It all began on the night of Chelly and Elle's flatwarming. Hundreds of people were expected for the party of the year. There were even a few girls invited for good measure. Oh yes, tonight would be an unusual night indeed.

The first guest to arrive was, naturally, Donald; followed closely by Alan, who had only just come off his training nappies. "I'm a big kid now!" he boasted to anyone who would hear. "Mmmmm... wok," agreed Elanor.

All heads turned when Lance entered the room. It was pretty obvious why. Elanor responded as she always did, by putting on an act. It was always the way. Dick just couldn't stand to be left out, so he crashed the party and started singing at the top of his lungs. The entire room of people stood and stared. But it wasn't his eardrum-splitting shrieking, nor the fact that he was tap-dancing on the coffee table in his Y-fronts. Heck, it wasn't even the body-paint or the fact that he had 'lick me' shaved onto his chest. It was the words he sang. "Chelsea is the one who gave me one heck of a third degree for my affair with Neil Torrie." Alison looked on sympathetically. She understood the pitfalls of liasing with Boris on any more than a platonic level. The wounds ran deep, and the scars, both emotional and physical, still bled.

Meanwhile, Currie and Jared amused themselves teaching the congregation of Lance's new church how to line-dance. At first, they used Billy-Ray Cyrus' 'Achy Breaky Heart', but following Lance's protests, they soon moved to Hymns Ancient and Modern and had each dancer hold their right hand in the air and close their eyes as they ho-downed. "Thank goodness Donald brought his pipe organ!" breathed Cameron in relief. "If he hadn't, we wouldn't be here today!" I just sat there, my head spinning in bewilderment, trying to comprehend the situation.

I didn't know Currie had such capabilities. To throw himself over the chair towards her. Chelsea took it all in her stride. Dick was rather angry, however, and proceeded to express that anger in a manner any Tecorian would be proud of.
"David Jordan Armstrong! (Not to be confused with Mormon, father of Mormon)," he added in an aside. "What in the name of Moroni is going on here?" he bellowed.
Donald stared in shock. To use the name of Moroni in vain? What was he going to do about this? He squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. "Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out." Just as he was ready, Lance started to scratch himself lightly. Elanor concealed a bitter smile as she realised her ploy had started to work. She retreated to the punch table, where Lynda and Tudor were drifting closer and closer together. Without noticing Elanor's approach, Tudor opened his purse and extracted a condom.

"Lance!" he called. He pressed the condom into Lance's hand and looked solemnly into his eyes. "Listen, mate, I need to know you're being careful. Don't take any chances. It's just not worth it." Lance stared blankly up at him for a moment, then bit his lip. As tears began to roll down his cheeks, he turned to Donald who was standing in the corner, snuffling into a box of tissues.
"Some things are beyond comprehension, and others are too strange to understand." Donald blinked, then nodded. "Wow," he thought. "This guy's really on to it."

Elanor and Lynda had given up on the entire male population, and had gone to search for someone interesting like David Armstrong. Elanor longed to feel his touch again, but how could she avoid the wrath of Donald's jealousy? Her fears were interrupted by the news that Tudor, Lance, Lynda and Alison had joined the Church of Scientology, and were now living on lima beans. "Oh well," she said.