Really really sorry I didn't update sooner. Well it took a couple dozen ladders and 10 feet of rope but I'm out of the ditch and now I'll stop this useless AN and leave you with the story.

10 minutes into this hellhole we affectionately refer to as detention, Rory had grudgingly come to the conclusion that the entire Breakfast Club concept was bull, bull, and bull.

One, there was no way that Allison Reynolds would've woken up one day and decide to go sit in a classroom with Molly Ringwald just for the heck of it. And two, being immensely, indescribably bored as hell in a room full of future felons didn't teach you discipline. It didn't teach you much at all, for that matter. The only thing she'd learned so far actually was that the history teacher had a disturbingly large mole beside his nose she'd never noticed before and seemed to move around his face while he snored…

Oh wait. It's a fly.

Then never mind. She's learned nothing.

This was by far one of the worst situations she could come up with. Now just throw in OJ Simpson and she's pretty much got herself a genuine, bonafied hell pit. Jess and Chuck had been long gone since minute 4 when the teacher had cracked his first snore, they were probably off supergluing the basketballs inside the cart as we speak. Grumbling curses under her breath and silently banishing Jess to the farthest ends of the earth where he will strive on dead rats and green lagoon water, she set herself to the arduous task of listening to Dean decide on which position he was planning to play on the basketball team.

"I was thinking Center," he was saying, "Or maybe Power Forward. What do you think?"

She stared at him blankly. Because Gilmores don't play basketball, you see. Not unless equipped with full body armor and the ambulance on speed dial. Nor do they even begin to have an inkling of a clue what some position that sounds similar to that of an over-carbonated energy drink is, "Power forward?"

"Yeah, but you see, my coach back in Chicago says I'm a little rough on the edges, and there's a pretty good chance I'd end up knocking over half the opposing team in the process. So that wouldn't be to good…" No not good at all. She wouldn't want to be held responsible if half the high school basketball teams in the area were suddenly coming down with depreciative concussions and pulverized limbs. He continued to talk, "blahblah, blah blah, blahblahblah…" And then some.

Argh. Rory considered herself to be a pretty patient person. But this guy was pushing the limit. He'd been going on about sports for a good eight minutes, covering subjects ranging from playing positions, to Locker Room Blues 101. And that was just for basketball. There was still football, baseball, soccer, volleyball, and pretty much anything involving an inflated globule made for the sole purpose being kicked, dropped, tossed, or eaten.

Plus it really didn't help that the conversation was now taking an awkward nosedive into the lack of good laundry detergent. To put it bluntly, she really really didn't want to know about the state and fetid condition of the basketball teams' sweatbands. "Hey, uh, Dean?" She cut in quickly, before he could turn the subject around to unproductive deodorant, "I just remembered I left my book in the library…" she started to get up, "So this might take a while. Don't be afraid for me when I don't come back in couple minutes… or hours. Librar—

"I'll go with you," he interrupted, eagerly jumping up. Yes, jumping up. All 6-7 feet of him.

Not what she was expecting.

Recoil, "Oh, y-you don't have to—

She stopped there. This was getting nowhere. He was looking at her like accompanying her to the library was the sole purpose for his living.

There was sure to be a compliable reason as to why she didn't need Dean trailing her to fetch her book from the library besides the obvious that there really was no book and the entire purpose of leaving in the first place was to get 5 damn minutes without having to think of sweaty guys bunched together in the locker room sharing the same roll of deodorant. But so far, the making-up-excuses segment of her mind begged to differ. Because as far as lying went, Rory never really had any need of manipulating her mother into letting her go to a keg party. Half considering that Lorelai practically pushed her out the door when the time for a beer blast arrived, and half because she really wouldn't be caught dead streaking around a drunken orgy. Thereby diminishing any need for touching up on her poker face.

So, after mentally whacking herself upside on the head for her lack of adolescent rebellion, she reluctantly allowed Dean to follow her to the library, who was indeed turning the subject over to anti-perspirants.

"Axe never works," he was saying, "Which is bad because everyone uses it. Because girls like it, you're a girl, why do you like Axe?"

"To be honest, I don't really pay much attention to popular deodorant trends of the month," she stopped short at that. No, not because Dean was describing at the moment in painful excruciating detail what athlete's foot looks like… okay maybe a little. But the main reason as to why she was currently grabbing Dean's arm and pulling him with her back around the corner was because there was a very angry looking basketball team rounding the hall.

Unfortunately, Dean isn't exactly the easiest guy to pull. And it really only took a scintilla of a second for the pack… herd, flock, of steaming jocks to catch notice. And what a scary jock flock it was. Not unlike the angry stick-figures with exploding heads and smoke pouring from their ears in those Saturday morning cartoons she used to watch as a kid. Before Lorelai started a Cold War against the cable company, anyway. The boycott hadn't been too successful to say the least. And now not only had they lost all hope for 15 rebate, but half of their channels had been mercilessly hacked out, too.

"Hey!" The guy in the very front of the blood-thirsty jock flock yelled, grabbing a handful of Dean's sweater and unceremoniously slamming him against the lockers, "You! I'll bet it was you!"

