin' kill him!!!"
    The resultant vibe he felt from the nearby patrons told Kristof that his lie had been bought.  As he feigned anger at no one in particular, a concerned bartender tossed him a towel.
    "Wipe that stuff off quick," he advised, "you don't want to catch anything."  Kristof nodded his thanks and mopped up his face.  Just then he noticed Alexander emerging from a throng of grinding gays, holding two Long Island iced teas.  Somehow, that alcoholic bastard had snuck away and returned with drinks in under a minute!!!  Or maybe it had been longer.  Kristof was really too drunk to know how much time had passed.
    "Alexander, you dick, you missed it!" exclaimed Kristof.
    "Missed what?"
    Kristof was almost laughing too hard to speak.  "I just puked on half these people's feet!!!"  To which several wet-footed patrons turned their eyes to glare at him.  He couldn't believe he had just said that so loudly.
    "I think you could use a drink," Alexander mumbled listlessly.
    "No shit."  Kristof grabbed one of the icy, sweet beverages and started guzzling.

Part 3

    Another hour later, Alexander stood leaning against the bar in a blind drunken stupor.
    I can't believe I brought my backpack, he thought.  His backpack hung on him like a sack of potatoes-------- infinitely heavier than it had been just a half hour previously.  He had been separated from Kristof at some point, though he didn't remember when.  Oh well, he'd find him if the damn place ever closed.
    Who the hell wears a backpack to go dancing?  Alexander dimly wished that he wasn't so drunk.  Then a man whispered into his ear, huskily.
    "What do you say you let me take you home and fuck the shit out of you..."
    What the hell?  A slow realization that something was not right.  Then Alexander felt a hand squeeze his crotch, lips kiss his cheek.
    WHAT THE FUCK?  Alexander turned to face the source of this violation and saw none other than his backpack, which really wasn't a backpack at all but a swarthy, horny homosexual who had been hanging on Alexander's back for who knows how long.
    "For the love of Christ..." Alexander stammered, "You're a swish!"  He pushed his way past the greasy sodomite, determined to find Kristof.  And he found him almost instantly.
    Right there in the middle of the dance floor was Kristof, now shirtless and pressed between two gyrating queers.  He had become the meat in a gay sandwich.  Alexander's eyes widened and he began to laugh harder than he ever had in his life, the memory of his recent crotch-squeeze already fading. 
     It was not immediately discernable whether or not Kristof was even conscious, with his eyes half-open and glazed and his body nearly motionless.  The persistent grinding of the homosexuals to his fore and aft could easily have been all there was propping him up.  They clearly were enjoying this immensely.
    Still trapped in a fit of guffaws, Alexander ventured onto the dance floor and punched his friend in the arm.  Kristof's eyes snapped open wide-----he had been passed out.
    "Hey, homo, where's your shirt?" asked Alexander, his eyes tearing from laughter. 
    Kristof's mouth fell agape at the two gays that rudely continued to dry-hump his crotch and ass.  He bolted out from between them.  "Let's get the fuck out of here."
    Alexander opened his mouth to express agreement, but all that came out was laughter.  They had truly gotten what they deserved.