Ah, Max's Bar and Grill, the finest dive in Lallor's famed "Paper Dollar City" (a stunning recreation of 20th century Milwaukee, constructed by an insane space-cheddah-billionaire for no good reason).
I remember this night. Kind of. I mean, I have some idea of what happened from a few clues:
- I know I must have trashed the joint, because today Max sent me a bill for replacing both the windows and the doors; most of the booths and tables; the plumbing in the mens' room; and even the ceiling, which he claimed had suffered "extensive pipe smoke damage."
- I woke up the next morning with the fashion critic's face nestled securely in my crotchal region, alternately sobbing and asphyxiating. Sadly, sex with me had left the man a blubbering wreck (as it so often does) and he's currently residing in a mental hospital. So he is no help to me at all.
- Whatever I did, it must have been spectacular, because whenever I enter a hover-biker bar now, there's sure to be a couple of tough hombres who point at me and whisper, "It's that guy from Max's!" and then they run out the door screaming, waving their arms theatrically about.
So help a dude out, okay? We'll do this in contest form. Describe my apparently shocking and/or kooky outfit for me. (Only one guess per person, please.) I'll post a picture of myself in the winning --er, I mean, "correct" ensemble -- on Friday. Sound cool? Thanks! You're the best.