Rigby trails his fingers up the inside of Mordecai's arm and says, the very portrait of drunken, coquettish bravery, "Hey, there, big guy. What's going on with you? Wan' a drink?"

Mordecai waves his wing in front of Rigby's face and huffs. "Dude," he sighs, drawing out the vowel far past its breaking point, "you're drunk. Stop hitting on me when you're drunk, what the 'h'."

"Oh, so does that - " his shoulders slump forward and he hiccups " - does that mean that I can hit on you when I'm not drunk? Hm? Hm? Answer me that, Mordecai. Hm?"

"I can't imagine that you'd want to hit on me when you were sober, but whatever," he sighs. "I gave you a fifth of Jack, you little runt, how the 'f' are you already so tipsy that you wanna get into my pants?"

Rigby leans his little paw out and rests it on Mordecai's clothed thigh. Mordecai can feel the heat through the fabric and, understandably, shifts uncomfortably. "Those are some nice pants," he says dazedly. "Those are really nice pants, Mordecai. I wanna - " he hiccups again; Mordecai thumps his head against the bar " - I wanna get into them." Rigby leers. "I wanna get into your pants, Mordecai. I wanna wear them."

Mordecai groans. "Dude, seriously, you're wearing the exact same pair of pants. Standard-issue civilian garb, remember?" He lowers his voice. "The boss paid two-hundred a piece for these suits, Rigby. Stop rubbing your grubby paws all over them."

" 'The boss,' " Rigby repeats slowly. "The boss? Who cares about the boss? Is Benson here? Is he?" He jabs a finger into Mordecai's chest; to Mordecai's surprise, it hurts. "No, he's not. It's just you and me, buddy."

"And about fifty other patrons," Mordecai hisses. "Now stop groping me and focus. We're here for a reason, you know."

Rigby lays his head on the bar and closes his eyes. "I forgot the reason," he mutters.

"Of course you did," Mordecai says. "You always forget - no, you know what, never mind." He takes a deep breath and collects his thoughts. "We're staking out the bar because we're looking for ... " He pauses and rummages around in his breast pocket before pulling out an unassuming scrap of paper. "We're looking for a man who goes by the name of Muscle Man."

"Mm, muscles," Rigby slurs.

"How are you even gayer when you're drunk, dude?" Mordecai asks. He remembers fondly the days where Rigby at least pretended to dig lady pecs.

He's answered with a snore.