AN: Wow... people really dont like Dean. And you really really dont have to worry,I swear if this doesn't end up a lit, I'll eat my hand. To answer the thing about getting hitched at 17, I know that Rory probably wouldn't say yes. But I was watching the episode where Lorelai bails on Max during on the day before or on their wedding and I was thinking 'Hey, like mother like daughter right?' so that's where that came from. Not making much sense here so I'll just let you read now.

White. The color of mom's face when I told her that her only daughter was getting married. The deer in the headlights look was then replaced by a thought-provoking and almost gleeful expression when she realized that this news would indeed make grandma's head chemically combust. Unfortunately it was right back to pale after that.

"You're… engaged," she repeated after me, forgetting about the pop-tarts she had previously stuck into the toaster.

"Just call me J. Lo," I replied, focusing on the task of putting out the fire that was currently spreading around our scorned toaster and rapidly deteriorating pop-tarts.

"Wow," she stepped back, in a daze, "My daughter. The Macculay Culkin of Stars Hollow."

"I wouldn't go that far," I said, dousing water over the flames as if it was an everyday occurrence, "Jess said—

"Wait, Jess? Jess said?"

Uh oh. By the look on mom's face, I don't think someone is going to wake up with his limbs fully attached tomorrow morning.

"Excuse me, I have to go do some serious hacking now," she starts towards the door, "Rory do you know where we keep our giant hedge clippers?"

This is bad. I block the doorway, "No mom, listen—

"No sweetie, listening is what got us into this mess. What we need right now is less listening, more strangling. Now where did I put that gardening hose…"

"There will be no strangling with gardening hoses. Half because it's illegal and half because when was the last time we gardened anything?"

"Hmm… I think it was before we hired that gardener for a week but after the pool boy left."

"Because we didn't have a pool?"

"No I think it was because I hid his clothes in our thornbush."

"… Mom that was a rosebush."

"Really? I thought rose bushes are supposed to—ah! No! Don't change the subject! You're still engaged and Jess is still losing an arm. Or a leg. I'm not picky, either one will do."

I steer her towards the kitchen table, quickly brushing the scissors and all sharp objects to the floor before sitting her down.

Clasping my hands with hers, I try my most convincing tone of voice, the tone I use to soothe Paris when she's prepared to bite the heads off quote on quote 'worthless, sniveling, freshmen', "I know you think I'm making a mistake. But I'm sure of this whole… engagement thing. I am."

Mom looks at me skeptically. Finally replying, "Honey, you realize that you took advice from Jess, right? He's no Dr. Phil. Do you know what his love life consists of? Skanks, illegal pot, skanks, and more illegal pot."

Jess. This reminds me, I haven't gotten around to telling Jess about the situation yet. No doubt he would want to know how all it all turned out last night at the restaurant. I suddenly find my palms turning extremely clammy. Where's hand lotion when you need it?

"Dean's a good kid I guess," Lorelai thought aloud, "Refills the water bottles. And I guess having grandchildren named after the citrus flavors in the gum stand won't be too bad," she frowns, "Luke is going to have a cow." The frown turns into a grin.

And alas, Luke did have a cow. In fact, what he had probably doesn't even qualify as a cow. More like… a mule. A very large, homicidal mule. With horns. Sharp, angry looking horns.

He's calm at first. Remaining expressionless throughout the entire tirade. Turning around when it ended to yell to Caesar, "Caesar, where did you put that meat-grinder?"

"We already ground out the burgers this morning." Was the reply.

"Oh believe me, we didn't get all of them."

And holding the meat grinder in his hands, Luke had stalked out with a determined look set on his face, heading straight towards Doose's, where an unsuspecting Dean was ringing out bags of cauliflower. That was about when mom and I ran after him, stopping him before he could turn Dean into tomorrow's special.

"I think you have it all wrong here," Lorelai was saying at warp speed, "See it's not Dean you're after."

"It's not?" Luke repeats, disbelievingly.

"Of course not," I reply, "You shouldn't be turning my fiancé into a three meal course—

"—When you should be slaughtering Jess for installing false ideas into my daughter's vulnerable mind."

Damn it mother. I jab her brashly in the ribs. Luke squints at her, "What are you saying?"

"It turns out the last person Rory called before her collapse of good judgment was none other than your manipulative nephew."

Remind me to dose my mom's head in snail goo when this is all over.

