The Whose Line men had decided to go to bed early, and Greg needed to lie down anyway since his abdomen was more than a little tender.

It was the first time since before the last Whose Line taping that they’d been separated, and the idea was more than welcome; they were all craving some privacy and some “me” time.

Greg let out a groan as he gently lay down on his bed. He hurt. He hurt a lot. Not only that, he’d just had one of the most frightening experiences of his life.

He wondered if he should perhaps seek counseling back in the States. He was sure there would be some wonderful nightmares followed by huge bouts of insomnia after this. He decided he’d just have to get really, really drunk and hope that helped.

Greg wasn’t one for sentimentality, but he’d never been so happy to see his friends in his life. He would have hugged them all and offered eternal gratitude too, but it just would have been a un-Greg like act.

His only regret about the whole situation was that he’d not had a camera. The way his friends had looked armed with various cleaning appliances when they broke down the door was nothing short of absolutely hilarious.

Greg gingerly sat up and got to his feet. He was sick of reminiscing. He shuffled over to the bar fridge. It offered very little in the way of beverages, but he managed to find a bottle of cheap wine someone had forgotten about and decided to go drink it on the roof.

Ryan stared at the small TV, God, he hated evangelists, especially the one in front of him. He looked like something out of a daytime soap: preened, tanned and over dramatic.

Ryan flicked the TV off and began pacing his room. He wasn’t tired. Actually he was close to hyper, even though he was almost sober now.

He was beginning to get paranoid about what his wife was going to say. He’d been close to calling her several times, but he knew it would take a lot of convincing for her to believe he was in Australia. He concluded he’d just have to face the music when he got home. If he got home.

He stopped pacing and sat on the end of his bed. He was bored. At least when you share a room, there’s someone to talk to. Out of total frustration, Ryan decided to go for a walk and try and wear himself out.

Greg looked out over the city of Melbourne. It was nothing special. It’d been described as the “arse end of Australia,” and Greg had to agree. He was about to open the wine when he heard Ryan’s familiar voice.

“Well, well, well, what have we here.”

“I could ask you the same question, dude,” Greg smiled.

“I can’t sleep, what’s your excuse?” Ryan asked.

“My stomach feels like it’s been used as a punching bag,” Greg replied.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Ryan stated and joined Greg in admiring the view.

“I’ll be alright, I don’t think anything’s broken,” Greg sighed.

They fell silent.

“Thanks for saving my ass, Ry,” Greg said genuinely.

“Hey, I was too drunk to care,” Ryan chuckled, putting an arm around Greg, Greg did the same to Ryan.

“Wanna get drunk again?” Greg offered, holding up the bottle of wine.

“Best offer I’ve had all night,” Ryan smiled, snatched the bottle, and popped the cork.

Wayne had decided to do some exercises. He wasn’t sure why, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. He did sit ups, push-ups and various other bends and stretches.

Still he had too much energy. But there was nothing else to do in this hellhole of a hotel. He’d already had three showers, watched a fabulous documentary on the sex life of the antelope, and reluctantly gotten stuck in conversation with the man in the room next to him, who just happened to be heavily into Britney Spears.

The man in the next room had been playing the same Britney video over and over, and Wayne suspected he wasn’t just watching it. He was also at the point where if he heard “Oops I did it Again” one more time, he was going to have a breakdown. Wayne decided he’d just have to go for a walk, or get away somehow for a while.

He eventually wandered into the closed bar and took a seat at one of the moonlit tables. He was enjoying the quiet when he heard a chink of glass and “shit” muttered under someone’s breath. He froze: had someone broken in and was trying to steal booze? What could he do?

He got to his feet and tiptoed over to the bar, crept around the side, and then looked behind the bar. “Ryan!” Wayne gasped.

“Wayne, what the hell are you doing here?” Ryan whispered.

“Escaping from Britney Spears. What’s your excuse?” Wayne asked.

“Greg and I are getting wasted on the roof. Just getting a few supplies. Wanna join us?” Ryan asked.

“As long as we leave some money for the booze,” Wayne replied.

“Of course! You think I’d just steal it?” Ryan said unconvincingly as he began thrusting bottles into Wayne’s arms.

Chip had concluded he was in hell. He couldn’t think of any other way to describe his current situation. His television was broken, the radio wouldn’t tune, and the couple in the next room was unceremoniously bouncing off the walls. What made it even more disturbing was that Chip had met them earlier and discovered their names were Ryan and Drew. Having those names screamed during rampant, animal sex was enough to make even the most virile man go off the deed.

