[Malibu Jail – 4:00 AM]
Charlie sat slouched in a cracked plastic chair, legs crossed, coffee in hand, sunglasses on. Indoors. At night. Because even at 4:00 in the morning, Charlie Harper was going to stay fabulous. Or at least look less like he wanted to drown himself in decaf.
A tired-looking officer finally emerged from the holding area. "Alright, Harper. He's all yours."
Charlie stood up, stretched, and muttered, "Yay. It's like Christmas morning, and I just unwrapped a fart."
From behind the door, Alan shuffled out like a war survivor who'd lost everything but his shame. Which, coincidentally, was now leaking off him in a visible skunk fog.
His hair was matted. His clothes were wet. His eyes were hollow.
Charlie took one whiff and physically recoiled. "Holy hell, did you bathe in failure?"
Alan groaned. "I tried washing it off in the ocean. Then I got arrested for being naked. And hitting Judith by accident. I had to beg her to tell them it was an accident."
Charlie nodded. "Yup. Checks out. And here I thought you couldn't top the time you clogged my toilet with kale chips last summer."
Alan clutched the edges of his robe like a Victorian ghost. "Do you have any idea what jail is like, Charlie?"
Charlie sipped his coffee. Old fun memories flashed before his eyes, followed by his usual smile. "For me? A one-night stand with a cellmate named Crystal who did a shockingly good Marilyn Monroe impression. For you? Looks like a skunk-themed episode of Survivor."
Alan reached out. "I just wanna go home."
Charlie stepped back. "And I want a skunk-free living room. We don't always get what we want."
"Come on," Alan whined. "I got nowhere else to go. Judith's house is locked down like Fort Knox, and our mom thinks I faked the skunk attack to get out of mowing her lawn."
Charlie eyed him, calculating like a man weighing the cost of carpet cleaning versus moral obligation. Not to mention, once Alan gets into his house, he ain't leaving forever.
Alan added, "There was a pigeon. A violent pigeon, Charlie. And a guy with 70s moustache, who keep licking the bar while watching me."
Charlie sighed. "Okay, alright. I'm gonna say this once. And only once."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, and peeled off two hundreds like they were laced with disease.
"Take this. Go to the nearest budget hotel that doesn't advertise by the hour. Buy some clothes from the nearest 24-hour gas station. And please, for the love of all things not soaked in skunk funk, burn that robe."
Alan blinked. "You're giving me money?"
Charlie nodded. "Yes. To go away. Never to call again or beg to let you live in my house. Think of it like a spiritual retreat. You get a shower and fix your own mess. I get to keep my nose hairs and skunk free life."
Alan's eyes were on the bills. "Wow. That's… that's really generous of you." He quickly snatched the money like a monkey snatching food from a stranger.
Charlie deadpanned, "It's either that or I powerwash you off my porch tomorrow morning while screaming 'EXORCISO TE!' in Latin."
Alan took the money gratefully. "Okay. Okay. I'll go. I'll get cleaned up. I'll find a hotel. Just… one day, I'll make this up to you."
Charlie grinned. "And that day will be the day you move to Ohio."
Alan turned to go, but paused. "You sure I can't crash at your place just for tonight? I'll sleep standing. Like a flamingo."
Charlie's eyes narrowed. "Alan."
"Fine! Fine. Motel. Clothes. Gas station. Got it."
Charlie opened the station door, holding it with his foot. "Godspeed, stinkbird."
Alan trudged out, clutching his robe like a damp burrito, muttering to himself. "This is still better than Judith's cooking. And I got 200 dollars."
Charlie watched him go, then turned to the officer still standing by the desk. "You guys ever fumigate this place?"
The officer shrugged. "Only after clowns and bachelor parties."
Charlie nodded. "Well, you'll wanna do it tonight."
And with that, Charlie left the police station.
...
[Gas Station – 4:35 AM]
Alan's car wheezed into the parking lot of a 24-hour gas station that looked like it had given up on being robbed years ago and now just welcomed it as part of the business model. The flickering overhead lights buzzed like depressed mosquitoes, and the neon "OPEN" sign was missing the "O."
He parked in the corner, got out slowly, still wrapped in his soggy robe like a haunted bath mat, and shuffled toward the entrance.
A bell jingled when he opened the door.
The inside smelled like beef jerky and despair. A wiry cashier with bloodshot eyes gave Alan a once-over and then looked back down at his phone like seeing men in robes at dawn was just Tuesday.
Alan made a beeline to the clothing section, which, to be fair, was just a spinning rack with three T-shirts and two pairs of sweatpants that had "I ❤️ MY COUCH" printed on the butt.
He grabbed what he could. Shirt. Pants. A pair of novelty socks that had "Donut Touch Me" printed on them. Essentials.
Then he stumbled into the bathroom with his armful of gas-station couture.
