Paul dropped the remnants of his sponge into the sink at the sound of what he could only assume had at one point been the doorbell. Just another thing to add to the list of things he and Gina could spend some quality time together trying to fix while attempting to avoid electrical shock.

He threw the door open and smiled at Richard Fidler, his best friend who he’d managed to rope into helping him. “I was beginning to get the feeling you’d given me the wrong directions as some sort of cruel heartless joke,” he declared as he stood scowling on the front porch.

“What does that mean?” Paul demanded, leading his friend into the front room of the house.

“Paul McDermott in the suburbs? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Genie likes it.”

“It’s not so bad,” Rich said, glancing around what he could see of the house, nodding to himself.

“Wait till you have a look around. It’s worse.”

“Well you did say it was a fixer-upper.”

“Actually it’s closer to a rebuilder-from-the-foundation-upper,” Paul mused.

“Great, where do we start?” Rich chirped. “Where’s the wife, is she not helping?”

“No, she left right before I called you. Job interview. She’s been in a bad mood all day, shoved a bucket of chemicals at me and told me to ‘scrub the cabinets and get some work done for a change’,” he said in a high falsetto.

“And what did you do to her to get her in such a mood?”

“Let’s not get into it. Come on, we need to get the shower retiled.”

Rich grabbed Paul’s arm as he whizzed past him towards the bathroom. “Do you actually know how to retile a shower?”

“Sure, we’ve been watching Changing Rooms, This Old House, things like that. Noni’s got some great ideas,” Paul smirked.

“Oh god,” Rich sighed but obediently followed him into the bathroom.

“Have I mentioned lately that I hate flying?” Fenny grumbled as Lilly ran around the baggage carousel searching for her Spongebob luggage.

“Fen, you were on the plane for like twenty minutes.”

“Doesn’t mean I had to like it. The plane still had its obligatory annoying, whining child, and unfortunately, this time it was my fault so I couldn’t very well complain.”

“Not that that stopped you,” Brad smirked.

“Maybe, but I didn’t start singing that damn ‘Doom Song’ from Invader Zim’ halfway through, did I?”

“You could’ve joined her. You might have bonded.”

Lilly ran past them for the third time, still singing “doom, doom doom, doom-doom-doom, doom” to her little heart’s content.

“Can we take out her batteries yet?” Fenny sighed.

“Just think, she’s tiring herself out so we can have a nice peaceful night while she’s passed out in bed.”

“Yeah, three feet from ours,” Fenny sighed.

“Daddy, I found it,” Lilly yelled from the other side of the carousel where she’d grabbed one strap of her backpack but couldn’t pull it off and was following it around as it went along.

After Brad rescued his daughter and Fenny hunted down the rest of their luggage, they took a taxi ride to check into the hotel where the rest of the cast would be staying for the weekend. Lilly excitedly pointed out every amusing neon sign, oddly shaped building and strangely dressed person she saw as they rode down the Strip, and when they got out, nearly toppled over backwards as she strained her neck to see the top of the hotel. “We’re staying in here?” she asked.

“Yup,” Brad nodded, taking her by the hand and leading her inside, Fenny close behind. They wandered through the lobby cluttered with poker machines and old women and eventually found the front desk. “Hi. We’ve reserved a room, the name’s Fenny Grey?”

“What’re those?” Lilly asked, tugging on Brad’s shirt as he was handed the proper things to sign.

“Fen?” he jerked his head towards Lilly.

Fenny let out a sigh and pulled her away. “They’re slot machines. It’s like a game.”

“Can I play?” Lilly asked gleefully.

“No.”

“How come?”

“Because it’s a big people game. You have to be twenty-one to play gambling games. And besides, gambling is a stupid waste of money that holds less than fond memories for me, but I’m sure your father’s going to indulge in lots of it before we get home.”

“Daddy’s twenty-one?” Lilly asked.

“Trust me, your daddy’s a lot older than that.”

“Guess what Lil,” Brad perked as he appeared. “Our room’s got video games!”

“Well, physically anyway,” Fenny chuckled.

The image of Freya enjoying Gina’s money went flittering through Gina’s mind. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to kill Freya for having the gall to ask for money from Paul, or if she wanted to kill Paul for having the gall to give it to her. It was almost like he was doing these things just to get her mad at him. There was no other explanation. He was smart enough to know better, but for some reason he insisted on going against all concepts of human decency and—

“Well Gina, this resume is most impressive, and I don’t see how we can not offer you the job,” the news director perked, instantly jerking Gina’s attention back to the matter at hand.