Chip had pulled both pillows over his head but still couldn’t block out the screams of, “OH GOD, RYAN, YES,” and, “DREW, DREW, DO IT TO ME BABY.” In fact the whole situation was making Chip quite ill.

He eventually gave up the idea of sleeping or ever not needing intensive psychotherapy and made his way into the corridor. He was going to bang on Wayne’s door when Ryan, Wayne, and a lot of booze greeted him.

“Hey, buddy,” Ryan grinned.

“What are you guys doing?” Chip asked.

“Getting drunk,” Wayne replied.

“Please, please, PLEASE tell me I can join in,” Chip begged.

“Of course you can,” Ryan nodded and thrust some booze into Chip’s arms.

“Why the desperation?” Wayne added.

“I can’t talk about it, I just need to forget it,” Chip breathed.

Neither Wayne nor Ryan questioned this, and the three of them headed up to the roof and Greg.

Drew was sprawled on his bed. It was lumpy, smelt funny and he could swear he could feel the groove left in the mattress by the last person to use it.

He too had given up any thoughts of sleep, or at least a non-restless one. Instead he’d taken to staring at the window and the few bugs that had decided to call it their home.

A particular moth that fluttered about, smacked into the window a bit, and fluttered about some more had entranced him the most. He suddenly envisioned it with Ryan’s head and made himself giggle. Suddenly the moth was flushed away by what looked like rain.

“It can’t be raining?” Drew said aloud.

He got to his feet and wandered over to the window. Well, it wasn’t rain, but there was definitely water pouring from somewhere. Then it stopped just as soon as it had started.

Drew, who was now totally curious, yanked the window open and looked up. He noticed four very familiar silhouettes stepping away from the edge of the roof.

“Oh man they’d peed on my moth,” Drew cringed. “And they’re having fun without me,” he added almost sulkily.

A wry smile spread across Drew’s face. He grabbed his pants and headed out of his room and to the roof.

Colin had gotten himself comfy and pulled out the well-read detective novel he’d found on the train. He’d found himself strangely curious about was going to happen next. He just hoped it didn’t lead to any more Wayne kissing dreams.

Durrell moved his lips closer to Fifi’s. How he longed to kiss her. Suddenly she pushed him away.

“Oh Mr Durrell, you know I can’t,” she gasped. “I love my husband dearly.”

“I’m sorry, Fifi, I…I don’t know what came over me….” Durrell apologised and backed away.

Fifi Matthiesson put her hands to her mouth, let out a sob and dashed out of Durrell’s office.

Durrell cursed and reached for the bottle of whisky in his desk drawer.

Burroughs stooped as he walked back into the office. He glared at Durrell.

“I just saw Mrs Matthiesson running away crying – what did you do?”

“Clement, mind your own business,” hissed Durrell.

“I’ll just assume it’s bad then, shall I? You turning to the booze and all,” Burroughs scorned.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Durrell snapped.

“I know you used to be the best darn detective in town. Now look at ya, you won’t solve any case, let alone this one,” Burroughs hissed and disappeared into his office.

Durrell hurled the whisky bottle across the room and then fell into his chair. Damn that Burroughs, damn him to hell.

Durrell was woken the next morning as an envelope was pushed under the door. He’d spent all night in his chair, trying desperately to make sense of the whole situation.

He got to his feet and picked up the envelope. It was addressed to him. Cautiously he opened it, read it and cursed loudly. His cursing woke Burroughs, who appeared from his apartment upstairs in only his nightshirt.

“What’s the problem, sir?” he asked.

“That fiend Montague has Fifi,” breathed Durrell.

“Oh no, he must have kidnapped her after she left here in tears last night,” Burroughs said somewhat sarcastically.

“Do you have to keep bringing that up?” Durrell spat.

“Well I didn’t upset her,” Burroughs grumbled.

Durrell gave Burroughs daggers. “Just get dressed, we have to find Montague.”

“Gee really, I thought we were just here because we look good in trench coats,” Burroughs grumbled to himself as he went back upstairs.

“My, we are a pretty little thing, aren’t we?” Montague grinned as he moved closer to Fifi.

She let out another sob. “I want to see my husband.”

“All in good time. Tell me where the artifacts are and I’ll let you see him quicker,” Montague smarmed.

Fifi could feel his hot breath on her cheek. “Never. I will never betray my husband.”

Montague let out a low hiss and then turned to his heavy. “Boorstin, follow me.” Boorstin followed Montague out of the room and closed the door. “Boorstin, I want you to get Matthiesson. Perhaps if he and his wife are reunited, one of them might spill the beans about the artifacts,” Montague smiled.