Had been on television and not actually happening, Rory would've laughed at the fact the mad basketball player was roughly 10 inches shorter than Dean. But unfortunately, this was in fact actually happening and not another episode of the Wonder Years.

Dean's eyes flickered to the side, questioning cautiously, "Me…?"

It must have been the wrong answer. Because the guy suddenly, or not so suddenly, punched him painfully across the face

This didn't settle too well with Rory, who had seen the West Side Story one too many times, so undoubtedly she chose this moment to interject, "He didn't do anything," Eight pairs of eyes settled on her, "I mean, I realize you're no Doogie House and the sole purpose of your 20/20 attendance is to dribble and throw orange balls around the gym, but use your head. If we did commit whatever horrible crime your referring to, don't you think we would be hiding and not strolling around like window shoppers on Lazy Sunday? And violence is not the solution, Adam—oh, and as for the rest of you, it really wouldn't hurt to use your head once in a while hm? Instead of standing by while my acquaintance Dean here gets a slaughtering, use the newly acquired as of the 1740s freedom of speech and do something! Did we learn nothing from Lord of War?"

She wasn't exactly sure they got what she was saying. The majority of the team seemed to be checking out something other than her speech. Rory may not have much experience in the boy department but she'd watched Alfie enough times to know when she's being ogled.

The frontman stepped up, eyeing her in a way that would've probably made Freda Alder smack him with a shovel and burn him on a steak, "So you know my name, huh?"

She shot him an incredulous glare, half out of the awe that anyone could be this dim-witted, and half because she like her personal space. Which was being very much violated at the moment, "It's printed on your shirt."

Somehow he took that as a sign to commence hitting on her.

Making a mental note to stock up on pepper-spray, Rory opened her mouth to inform Adam that her thigh was not a rest stop to put his hand on it's journey up to her ass and MVP trophies won't buy him out of sexual assault. Dean beat her to it.

He gaped at him, "What do you think you're you doing?"

Adam made no move to remove his hand, "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Pushing Adams' hand off her thigh, Rory made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. Similar to the noise one would make when they were forced to climb through a dumpster to seek out a sweater their mother had worn and accidentally thrown out after using it as a heat-absorbent when the toaster caught fire and almost burned the entire kitchen into a large lump of Febreze-scented charcoal. And she should know, having witnessed it firsthand. "Look Howard Stern, you may not be familiar with a term called sexual harassment, but—

"Leave us alone," Dean warned, cutting Rory off in the midst of her female empowerment speech.

"Why don't you?" The hand was back.

What are we, in kindergarten? Rory wanted to scream. She wanted to do more than that, actually. Just so he would stop feeling so damn obligated to feel her up, she wanted to duct tape his hands together. Like what Michel did do that guest that tried to steal one of the uncomplimentary bathrobes from the Inn. But there wasn't any tape within her line of vision, so she just settled for pushing his hand away.

Dean looked very, very angry. The throbbing purple vein on his forehead confirmed this, "You can't make me."

"Is that so?" Adam had turned his attention, thank god, to him now, "And what are you going to do about it? You already superglued our basketballs to the ceiling, you going to freezer-pack our jerseys next? We have a game tonight, man!"

Rory stared at him, bewildered. She really didn't think she'd ever even touched a basketball in her life, let alone superglue them to the ceiling. She could come up with only one plausible explanation for this: Jess. Jess, who she was at the very moment feeling an overwhelming sense of homicide towards, "Wait a second Adam, I don't think--

"We didn't do it!" Dean interrupted, "I haven't touched superglue since yesterday when the shelves on Aisle 5 were empty! And I had to restock them because I'm the bagboy. At Doose's. You go there, I'm sure. How would you like 30 off on baked goods if you don't disfigure our faces? No? 40? 45? Okay fine, but I'm drawing the line at 55."

Considering Adam still looked like Jack Nicholson at a Lakers Game, Rory concluded he probably didn't like baked goods too much. Or at all, for that matter. In fact, he probably despised them. That must be why he'd decided to lock the two into the janitor's closet. But at least he didn't disfigure their faces.

"Does this mean I won't be making the team this year?" Dean questioned, seconds before he was thrown into the Clorox infested house (or closet) of brooms.

Adam replied by slamming the door in their faces. Thus leaving them to rot in a foreign world of darkness, Clorox, brooms, and… Jess?

"You know, it should would does hurt when people are stepping on my foot. So I kindly ask you now to move your fucking shoe off my fucking toe, please and thank you."

Rory squinted into the darkness, "Jess?"

"No, it's the easter bunny."

Ah, the sarcasm. It was Jess, all right. Great, now not only was she stuck in a broom closet the size of a milk carton, but it came with two idiots to boot. Just great.

"Sorry. The sudden increase in speech and the fact we're enveloped in complete and utter blackness must have thrown me off," she responded dryly, silently shaking her fist at the cruelty of the greater powers, who were probably up beyond the great golden gates laughing their asses off this very moment.