Luke, cursing under his breath, starts back toward the diner. Where I'm left to run after him. Again. Stopping him just as he's adjusting the meat grinder to the appropriate size.

"You're not going to grind Jess into burgers with that are you?"

Luke guffaws, "Of course not," he sticks his head into the kitchen, "Caesar! Where'd you put that baster?"

"Hey, there will be no basting your nephew," Lorelai cuts in quickly, pulling the baster from his grasp, "But I have a chainsaw in the garage. Cuts through like ice."

I snatch the baster from my mother, "No murdering Jess. Both of you. Not until I talk to him first, anyway. Is he upstairs?"

Luke blinks once. Then twice, "No, uh, actually. I think I… he's in New York with his mother. Lizs' wedding rehearsal. I think it's her… fourth one? No, there was that one with the shoe-shiner… and then came the one with the Hitler 'stache. No wait, first came the Buddist priest, then comes the Hitler 'stache."

"Wow. And I thought leather was in," Lorelai thinks aloud, "Hey, then shouldn't you be at your sister's wedding instead of here with us preparing to chainsaw massacre Dean's head?"

Luke scratches the top of his baseball cap, "I have a diner full of potential stroke victims to run. I'll be there for the real thing."

Wedding. Marriage. The words are making my stomach queasy. Queasier than when I swallowed that snail yesterday, if that's even possible. And, might I add, the room is starting to spin around in a rather colorful array of brown tables, "Hey," I say, clearing my throat, "What's Jess' address?"

OOOOOO

Jess lives in something similar to that of a shoe. I'm not kidding. With the alarming rate the walls are peeling and the amount of moss growing on the ceiling, I wouldn't be surprised if a giant foot suddenly fell from the sky.

Liz is nice enough. Nothing, if you ask me, like her monosyllabic son. It makes me wonder if Jess might have been found floating down the Nile and adopted at birth.

She instructs me to take a left down Second (Boulevard? I'm guessing the sign said boulevard. Before someone rubbed out every letter besides u and l-a-r-d, at least) and stop when I reach a shabby looking shack.

It was going rather well. Hadn't gotten lost yet, that's always good. The only problem was that when I arrived at my fated destination, I found that our shack—is a bar. Uh huh. Is that what they call bars these days? As in 'John's taking beer down at the shack.' Or ' I keep my loaded guns in the shack.' Or my personal favorite, 'Jess spends his free time in a shack. Why am I not surprised?'

This particular 'shack' isn't too shacky though. It may actually pass for mildly cozy if you ignore the marijuana wallpaper. And the crowd

I spot Jess right away, because you tend to stand out when you're sitting there in the corner reading while every other being in the room is jumping about screaming the lyrics to bad 80s techno music.

I plop down beside him, "Wow, I never thought I'd see this day. Jess Mariano overcoming his liquor store knocking ways. Finally deciding to obey the law for once?"

He snaps the book shut, "Nope. I was catching up with a couple of buddies. That was before the Samuel Adams war started anyway." He points to a boy swinging his shirt around on the counter, "See that guy there? Designated driver. Or until he started seeing double of everything. So now, the task has been handed down to me. The safety of these idiots now rest in my hands."

"Aha. And what are the chances you'll actually be driving them back?"

"Kirk has a better chance of getting laid, I'll tell you that."

My phone rings. Must be my mother.

I grin secretively to myself, jumping at the chance to avenge my mother for her using her House of Kinks recording as our answering machine, I flip open the phone, "This is Bunny Airheaded, exotic dancing at it's best. Press one for our free trial, guaranteed STD- free. Press two for--

"Rory?"

… Damn it.

I gulp, "Oh. Hi Dean."

Thankfully, he doesn't ask too many questions, "O...kay, so I, uh, went to see you this afternoon."

"Really?" I shoot a glance at Jess, "I've been out. Errand run. To, uh, Hartford. Very , very long errand run."

I've been engaged for less than 12 hours and I'm already making up excuses. This can't be the sign of a healthy oncoming marriage.

"Is that Madonna I hear playing in the background?" Dean questions, sounding very puzzled. Partly because the last time 'Papa Don't Preach' was playing on the radio station, I crammed cottonballs into my ears and ended up deaf in my left ear for an entire week.

"Oh, well…" I laugh nervously, "You caught me. It's, uh, guilty pleasure?" Guilty pleasure my ass.

He chuckles at this, "Well I'll be sure to tell the DJ that at our wedding, then."

