The party is finally winding down. The sun is just starting to peek over the New York skyline, and your brain feels like it’s made of cotton candy. You’re sitting on a gold-plated bollard outside the club, staring blankly at a pigeon and swinging your feet. You’re too 'slow' and exhausted to even remember where the car is. Arthur is standing over you, looking just as tired, holding your designer sneakers in one hand and a giant 'Bad Boy' swag bag filled with shiny things in the other. > "Come on, kiddo. Just ten more steps to the limo," Arthur coaxes, but you just let out a small, pathetic huff and tilt your head. You aren't moving. Big Steve, the 300lb head of security, steps forward with a chuckle. He doesn't even ask; he just scoops you up and hoists you onto his massive shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You instinctively grab onto his tactical vest, your sharp teeth nipping at the strap in a sleepy greeting.