Meanwhile, there’s Becky Chickenshit, her big tartan arse heaving and hoing all over the place in a dizzying display. Word is that Becky just got married to none other than everybody’s favourite lecherous crooked cop, Duke the Puke. And there, my smug self-confidence is restored. At least my arse is small, I didn’t marry a bona fide creep, and I don’t fake step dance in public.

“C’mon, Allie, let’s go show them wanker bits how to really dance. See if they’ll play Salt-N-Pepa. Pretty sure I can still Pu-push it real gooooood —” I convince myself to ignore my wooziness, throw my arm over my head, and start to arch backwards, my chest and hips thrusting up as my lower back quickly begins to insist that I am too old and way too dizzy to do this dance.

“There’ve been enough scenes here already tonight.”

I give her a quizzical look, as my eyes detect that the edges of her grey-blue dustball are tinged with the uneven reds of a fresh sunburn, or an old scar. I look around for evidence of a scene. Char is nowhere in sight.

While Willy Gimp and I were in the car getting a buzz on and talking about the old days, Char was inside doing what Char has always done best. Causing a scene of epic proportions. She went straight to the bar, but Becky wouldn’t serve her because Becky didn’t think it was appropriate for a breastfeeding mother to drink alcohol. Char got loud and mouthy. Becky blinked and stammered. Char got louder and mouthier. Becky started to cry. Then Duke showed up, and threatened to arrest Char for public indecency because by now, the baby was sound asleep in the sling, but Char had both of her boobs hanging out the top of her hot pink peasant blouse, just for fun. Char grabbed one of her boobs, gave it a squeeze, and nailed Duke right between the eyes with a stream of milk. Duke called her a nasty cow. Becky wailed hysterically. Char laughed like a lunatic. Duke whipped out his badge. Becky told Char she’d better leave at once before she ended up in jail. Char told Becky to go suck a pig dick, spun on her stilettoed heels, and traipsed out the back door of the gym.

“So where’s Char now?” I ask.

“Dunno. Don’t care.” Allie takes a nonchalant swig of beer.

“Bah, she’ll be back,” Willy Gimp says. “I got her car keys.”

“Where?” I lean in close to Gimp’s ear, grazing his neck with my lips, hoping he can hear the heat in my voice over the caterwauling music. “Which pocket? This one?” My hands dance under the table and slide over his thigh. “Or this one?”

He laughs.

“You’re wrecked, Crow Fortune,” he leans in and whispers back.

“Yeah, so what. Wanna go do body shots in the boys’ locker room?” I coo.

“We drank all the tequila.”

“Not those kind of body shots.” Beneath the table, my dancing hand makes my meaning clear. Just in case Gimp is not getting the hint.