Brothers in orphanhood, they talked and drank, cried and drank, sang and drank. Mallory took to hollering suggestions at the DJ, who valued his regulars enough to indulge the occasional burst of bad taste. The time of requests came and went, and with it, the slight slivers of wildlife only curtailed by school night curfew. In their stead, a mob materialised, made up of scenesters who seemed to have refined gracelessness into an art form. The sound of a thousand safety pins pierced the silence, which stank with bodies throbbing to the beat in their heads.

Just as anticipation threatened to turn riot, the DJ emerged from the ladies’ wiping his mouth, but not so as you’d notice. At his passage, the crowd parted like a split sea; Mallory took the opportunity to slink into the front row, calculating no one would dare argue with an alcohol-fuelled Jericho. They strained to hear the man’s endorsement of the evening’s entertainment, the particulars all but drowned by the excitement ebbing around them. Just about, they gathered they should welcome someone or other onto the stage.

Shrugging, they joined in the boisterous cheering that greeted this announcement. Strategically placed lights flickered into place, revealing the unlikeliest assortment to ever grace the same boards. Mallory and Jericho blinked.