"Whatever. Please tell me I'm dreaming and not actually locked in a tiny compacted space with the jolly green giant inches away from my face."

"Sorry to disappoint," Rory grumbled in a fashion one who has just discovered she'd been locked in a closet her arch nemesis would.

Dean, idiot #2 and the jolly green giant himself, was also less than overjoyed and expressed this compassion by glaring lasers towards Jess' direction. Or what he thought was Jess' direction. It was kind of hard to tell considering he couldn't see a damn thing.

"So Jess," Rory began, "We happen to be in here because Adam seems to think we're responsible for super-gluing his basketballs to the ceiling. Thank you for that, by the way."

"I'll tell Chuck you said that."

"Where is the bugger, anyways?"

"Last time I heard, he was crawling out the bathroom window. And as you see, I'm in crutches. So he escapes, jocks see me, I insult them, they get mad, I smack them with my crutches, they get mad, and somewhere along there they toss me in here."

"How tragic," Rory replied not so tragically, reaching for the doorknob. The locked doorknob, as she had just discovered.

"Yeah that was my initial reaction too. And as you can see, the damn custodian doesn't know how to install a lock. How hard is it really? You lock it from the inside, you try and open it from the outside only to fail miserably and be left out in the cold while your science teacher's inside screwing the principal. Or maybe that's a good thing. I wouldn't know."

Rory held back a groan, all the while marveling at what the world has come to, "Remind me to buy the custodian some common sense."

"And while you're at it, a brain would be good too."

Dean spoke up, "For him or you?"

"Oh that killed me."

Rory shook her head in vain seeing there was no way neither boy could see two inches in front of their face, "Will Paris and Shannon drop the lipstick and step away from the car?"

"Only if I get to be Shannon."

Dean growled, "Shut up Jess."

"Oh that's okay Paris, I'm sure nobody saw your sex tape. Just ignore the fact it was leaked across worldwide porn sites visited hourly by acne infested nerds who jack off twice a day."

"You know what—

"Whoa, whoa," Rory cut in quickly. Bloodshed in the supply closet wasn't something she wanted to get into. She jiggled the lock, "Jess don't you know how to break into these things?"

"Yes. But that usually comes with the territory of being able to see at least the end of my nose."

Dean scoffed, "You wouldn't have that problem if I break it for you."

"Hey beanpole, how would you like to have a broom shoved up your ass?"

"It's pitch-black in here, I'll bet you can't even find—OW!"

"Hey! What did I say about that lipstick, Shannon?" Rory demanded, reaching her arms out and coming into contact with several indescribable what she hoped were janitorial items before finally stealing away the broom, "Now would be the perfect time to recall that zero tolerance speech we were all introduced and accustomed to in second grade, hm?"

Jess snatched it back, "Thank you for that helpful insight, Gandhi. But unfortunately this is 21st century America, where filthy rich football players get away with murder, 10 year olds are running around with cell phones, and you know that thing around our atmosphere that keeps us all from getting fried? Yeah, well there's a hole in that."

"The only reason why there's a hole in the ozone layer in the first place is because people like you can't keep their hands off the excessive hair products," she shot back, grabbing away the broom again, this time stashing it against the wall.

"Not excessive," Jess insisted, "Compared to Dolly Parton, I'm nothing."

"Jess, you could combine everyone in the world's hairspray and compare it to Dolly Parton's, it'd still be nothing."

"Yeah," Dean chimed in.

Jess scoffed, "Oh shuddup bagboy, your hair needs to be hacked off with a weed-whacker."

That remark was met by a growl, "Speak for yourself, Elvis."

The three of them went on arguing for several hours straight. Or at least until Jess had finally located the broom and knocked Dean unconscious across the head with it. But by then it was well into evening, and the toxicating scent of Clorox was finally taking a toll on the two surviving teenagers, soon lulling them into a deep involuntary sleep.

So in the end, the janitor was the one who found our very own breakfast club sleeping amongst the brooms. The basketball team lost their game, but seeing they'd been losing for the past 37 years, that came as no surprise. The opposing team was, however, quite taken with the basketballs stuck to the ceiling (courtesy of Chuck Presby) thus sparking a hot new trend amongst the homecourts. From then on every gym within a 5000 mile radius to Stars Hallow High had basketballs hanging off the ceiling tiles.

And not too long after, Jess' foot had magically gotten better. But only after Luke caught him sprinting away (crutchless) screaming about bleeding eyeballs the day Taylor forgot to wear pants. So alas, Jess was then forced to attend gym class again—but that didn't mean he went.

It was also soon discovered that Dean was also developing quite the crush on Rory, god help her. She was flattered at first. But that all changed when she spotted him hiding amongst her dead rosebushes.

Lorelai had found the entire gimmick in the janitor's closet rather amusing. Thereby forgetting to punish Rory for not returning home in time for the tribute to Tom Cruise pre-Katie movie marathon.

Chuck was still Chuck. A pretentious asshole majoring in Stupid 101.

In fact, to the onlooking eye, it could be said that things were getting rather dull around Stars Hallow. But that was all about to change.