“Thank you very much, sir,” she smiled, reaching out to shake his proffered hand and those of the few other Channel 10 underlings that had been interviewing her and perusing her credentials and resume. “I can’t tell you how excited I am about this opportunity.” A bit of joy managed to seep through her significantly foul mood, and she reasoned the new job was probably a karmic payback for managing to not throttle Paul.

“And we’re very excited about having you join our family here at the station. I’m certain you’ll get along great with the rest of our news staff…”

Gina nodded, her mind wandering to getting home and maybe taking Paul out for a celebratory dinner, and now they’d have the money to really make improvements on their new home. A sudden shock of guilt washed over her as she thought back to the rather cruel way she’d left him. Yes, a makeup dinner was definitely in order.

“…and our station staff is always growing. Why, just earlier today they hired a new weather girl.”

“Oh?” Gina asked, trying to pay attention.

“Yes. You’ll be working with her, her name’s Freya.”

Gina froze. She could feel the color draining from her face even as the joy seemed to drain from her spirit. “Freya?”

“Nice woman, she used to work as an entertainment reporter for the paper, I’ll never know why she’d want to stand in front of a map all day.” He let out a short laugh.

Gina didn’t even try to smile politely. “I’ve just remembered, there’s somewhere I have to be,” she declared with a glance at her watch.

“Right, of course,” the news director agreed. “You’ve got all the information you need, and I look forward to working with you.” He beamed at her as they both stood from the table.

“Me too,” Gina said, finally forcing a smile as she shook his hand again. “Thank you again so much for the job.”

“If you have any questions or concerns, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Of course,” Gina agreed, and quickly excused herself from the interview room and the Channel 10 building and headed quickly for her car.

Freya was everywhere. Not everywhere, she could accept things if she saw her at the supermarket or if they caught the same bus or if she ran over Freya with her car two or three times. But Freya was continuing to infiltrate her life like some sort of inoperable cancer that just kept growing, trying to absorb her career, her money, her husband, her peace of mind and ultimately her sanity. If Paul hadn’t loaned Freya Gina’s money, she might have been forced to move somewhere slightly less expensive. Like outer Mongolia. Fucking idiotic Paul.

Gina sped off, not knowing where to go. If she went to the new house to do some therapeutic cleaning, she might run in to Paul, but she knew if she and Paul were in the same room together she would easily snap his neck. She’d go to her apartment call Fenny to vent a bit of frustration, but Fenny was in Vegas, as was Greg, so emailing him wouldn’t do a lot of good. She considered calling her mother. If she didn’t do something soon she was likely to start hunting down Freya and practicing some of the things she’d learned from Don and Ritza, although she didn’t have any duct tape handy and wasn’t sure where one could get an appropriate ugly black van.

“Lil, screaming at the characters on the video game to leave you alone isn’t going to help any, they can’t hear you.”

“How do you know?”

“I’d explain to you the physics of television picture projection and the neural processes involved in the act of processing sound waves, but I’m not in the mood. Besides, you’re fighting worms, they don’t have ears.”

“Why not?” she demanded, refusing to take her eyes from the game.

“If you were a worm, would you need ears?”

“Maybe.”

The phone rang and Fenny leapt for it, thankful of the distraction. “Hello?”

“Hey Fenny, good to see you made it,” Colin’s voice perked.

“Just barely.”

“Go away, I hate you!”

“What was that?” Colin gasped.

“Lilly, she’s playing video games. Something I can do for you?”

“Is Brad around?”

She put her hand over the receiver and yelled towards the bathroom. “Brad, Col’s on the phone!”

“Just a sec, let me get my pants on,” he called back.

“Why bother?” she laughed.

He opened the door and wandered into the room in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, took the phone from her and flumped on the bed. She’d had every intention of eavesdropping but was distracted by Lilly wailing over a lost life when one particularly nasty earless worm had taken some bag of gold idols or daggers or opium or something Fenny couldn’t be bothered worrying about.

“Fen,” Brad smiled as he hung up the phone and looked over at her, puppy dog eyes firmly in place. “The guys are downstairs at the casino.”

“Good for them.”

“They called me. Want me to go down and join them. Ry’s losing a bundle on roulette and Jeff apparently has drawn a crowd winning at craps.”

“Congrats to Jeff.”

“Col wants company at the blackjack table.”

“Are you asking me if you can go out and play?” Fenny asked with raised brows. He nodded sheepishly. “And I’m to watch the child am I?” He shrugged one shoulder and smiled hopefully.

“Are you gonna gamble?” Lilly asked. “Cos Fenny says that’s stupid.”

“Turning my own flesh and blood against me now, huh?” Brad smiled.

“Yes,” Fenny declared stoically.

“She’ll play video games all night, she won’t be too big a pain,” he whispered, giving her a peck on the cheek as he headed for the door.

“Brad…”

“Thanks sweetie, dinner’s at seven,” he cooed.