[Bathroom]
The bathroom mirror had one giant crack down the middle, like even it couldn't bear to reflect what went on here. Alan peeled off his robe, sniffed himself, gagged, and immediately shoved it into the trash bin.
He turned on the faucet. It coughed once, then splurted a half-hearted stream of brownish water. He froze.
"Better than skunk," he mumbled and got to scrubbing.
Ten minutes later, Alan emerged in his new outfit. The sweatpants were three sizes too big and slid down with every step. The shirt said, "I Beat the Meat at Gary's BBQ Fest" — he didn't even question it. He was clean(ish), clothed, and not smelly.
He made his way to the register with a bottle of water and a single banana. It felt like the only healthy thing in the entire store.
As he approached the counter…
"Hey, buddy."
Alan turned.
Three people stood at the entrance. Dirty. Twitchy. Unbathed. One of them had a shopping cart full of junk. And cats. Three cats. All of them wearing tiny hats.
One man, missing a front tooth and holding a rusted spoon like a knife, pointed at Alan.
"You look like you got cash. Gimme that banana."
Alan blinked. "I… what?"
The second one, a woman with a face tattoo of a dolphin and a purring cat on her shoulder, narrowed her eyes. "You heard him. Banana. Now."
Alan looked at the cashier. The guy just raised an eyebrow and kept scrolling through yt.
"Oh come on!" Alan whined.
Spoon Guy stepped closer. "Banana or the pants."
Alan looked down at his oversized sweatpants. "You want these pants?"
Spoon Guy shrugged. "They say couch on the ass. I respect that."
The third one, a lanky kid with a squirrel on a leash, just muttered, "Gary doesn't like you."
Alan held up his hands. "Alright, alright! Chill. You can have the banana!"
He handed it over. Spoon Guy snatched it, peeled it halfway, and then, without breaking eye contact, shoved the entire thing in his mouth.
Alan grimaced. "Well, that was... deeply unsettling."
The dolphin woman nodded. "That was phase one."
Alan paled. "There's a phase two?"
She smiled. "We'll also take your water and… your socks."
"My socks?"
"They say Donut Touch Me. Gary thinks that's passive-aggressive."
Alan turned to the cashier again.
Nothing.
The cashier was filming it now.
Alan sighed and took off the novelty socks.
Spoon Guy grinned. "Pleasure doing business."
The group shuffled out. The squirrel gave Alan one last squeaky chirp before they vanished into the night.
Alan stood there barefoot, holding a half-crumpled receipt and a bottle cap.
The cashier finally spoke.
"You're the second guy they've mugged this week. The last one gave them a scratcher and got lucky. They bought a canoe."
Alan stared. "A canoe."
The cashier nodded. "Yeah. They use it to sleep under the overpass."
Alan blinked. Then turned slowly and walked out of the gas station, into the cold Malibu morning.
He got into his car, cranked the engine, and stared straight ahead.
"This night never ends," he whispered.
...
[Charlie's house]
The Malibu sky was just beginning to blush with hints of dawn, a soft orange-pink hue brushing the horizon. Waves crashed softly in the distance. The air was cool, and peaceful. Quiet. [TV show, cutscene. I'm pretty sure some of you remember that.)
Charlie stumbled through his front door like a man who had just seen too much.
Well, his sunglasses were still on, and somehow, despite the darkness, they felt earned. He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter, kicked off his shoes, and groaned like someone twice his age.
"Remind me never to rescue my brother again," he muttered to himself. "Next time he calls from jail, I'm sending a cake with a file in it and calling it a day."
He trudged toward the living room… and stopped.
Outside, on the balcony, silhouetted by the rising sun, was Lisa.
Doing yoga.
Not in yoga clothes, just an oversized shirt (his, clearly) that barely covered anything and a pair of sleep shorts that left nothing to the imagination. (She left that shorts months ago when they broke up. Probably forgot to take it or someone swiped it.) Her hair was up in a lazy bun. Her face was relaxed, eyes closed, focused on her breathing.
She stretched into a downward dog.
Charlie stared.
"…Jesus Christ."
The sleep fog in his brain started to lift, just a little.
Lisa moved into a cobra stretch. Her back arched. Her legs shifted. Her ass pointed straight at him, bathed in golden morning light like it was the subject of a Renaissance painting.
Charlie blinked, taking off his sunglasses. "Nope. No. Don't do this, brain. Don't betray me."
His body, on the other hand, was already considering round two.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I was gonna sleep for twelve hours, wake up at noon, drink some more juice, maybe pretend I was still a functional adult."
Lisa transitioned into a warrior pose, her arms spread wide, her legs firm, and her shirt rising just enough to expose more of her smooth, flat stomach.
Charlie pressed his forehead against the glass door and exhaled. "God hates me."
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