A/N: This is a response to a challenge via siarh ... About what exactly happened between the bar fight with the Russians, and the next morning when they bust into the boys' loft ... Using one 1 or more of the following prompts:

(okay, I confess ... I used them ALL!)

Treason

Captain Kirk

Rock 'n Roll

Closet

Lick

Paddle

Tuna Salad

(heeeheeee ... This is gonna be interesting)

I know it's not very long, but I have been incapacitated with major RL schtuffff. Hopefully, this is s sign of things to come, and more will get written soon! A healthy Thanks and smoochies to: siarh, Rhanon Brodie, Valerie E. Mackin, and incog_ninja for all their wonderful support while I'm dealing with major drama at home. I LOVE YOU GALS WITH ALL MY HEART.

***P.S. I promise I have not given up on Growing Up Dixon! That project is next on the list to get finished up! So check back in soon!

After Rocco and a few other patrons tied Borris securely to the bar, Connor and Murphy slipped behind Doc and trifled thru the half-empty bottles before Connor finally settled on Bushmills whiskey. He held it up to Murphy, with a shit-eating grin on his face, "Perhaps a little reminder of who finally beat ta bastard at his own game?"

"Oi! Not da Bushmills!" Murphy bellowed, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. "'Tha fuck are ya thinkin' Conn?"

Murph snagged the Goldschlagger bottle instead, thrusting at his brother while mumbling something about being tried for high Treason for wasting good Irish whiskey on a piece of shit 'Ruski'. Connor rolled his eyes, but did as Murphy suggested. He was too excited by the thought of the punishment they were about to inflict, and rather proud that he came up with it all on his own.

They all stood back as Connor spun the bottle around in his hand; Murphy was sure he had learned that from some Tom Cruise movie. He dumped a healthy splash on Borris's fat ass and lit himself a smoke before dropping the match onto said ass. The flame burst open to cheers and laughter and the thought of what that must have felt like had Rocco in an utter tizzy. He looked away ... but the grin on his face told Murphy that Rocco was just as happy to have been a part of the evening, as Murphy was.

After a minute, the bar started to smell like cinnamon sizzled flesh, and Doc made the twins put out the fire. "Boys ... we can't have the whole b-b-b-bar burnt down. Then where would we be? Down wind, without a p-p-paddle ... That's where!"

The groans protesting another one of Doc's famous proverbs were friendly, though hearty, and the twins had enough love for the dear old man to respect his wishes. Rocco leaned in close to the whimpering Russian (who was slowly fading into unconsciousness) and yelled "Who's givin' the orders now asshole!" And with that, he cocked his right arm back and delivered one hell of a punch to Ivan's temple, sending him to la-la-land, while his still smouldering ass ... and the rest of his body parts finally went limp with defeat.

Connor chuckled and draped one arm over the Funny Man's shoulder. "C'mon tough guy ... time to take out the trash."

Connor, Murphy, and Rocco grabbed Borris while the other patrons juggled the two smaller mafiosos and headed out the back door to the nearest park bench. Getting them that far took a toll on the drunken men, but once they were properely plopped on the bench, the excitement died down a little and the others wandered back to the bar, leaving the twins and Rocco to catch their breath. Rocco was leaning over, hands on his knees, obviously winded from the trek. Murphy leaned over next to him, "Whatsa matter Roc? Outta shape are we?"

"Hey screw you man! That mother fucker was heavy"

"Aye" Connor hissed thru his teeth. "Fuckin' right Roc. Bastard had ta be over 300 easy."

He reached around and pulled an smoke from the pack in his pocket before throwing the pack to his brother. "C' mon ... Lets head back fer another shot a whiskey before some unlucky prick sees us."

Murphy lit his own cigarette and took a long drag, blowing out a few rings followed by a pillow of smoke. He ran his hand thru his damp hair, "Hold on a sec ... We can't leave 'em like this ... wouldn't be right"

His twin huffed in mock disbelief. "Fer fuck's sake Captain Kirk ... Whose team are ya on?"

Rocco giggled. Murph's eyebrows waggled with delight.

He stood back a few feet, and titled his head. He licked his thumb, and held it up closing one eye like an artist would do ... Sizing up his canvas. He began moving limbs and shoving mucsle and fat this way and that ... and before the other two could say 'fuck ass' he stood back to admire his handywork. A loud guffaw erupted, as Connor got a look at the scene in front of him.

Rocco could hardly keep a straight face. Borris was on his knees in front of the bench ... While on it, the douchebag in the blue coat sat upright with his head laid back and his arms draped over Borris's shoulders. From accross the street, Murphy was sure it looked like Borris was giving a better blow job than Linda Lovelace.

Rocco clapped loudly as Murphy took an unsteady bow, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oi Murph ... Ma would be so proud! What with helping that cocksucker come outta da closet an all"

Murphy just chuckled, "Well I'd say i made better friends than you did ... Rosengurtle"

Rocco suddenly got a hysterically bad case of the hiccups, and couldn't more than a 'fuck' out of his mouth. The three men sauntered back to the bar just in time to see Doc pushing a broom around the middle of the room, the sound of clinking glass echoing off the empty walls. He looked up briefly before continuing on with his task.

Connor and Murphy exchanged a glance. Rocco headed for the full bottle of whiskey on the bar top.

"Doc, leave that shit fer tomorrow ... No need to clean up anyways, right?" Murphy questioned.

"I don't care if they take my bar," Doc mumbled, "But it's gonna be spic-and ... spic-and ... Fuck! Ass! It's gonna be fucking clean when they do!"

Rocco appeared next to Murphy and thrust the bottle into his hands, then handed Connor a dustpan and a rag, "Looks like it's time to -HIC- Rock 'n Roll gentlemen - HIC- we got lotsa work to do."

The four men proceeded to clean every last inch of the bar, while downing a steady stream of liquor in the process. The sun was just beginning to rise when Connor and Murphy stumbled back into their loft and flung their aching bodies onto their respective matresses. Connor had barely started to snore when he was jolted awake by the sound of his brother throwing up.

"Jesus Murph, ya know I can't stand the sound of ya tossin' yer cookies! For fuck sake, can't ya keep it down over there?"

The bile burned the back of Murphy's throat and left him with a deep, raspy voice. He was certainly in no mood for his brother's shit after the night they had ... but God forbid he should ever pass up an opportunity to make Connor utterly miserable. He started describing, in vivid detail, the color and texture of the mess he made in their toilet.

"Hey Conn ... Remember that time Ma got really wasted ... And made us tuna salad for lunch?"

There was a short silence before Connor sat up, "Shut it Murph!"

Murphy giggled ,"and then she put tartar sauce in it, instead of mayonaisse"

Another silence. Murphy counted in his head 'one thousand one... One thousand two ... '

Connor barely made it to the garbage can in time before the contents of his stomach spilled over. When he was done ... he actually felt a lot better. But Murphy would never hear those words leave his lips. Connor crawled back into bed, and curled up into his pillow.

"Yer welcome ... asshole" Murphy whispered. The two of them drifted off without another word.