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The PartyMob punched and kicked and weed-wackered their thru the crowded bar while yuppie drunks slammed us with their designer bags.

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The inside of the dive bar was wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, back-to-back, belly-to-belly, bone-to-bum with a mix of drunken yuppies, college students, metrosexuals, dealers, tvs, scions of the Saudi Royal Family, gay cowboys, Charlie Sheen with six maids a'milking, and Miss Austrailia with her 'roo — not to mention the Westies and the rest of Rudy's regulars who'd been there when we'd made our exit into the backyard alternate reality.

The PartyMob was tied up in the Yuppie mob slumming after a night of drinking mohicans and dirty comopolitans, and other chi-chi cocktails I'd never even heard of, let alone tried.

"We'll never make it," cried Vinnie who had only advanced a few feet into the bar. And for once, I hoped he was right.

“Don’t give up and don't kill anybody,” yelled Molly seeing the mass of bodies between the back door and the front door. “It’s just reality trying to readjust itself. Maybe can still do it. ”

"Yeah, right, and maybe I can play center in the NBA if I work on my fade-away jumper." said Vinnie, who was getting on my nerves bigtime.

At first, the partyMob tried pushing their way thru the Yuppie mob. The arrogant yups didn't move. When your Christmas bonus is more than 62 working-class people make in a year, you don't move out of the way for members of the underclasses.

I was kinda surprised the PartyMob didn't pull their guns and shoot their way out, even with Molly's warning. I had no idea if gunning down yuppie metrosexuals, gay cowboys, or Charlie Sheen was beneath their dignity, or if they were afraid the shots would scare off Santa.

It was a madhouse. The gang punched and kicked and gouged their way inch by inch thru the crowded bar of Christmas Eve yuppie drunks who were hitting us with their designer bags. I even got a Guicci in the eye.

Nobody wanted to go near the Kangaroo, but HiTone managed to goose Miss Down Under on his way past.

It was slow slogging. Like Fate was still fighting against us. And still winning.

"We're not going to make it," yelled Vinnie. I used the scrum as cover to kick the little pessimit in the ass. Short people got no reason... and so on.

The Buddabings PartyMob wouldn't give up. They fought like like Tasmanian devils on PCP to win their through to the front door. It was that or be trapped forever in Hell's Kitchen, which I must say, is a fate I don't recommend, even to those getting food stamps, Medicaid, and free hotdogs and wifi at Rudy's. But the crowd of New Yorkers fought back like fat women from Long Island looking for deals at Macy's on Black Friday. It was not a pretty sight.

Molly used her Tai Kwon Do to put away six or seven of them. Vinnie was back up and pissed. He smashed more of them in the knees with the leg of a broken bar stool.

Louie was lifting people up like empty beer kegs and tossing them over the bar, trying not to hit Yo who had out her Samurai sword and was defending the backbar to the death, the death of anybody who tried to take advantage of the situation to glom onto a bottle. HiTone was seriously kicking butt with his ballbat in one hand and his weedwacker in the other.

Finally, only the Sick Mick and the ex-Westies stood between the PartyMob and the door. But these guys were not drunken Yuppie Metrosexuals or Arab princes. These guys were raised in the toughest neigborhood in New York. They wouldn't go down easy.

I thought for sure that now the guns would come out.

I had thought the rest of the gang was tough until I saw D'Oliya with a bar stool, clearing the final path up to the old Westies.

D'Oliya didn't back down from the Sick Mick. She lifted the stool high over her head and damn if her breasts didn't make a cameo appearance. To be accurate it was a major guest starring role? Rolls?

This apparitioin seemed to stun the Westies. As we pushed past the the slack jawed Irishmen, we encountered no resistance, but heavy beer breath.

The door was blocked. Molly stepped forward and delivered a karate kick that shattered it like my high school ego the year I tried to ask a a cheerleader to the prom.

As we stumbled out the front door, Molly pulled her gun out of her boot, and shot the giant ceramic Pig who was the last one trying to stop us. Six times in the legs, which looked like it kinda stumped him, and he went still.

Was it ok with Reality to shoot the legs off a ceramic pig? I didn't know.

Now, we could hear jingle bells above us over the sound of wind and snow. “Ho Ho Ho!"

"Shit-shit-shit," I thought in counterpoint.

Next: Red Suit Down