So I'd never met Brian before that night, but he came along to pour drinks (as he had been trained by one of the world's top 10 flair bartenders when he used to work at T.G.I. Friday's) and he seemed like a lovely chap. We had no past and I feared no awkward confessions from his drunken state, but after several hours and many alcoholic beverages, we noticed this gentle giant sobbing silently in the alley of CJ Hooligan's. We all turned to look up at our sad Hagridian friend. (Except for Alli, who was pretending the alleyway was a church aisle, shouting "I do. I do marry you, Devon Sawa!!!")
"Why are you crying?" I asked Brian, and he stopped a minute to wring out his beard, which had been collection his tears like a bath sponge left in a leaking shower.
"I have a confession to make," he said. "I didn't just mix the drinks, I ... I ... did stuff to them."
"What kind of stuff?" Brendan asked, before continuing, "And by the way, you could just tell those potato skins were made by employees who haven't been treated fairly, couldn't you?"
"Well, Brendan," Brian said, "I laced your drinks with like a gazillion uppers. It's why you've been such an aggressive prick all night."
Brendan was shocked, but the shock soon turned to intense pain after transforming his fist into a bloody stump on the CJ Hooligan's alley wall.
"And you, Alli. I'm sorry, but I laced your drink with both MDMA and LSD, just about all the letters, basically."
"Thank you, Brian," Alli squealed. "Thank you for making me Mrs. Devon Sawa!"
"What did you put in my drink?" Nick asked, his face as green as a 30-something Englishman who had just puked a lot. (Sorry, I wrote that metaphor while I was still drunk.)
"Nothing," Brian said, "but I did mix it with a syringe I found in medical waste garbage."
"What about me, Brian?" I asked. "Did you put something in my drink to make me clumsy?"
"No, I couldn't do that to you, Gladstone. You're a hero. You're just a huge spazz."
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