“I thought we were supposed to be doing things as a family you dick–tator!” She had caught sight of Lilly from the corner of her eye mid-insult and almost unconsciously censored her words but didn’t bother censoring the scream of frustration.

“See, told you it wasn’t so hard,” Paul said, stepping out of the bathtub to inspect their progress. Three columns of tiles were situated along the corner of the wall looking bright, new and professionally applied.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s only because you did the bottom ones, I’m waiting to see you try to get to the top.” Rich came in from the hall carrying a box of tiles and thrust them at Paul. He let out a pained huff of breath and winced as he leaned into his side. “What’s wrong? It’s like you’ve been beaten by the mafia the way you’ve been acting lately.”

“Don’t be stupid, Rich,” Paul groaned, hastily putting the tiles down. “Can’t an old man suffer in peace?”

Rich rolled his eyes and inspected the grouting compound they’d mixed as Paul worked the box open. “This is kinda fun actually. If I decide to redo my tiles, you’ll—” He let out a shriek as two of the tiles fell off the wall into the bathtub, the clang of tile against porcelain causing him to jump nearly out of his skin. As he turned to glare accusingly at the tub, another tile fell to join the others and he started a bit.

Paul snickered at him and innocently looked up from his unpacking of boxes. “Kamikaze tiles scare you?”

Rich glanced in the tub to find the broken bits. “Idiot, you didn’t put enough glue on them.”

“No, I put enough glue on them,” Paul cried defensively. “I get the distinct feeling this wall just doesn’t like tiles, they’ve been jumping off for days now.”

Another tile fell and Rich let out another squeal. Paul giggled to himself and scooped out the broken tiles while Rich scowled at him. “I take it back. You’re not invited to help me with my bathroom.”

Greg trudged into the hotel with his overnight bag, ignored the crowd of gamblers and made a b-line straight for the front desk. He was debating whether or not to ask for a single room instead of the double bed he’d reserved when he was expecting his wife to be with him. A double would remind him of how alone he was, and a single was just sad. He sighed. Better to be sad and not draw attention to himself. The receptionist sent the man ahead of him off smiling to his room and turned to Greg. “Good afternoon sir. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a reservation. Proops.”

“Yes, of course,” the perky woman nodded, clicking away at her computer. “Oh, and you’ve got a message waiting for you, Mr. Proops.” She slid a slip of paper across to him. He undid the single crease to read.

He let out a sigh as he signed the registry and headed upstairs. Free drinks sounded like a good idea. Better than sitting around sulking because his wife had forgotten about him.

When he got to his room, Greg quickly changed and realized it was already past seven. He scurried down to the restaurant where it was hard to miss the tables pushed together and crowded with happily chattering, obviously buzzed comics. He took the empty seat between Kathy Kinney and Drew and slipped into the conversation about the new mousetraps they’d gotten, which quickly dissolved into a discussion of other forms of torture they might be able to get paid to make Drew suffer through. The waitress came over right around the time Ryan suggested stringing him up by his nipple rings, and Greg realized he had a lot of drinking to catch up on.

Things quieted down as the waitress took the orders, and before the conversation could return to ball gags and choke chains, Lilly piped up.

“Hey Daddy, in our room, Fenny showed me the pie, the, what’s it called Fenny? The big triangle?”

“Pyramid.”

“Fenny showed me the pier-mid. Why can’t we stay there? I like it better than this place.”

“Because this is where Daddy and his friends are staying,” Brad soothed as the others chuckled at how sweet the little girl was.

“But I never stayed in a pier-mid before, why can’t we?” Lilly whined, tossing the box of crayons she’d been given to color on her children’s menu across the table. It bounced off Fenny’s fork and hit her squarely in the chin. Brad chuckled and tried to convince Lilly that a room in the pyramid wasn’t any better than their hotel because the pyramid didn’t have balconies. It was obvious Lilly was too tired for her own good, as she was having none of Brad’s logic and went into a completely random tantrum. Squinting her eyes closed, Fenny got up from the table, stormed past the others who were discussing amusing anecdotes about their children, who had been conveniently left at home, and outside into the warm desert air.

Greg appeared at her side a few moments later. “What are you up to?” she asked.

“Cigarette,” he said, holding it up for her to see as he hunted out his lighter.

“This is Nevada, you’re allowed to smoke indoors here.”

Greg shrugged. “Force of habit. You don’t mind some company, do you?” He raised his eyebrows and Fenny knew he hadn’t just come outside for a smoke.

