This is how it works. You order another Grand Marnier on the dime of that rich old guy who says he runs the studio where Alice Mutton recorded their latest album and when you fade back in it’s foggy, you’re outside, and two violinists stand over you, recite the Nicene Creed until you, too, think you believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.
It’s when you get up and walk home you realize these guys are with you for good, and there are only so many reels your head can process before you need to sleep the sleep of the spray-tanned sailor. At the risk of being seen a walnut, you ask, in as polite a tone as you can muster, if your new friends might cease and desist, at least till cockcrow, but they just switch to a narcocorrido ballad, vocals in something that may resemble broken Spanish in some alternate universe. When Alice Mutton’s drummer pulls up, even if he’s wasted enough to see nickels on every dime, you dive in, beg him to floor it, destination Braşov, Paris, the final patch of Oblivion-surrounded earth at the end of the world, anywhere but here.