Great. My wedding will now consist of 'Like a Virgin' on full-blast through the speakers. I bang my head against the table, cursing my idiocy.

"What was that?"

"I hit my head. Complete accident," I mutter. Wow. Even this tablecloth has marijuana leaf designs on it, "I'll, uh, call you later okay?" I hang up, forehead still pressed against the table. Without a doubt, it'll be imprinted with little marijuana leaf designs by the time I regain enough drive to lift my head from this rather uncomfortable position here.

Jess spoke first, "Who was that?"

Only my soon-to-be-husband. But I couldn't tell him that. No wait, yes I can! Tell him. Don't be a wimp, Rory. Tell him, tell him tell him--

"A friend," I lie. You wimp, I curse myself. I suddenly find myself becoming very nervous. And thirsty, "Hey, can I get some water?"

A bartender looks at me funnily before bursting into laughter, "Nice one," he says, "A coke and a rum it is." A coke and a what?

Jess wasn't about to let go so easily, "That friend wouldn't happen to be named Dean, would he?"

"Well, uh, you know. It is quite a popular name these days. Dean, Dean Martin, Dean Sampson, Dean Bourgini. You know Jess is a nice name too. Jess Jess Jess… Can't think of any Jess' right now. But good, good name, Jess is. Hey listen! Bruce Springsteen's on—big step up from Madonna, huh?"

He expression remains unfazed. Of course, being Jess, his entire facial expression wardrobe consists of a grand total of 3 expressions. Number one being what I like to call the 'Go away' face. Number two being the 'I'm warning you…' face, usually following the 'Go away' face. And number three is the super-rare face. When he actually smiles and doesn't look like he wants to blow up the world. That face is rarer than seeing a dog with two heads. And the only times where I've ever witnessed it were when I admitted to reading Hemmingway and the time Taylor slipped on the egg-salad sandwich Kirk threw on the sidewalk as his 'God made dirt, dirt won't hurt' experiment.

Anyway, now was leaning towards the number two, the 'I'm warning you' face.

The bartender comes over with my drink. The coke with bum. Or something like that. I shoot him a grateful smile. The very same grateful smile one would shoot another who has saved them from muggers. But this is better. This guy saved me from dehydration and a panic attack. I'd hug him, but I'm too thirsty.

"You don't want to drink that," Jess says, stopping me.

"Oh yeah. I want to dehydrate and dry up into a shriveling sack of bones."

It turns out Jess was right, I hastily spit the drink out, "This-This is alchohol!" I sputter, "Do they know I'm underage?"

If you think about it though, this is kind of funny. I'm allowed to get married but not to drink beer.

He ignored my question, "You didn't say yes did you?"

… Did I? I'll let you answer that yourself.

He looks down at the tablecloth, "'Cause, you know, I've been thinking, I shouldn't have told you to marry him last night. You aren't… engaged right now are you?"

Wow. Suddenly feeling very thirsty again. I down the concoction of coke and bum, managing to ignore the rancid aftertaste. Because when you could eat a snail, you can take anything.

I shake my head, I'm lying through my teeth now, "Why else wouldn't I be wearing a ring?" …Well because I left it by the sink. But he doesn't need to know that. He seems satisfied with this answer because stops the interrogating and orders a drink. Silently thanking the usage of blue soap, which had triggered me to remove the ring in the first place, I suddenly find myself feeling very crappy. Being I just lied to two people in an increment of five short minutes. Lightheaded with guilt, I order another drink. Being apparently, they don't serve water in bars. Last time I checked water was supposed to be a drink.

Jess finishes his too and gets another one, a strange solution that looks frightening similar to Coca Cola. It's suddenly painfully obvious why people get away with spiking punch bowls so easily.

Let me just take this time to sayI don't get drunk. Any usage of drugs in Stars Hollow—and let me tell you, you'd be more likely to find Taylor in a speedo than drugs in Stars Hollow, isn't allowed within a 10 foot radius of me. Of course all this changed when Jess came to town, a dozen packs of lung-rotting cigarettes in tow, but nevertheless, I don't get drunk.

And I'm not drunk right now. I swear. Three more drinks can hardly qualify as drunk.

Wow. Everything's… upside down.

And as the world is beginning to swirl around in bright neon colors, it's becoming abundantly clear what inspired the tye- dye trend of the sixties-- and that the guy I am now lying on top of isn't Dean.

… And the plot thickens.