“I spent all day watching his child play video games and yell at worms while he went out drinking and gambling with his friends, and when we came down for dinner, he didn’t so much as say hello to me, it was all cooing at Lilly, ‘Did you beat those mean worms yet,’ and, ‘How do you like staying in the neat hotel.’ That’s how he acts happy families. Prick.” She took a deep breath as she realized she’d been on a rant. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I know where you’re coming from,” he said with a dry laugh.

“Oh? Problems with the missus?”

Greg shrugged and puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. “She’s back in LA, taking care of a sick aunt. Forgot about our weekend. The dreams of showgirl outfits are well and truly dead now. Not only that, she left me alone at couples counseling with Stuart, who thinks I need to go on a fast to purify my energy centers.”

“Maybe they’d be more pure if you’d stop inhaling tar,” Fenny smirked.

“I’ll drag you back in there to be Lilly’s wet nurse,” he countered with a smile.

“I have no qualms about beating you with that ashtray.”

“Save the kinky brutality for your husband,” Greg advised.

“Speaking of people we’d like to bludgeon, you heard from Paul lately?” Fenny asked.

“Not Paul, but Gina yes. I’m guessing you’ve heard the same Freya story I did?”

“Oh yeah. The man’s lucky to still have working genitals at this stage.”

“And how do you know they work?” Greg countered.

“Because if they didn’t Paul would get drunk and then email me about the entire excruciating experience.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully. “How come the five of us are always so fucked up?”

Fenny shrugged. “I just have to keep reminding myself that it could be worse. At least this time none of my problems involve guns.”

“I think we’ve all got the scars to prove that it’s been worse,” he agreed, rubbing his arm almost reflexively as Fenny rubbed the back of her hand quickly over the scar on her cheek.

“And what did you tell your wife about that gash in your arm?”

“Told her I’d been in a pub brawl.”

Fenny burst into laughter. “Oh, and she bought that?”

“It could happen,” he sulked.

“Of course it could, dear, keep telling yourself that.”

Greg sneered unappreciatively at her. “Oh, I meant to tell you. I got a message from Amy. She wants to kill us.”

The smile dropped from Fenny’s face as he smirked at her. “Thanks. I needed that. Really.”

“Come on guys, get in here,” Chip perked from just inside the door. “Jeff and Brad are halfway through a medley of Doors songs and you’re missing it.”

Greg and Fenny looked at each other with raised eyebrows before giggling a bit as he put out his cigarette. “Some things never change.”

Rich held the last two tiles in place while Paul wiped away the excess glue and applied the grouting compound. “I think we did it,” Rich perked. “And it only took us three hours, two trips to the hardware store, and three tubes of glue.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that you were supposed to use so much glue on one little tile,” Paul huffed.

“I’d have thought a glance at the directions would’ve helped,” Rich shrugged.

“But I didn’t scream like a girl when those tiles hit the floor,” Paul giggled.

“It caught me by surprise, that’s all. And besides, at least I don’t have grout in my hair, so there.”

“What? Where?” Paul gasped, leaping out of the bathtub to the mirror Gina had managed to restore to its former reflective glory, only to find a thick splotch of grout plastering down a chunk of hair on the left side of his head.

“It’s an improvement on some of the hair styles you’ve had over the years,” Rich said, stretching his legs out in front of him in the bathtub. Paul glared at him over his shoulder and went back to trying to pull out bits of dried grout. “So what’s next?”

“We’ve got a shower head to put on, and we should probably get some painting done,” Paul sighed. He abandoned his attempt at grooming, deciding he’d wait until later to test out the shower and wash out the grout and whatever paint he would inevitably manage to get on himself.

“Noni teach you basic plumbing too?” Rich asked, moving to get out of the tub.

“Can’t be too hard,” Paul said from the hallway as he dug around in the boxes of supplies he and Gina had purchased and trying not to groan with the effort against his still abused muscles. “Just stick the same pipe through the hole.” He found the showerhead and headed back for the bathroom where Rich was still leaning against the shower wall, holding up the tiles. “I think the glue’s dry.”

“I know it is,” he sighed miserably.

“Then what are you doing sitting in the bottom of my bathtub, you’re in the way, we’ve got to get this thing hooked up.” He waved the showerhead at him agitatedly.

Rich looked up at him a bit embarrassed. “I think I glued myself to your wall.” He leaned backwards a bit, his shirt sticking adamantly to the newly tiled shower wall.

Paul nearly broke into hysterics at Rich’s dejected expression and stupid position, and moved to get the spackle knife he’d been using earlier. Crawling back into the bathtub and both still giggling to themselves, Paul began removing Rich from his tiles.

“You know what we need?”

“Paint thinner?”

“Beer,” Paul declared, finally managing to chip away enough of the glue for Rich and his shirt to pull away.

“Mmm, paint and booze, sounds like a disaster waiting to happen,” Rich mused.

“Story of my life.”