Then events turned far more surreal.
At the start of the secret second encore, about fifteen minutes after the first encore (they billed themselves as "The Brown Stripes"), a young drunk came up to me and said, "Come on, Santa, dance! Get out there, Santa, I want to see you boogie! Santa, get busy!" He was about four inches away from me and every syllable sprayed me with spittle.
I told him to fuck off.
Thirty seconds later I see the young drunk conversing with six of his friends, pointing angrily at me, and several of them glaring and rubbing their fists in their open palms. They wanted to kick Mean Santa's ass.
I wasn't too concerned. They were drunk; I was sober. extrastout and Rox-c were there (martial arts experts!), Jeremy was there (and extremely imposing), and nerdtech was there. There were a blue million people there who got my back. Let the Drunk Seven sit and stew!
One by one, my friends started leaving. jdsalmon wanted to stay later to talk to El Vez, and I was soon standing on a relatively empty dance floor. Most of my reinforcements were gone, but the Drunk Seven were still there, glaring and gnashing their teeth and rubbing their fists in their palms.
Holy shit, Santa's gonna get his ass kicked! I kept thinking I should hand my eyeglasses to mrrranda so that they wouldn't get broken in the melee. Damn, it's been ten years since I last got my nose broken in a fight!
Suddenly, I was swarmed by three waifish British models and their horde of photographers. "Let's get some shots of you girls with Santa!" They glommed onto me, starting pulling at my beard, pulling my arms around them. "You don't mind, do you Santa? You're being quite a good sport." What's all this about? "It's for a Levi's ad, Santa, don't worry." I was getting light-headed from the perfume.
Then one of the photographers said, "Girls, let's take a walk!" They disappeared in an instant. I was left completely bewildered. I looked around: the Drunk Seven were gone.
That's how my life was saved by three waifish British models.