"Remind me again why we're here, Michael?" Max asked through gritted teeth. Michael sighed, ignoring Max's question. Instead of answering, he pushed Max towards the door of the Night Owl. Max made the regular noises of protest, but Michael didn't bite. It was the night of Max's twenty-first birthday, and responsibility be damned. For the first night in four years, Michael wanted Max to forget the past, forget his responsibility, forget his control and just have fun for one night. Was that too much to ask? Especially for a twenty-first birthday? Michael thought not. And besides, it was the only thing he could think of instead of doing what normal college students did on their twenty-first birthdays; going to a bar and getting drunk off their asses. He and Max could only do that if they wanted the FBI on their backs. Michael shook his head and silently told himself not to think about that. Not tonight.

"C'mon Max, it's not like I'm dragging you to a bar or anything," Michael told him. "Just a strip club," he grinned, shoving Max inside. Max gave him a look that could melt steel. 'Thank God whoever built him didn't give him laser-vision,' Michael thought to himself.

"Where did you find this place?" Max asked, glancing at their surroundings. It wasn't a run-down, rat-infested hole, but it wasn't the Ritz, either. It was dark inside, and there was a stage near the back. A sort of runway extended from the stage down the better half of the room, and tables lined up against the main stage and runway. Other tables littered the rest of the room, and booths were jammed up against the walls. There was an island bar near the main door. It reminded Michael of the scene in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" where Jessica Rabbit did her little shtick.

"I talked to Tom. Asked him a few things, and we narrowed it down to this. You'll like, believe me."

Thomas Lanslow was the on-campus connoisseur of strip joints, dance clubs, and all things seedy under the stars. He made it his personal mission in life to be well informed of every nocturnal hangout in any area he occupied. He spent the better part of his last two years in college making various road trips and explorations to every strip joint in the state. Tom knew all the goings-on in every joint: who danced where, what music they played, what drinks they served, what joints were topless or not, if they had waitresses, if they checked ids, if you had to pay, etc. You named it Tom knew it. He was the perfect creep to go to for a night like this.

"*You* talked to Tom Lanslow? You didn't end up blasting him away or anything, did you?" Max asked, half serious/half joking. Michael snorted. "Everything went fine," he answered, flashing back to the unpleasant afternoon he spent with Tom.

**"You're looking for a strip joint?" Tom asked, his eyes speculative.

"Yeah," Michael answered, not liking his tone already. "Everyone on campus knows you're the man to come to. Max's birthday is next week, his twenty-first. Can you help me out?"

"A female joint?" Tom asked, his eyebrows shooting up. Michael shot him a 'what-the-hell' kind of look.

"The hell is that supposed to mean!?"

"…………………Nothing," came the reply. "Just that you and Max seem to hang out together an awful lot," he added. Michael narrowed his eyes at Tom and gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to teach him the true meaning of an alien abduction.

"Yes, a female strip joint," he sighed. "One that is not fully topless, 'cause Max can be real shy about that. Waitresses, and non-paying. Chicken wings would be a bonus…and no techno crap either."

Tom thought for a few minutes, looking Michael up and down, and going over the criteria. "You'll be wanting the Night Owl," he said at last. "They have pretty faces, alternative music, full bar, and no pay. They even have this girl there called 'The Dancing Virgin'. She's real fun to watch."**

And so here they were, at the Night Owl. Michael couldn't wait. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------- Max took in his surroundings as Michael ushered him to a table near the "runway" part of the stage. It was dark in the "house" area, but stage lights hung over the stage. 'How apt of me to notice,' Max snarked to himself. He sighed and sat down, shooting Michael a wary look.

"They're not like, gonna be totally…nude, are they?" He asked, fearing flying flesh. Michael laughed and shook his head.

"You're safe, man. This is me, I know you."

Max nodded, and proceeded to stare at the tabletop letting his thoughts drift. They went to his favorite subject: Elizabeth Parker. Max was a whore for self-punishment, and this topic had the power to cut him like a thousand stabbing knives. There was never a day, hell, never a minute when he didn't think about Liz. If only he could go back, if only he could change what happened that day, if only, if only…

Max was snapped from his thoughts when the house announcer's voice came booming over the speaker systems. He informed the 'house guests' that a girl named Evita was about to dance and that she came from some exotic location in South America. She was new, and 'please inform the stage manager if you'd like to see more of her,' the announcer boomed. Max shuddered and returned to thinking about things he had no power to change; mainly the past and his alien status. Again. Michael suddenly growled from his seat and pounded on the tabletop, bringing Max out of his self-imposed prison.

"What?" Max snapped at Michael, not liking being jerked from his introspected thoughts.

"You're not watching! I brought you here to let loose and you're probably holing up in your mind thinking about Liz again. It's unhealthy, man! For one night, let it go, okay? I mean, look at me: I haven't seen Maria in about the same amount of time and I'm not torturing myself over it. Just one night, *one night*, let go," Michael glared at Max. "Besides, you promised," he added, figuring that the extra guilt-trip may work on him.

He was right. Max glowered back at Michael, but brought his attention to the stage, where Evita was now down to a bra and thong, gyrating wildly against a steel pole. Max shuddered, but kept his eyes on stage, not wanting to let Michael down. After Evita was done, Michael slapped Max on the shoulder to gain his attention.

"Hey, want some chicken wings?" Michael inquired. "I'm buying," he said, breaking into a wolfish grin. Max had to smile as well, and nodded. He was hungry, and he might as well take advantage of Michael paying for once. Michael raised his hand to one of the scantily clad waitresses, trying to signal that he wanted her services. Max took this chance to study the waitresses' garb a bit more closely. They all wore 'boob tube' tops, and matching plastic-looking shorts that looked more like bikini bottoms. They also looked like they had been painted on the girls. Max winced at the thought of having to try and get into one of those. But the most curious thing about them was that they wore masks. Big, feathered masks that reminded Max of some New Orleans Mardi Gras masks he saw once, when he and Liz went looking for Halloween costumes. The girl that answered Michael's signal was dressed in an aquamarine blue, but Max noticed that each waitress had different colors.

The petite, strawberry blonde sauntered up to them. Her body language told them that she was bored, but also preoccupied with something; like she was killing time while she was waiting for…something. There was something about her, something Max couldn't put his finger on. She came up to Michael, but Max had a clear view of her, even if it was dark as pitch out in the house area, they had some help from a nearby stage light. When she looked at Max, he knew what it was about her. Her clear, olive eyes gave her away immediately. But before he could open his mouth, she beat him to the punch.