“Wonderful idea sir. I’ll go get Matthiesson,” Boorstin perked.

“Come on, Tallulah, I need to know,” Durrell snapped as he and Burroughs addressed her in the street.

“I wouldn’t tell you the time, let alone anything about Montague,” Tullulah Rhee hissed and roughly stepped on Durrell’s foot.

He stepped back and swore loudly.

“Want me to have a go sir?” Burroughs asked.

“I doubt you’ll do any better” Durrell jeered.

Burroughs shrugged and wandered over to where Tullulah was adjusting her hair.

“Miss Rhee,” Burroughs smiled.

“He must be desperate if he’s getting you to talk to me,” Rhee perked.

“He is. We both are. Please, will you help us?” Burroughs asked.

“I can’t. Cecil is the best thing that ever happened to me,” Rhee sighed.

“Oh please, he’s a vicious, self-centred thug. A pretty girl like you could do so much better,” Burroughs announced.

“Why Clement, are you coming onto me?” Rhee blushed.

“Would you like me to?” Burroughs grinned.

A short while later, Burroughs walked back to the car, and joined Durrell who was inside.

“Well?” Durrell asked, expecting little.

“Here’s Montague’s address,” Burroughs smiled, and handed Durrell a piece of paper.

Durrell went from shocked to bitter as Burroughs started the engine.

“Did she tell you anything else?” he eventually asked.

“Not really, but we’re going out to dinner tomorrow night,” Burroughs chuckled.

Durrell felt his anger rising. He’d once been engaged to Tullulah Rhee, but she’d left him for his archenemy and was now moving on to his best friend.

“Jezebel,” Durrell hissed.

Erwin Matthiesson was thrust into a room and looked up to see his wife.

“Oh Erwy,” she gasped, looking at her disheveled husband. She raced over and embraced him.

“Did they hurt you?” Erwin asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Fifi breathed and then began to sob again.

“We’ll get out of here, I promise you,” Erwin said, only mildly confident.

“Oh darling we will, we’ve got Harry Durrell helping us,” Fifi cooed.

“Harry Durrell? As in detective Harry Durrell?” Erwin gasped.

“Ah huh,” Fifi nodded.

“Couldn’t you have just gone to the regular police or something?” Erwin grumbled.

“But Mr Durrell is wonderful,” Fifi gasped.

“Was wonderful. Everyone knows he’s lost it,” Erwin scowled.

“He’ll save us, Erwy…I know he will,” Fifi stated.

“Nononononono,” Montague hissed. “How dare she get Durrell involved?”

“Want me to deal with him, sir?” Boorstin asked.

“Oh yes, Boorstin. And make sure it looks like an accident,” Montague nodded.

“You mean no chickens?” Boorstin sighed.

“Or any other animal,” Montague hissed.

“Actually, they’re birds,” Boorstin corrected.

“JUST DO IT!” yelled Montague.

Boorstin jumped and then dashed out of the room.

Durrell and Burroughs were driving toward the Montague mansion. The roads were long and winding, and Durrell was beginning to feel nauseous. Then suddenly a large, black car appeared from nowhere and headed toward them.

“He’s not gonna move,” Burroughs gasped.

“You’ll have to swerve,” Durrell breathed.

Burroughs had no time to argue and as the black car got too close for comfort, he swerved and the car left the mountain road.

“Hey Colin, party on the roof, you coming?” Brad asked, poking his head into Colin’s hotel room.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” Colin babbled, closed the book and shoved it under the mattress.

Colin followed Brad to the roof.

“How did you find out they were partying?” he asked.

“When an empty rum bottle on a string appeared at my window with, ‘there’s a party on the roof get Colin and join us,’ scrawled on it,” Brad mused.

They joined the others on the roof and were each handed a bottle of something. It was obvious to Brad and Colin that the others had already consumed copious amounts of alcohol, by the way none of them could stand without assistance.

“Quiet everyone, I want to make a toast,” Greg giggled.

Everyone fell quiet and focused on Greg.

“Ok. To Captain Mop, The Broom Twins, the Spray Bottle Kid, Vacuum Nozzle Boy and Feather Duster Man. Thank you very much for saving my ass and playing the best game of Superheroes ever enacted in the history of Whose Line,” Greg announced.

Everyone cheered.

“I want to make a toast too,” Colin piped up.

The attention focused on Colin. “To the alcohol that Ryan and I consumed that gave us the balls to save you,” he mused.

Everyone cheered again.

And so they spent the rest of the night toasting everything from the people in the street to maple syrup and each other.