A/N Okay, the following is the result of a couple of things. One, Kim (Kimonkey7) requested that I write a "twenty-one" shot when I got home from the bar last night, while I was drunk, and not edit it. Two, a daquiri and a few Amaretto Sours. Now, seriously, this right here takes the Bad!Fic to a whole new level, guys. This is Bad!Fic 2.0, or 2.1 if you want. All typos and mispellings are genuiine, and some seem to be the result of Auto Spell Check. And I believe that you can get a pretty good feel for just how sarcastic I truly am. The point is...wow, this is bad. I was in the birthday frame of mind at three in the morning, and this is my drunken take on Greg's birthday (which was mentioned in the eppy as coming up)out. This one's for you, Kim. :)

Happy Birthday, Greggo

He was starting to think that thst fourth shot had been a very bad idea. Not the fifth or sixth, necesaaryliy…but that fourth one, that hdd made him think that he could handle a few more, that had been the kicker.

Also, combined with a coupel of beers? But Nic had thought 'what the hell?' Right? Wasn't like he drank a lot anyways, and Well, birthdates only come once a year, right? And they had promised Greg a good one. Maybe he did'nt get that fantsy that he wanted from Grissom, but it wasmn't like those floosies at the bar hadn't been trying.

Catherine had been the first to leave, or more accurately stumble, out of the bar at about ywo thirty. She as always used the 'have a daughter at home that I have to pretenf to take care of excuse', and clacked her way out of the door in those ridiculously tall heels. They weren't even practical for a night out, letr alone all of the crime scene investigating that she attempted in them. At least she had the prescencse of mind to call a cab. If she thought long ebough to actually wait for it to come get her…well, that was still up for debate.

Not two far behind her was Sara, totally sloshed from her two tall frosty glases of ginger ale. It seemed just a touch too obvious that she was trying not to come off as an alcoholic to Grissom, who spent quite a lot of time nursing an equally tall and frosty glass of water. Better watch out for that, Gris, it might hit ya in the morning.

It was nearing four when Warricks cell phone rand for the thirteenth time, if Nick was keeping count correctly, and it was entirely possible that he wasn't. was it seven shots? It seemed that answering that call had effects that sobered Warrick up immediately, and he bounced off of his bar stool, slapped Greg on the back, and stalked out of the bar.

Leaving Nic with Greg and Grissom. Let me tell you – par-tay time. What in the hell was Grissom even dfoing out that late anyway?

Grissom seemd to have the same thoughts, because it took all og three minutes after Warrick departure fgor the man to scoot off of his own stool, mumble something about…something that hje had to do in the morning, give Greg his eight hundredth "happy bithdaty" of the day, and wander out of the door.

"That died pretty quick:" Nick commented. He glanced at his watch, suddenly very aware of the time, and started to calculate the hours of sleep that he would require to be workable the next day. Hell, they could dtay out longer if they really wanyed…he didn't need to be up unitl…what time did shift start?

"Yeah," Greg nodded. "Want another beer?"

Probably shouldn't. So why not, right?

And why not kill some more time? A pool table opened up around five, and the two guys had themselves a friendly, if not clumsy, game. Greg was holding his tequila much, much better than Nick would have ever given him credit fot. They had had…eight birthday boy shots? It was nearing that point where it sidn't really matter how many shots they had had. The point was, Greg was holding his liquor much better than Nick could say for himself. That tended to happen when there was such a long period of time between these night's out. How long had it been?

Long enough, apparetny.

So, what else is there for a couple of drunk guys, one significantly more so, to do that challenge a couple of egually drunk other guys to a nice, friendly game of pool, since trhey had the table?

Turns out, not all that much,

It had to be either the funniest, or the sorryinest spectacle that there ever was. It was horrible. Nick scratched his pool cue across the felt so hard one time that the ball, whatever it is that the white one's called, sailed right off of the table into a group of slightly larger, slightly drunker, slightly less gentlemanly gentlemen.

Nick cringed, and Greg gaped at him. Would it have been to childish to drop the sticks and run for it? Probably, and the chances of one or both of them tripping up somewhere along the way and splaying themselves all over the floor and/or sidewalk where pretty good, and so they just stood.

"Missing your little white ball that I can't remember the name?" a deep, perhaps unneccarily deep but providing for a good threatening feeling, voice…you knowe, said.

Greg laughed. "You wouldn't happen to have found it would you?" he was speaking way to loud, and way too Greg.

"Yeah," said the overdramitvally threatening voice. "I did." And the equally overly stereotypically big and threanening bar parton, perhaps a biker, caise that would be fun, said, all dramatic like. He raised his glass – what do bikers drink? – and his hand visibly shook with anger (grr). The white ball was floating (unless it's too heavy to float and is therefore smushing the ice) in the glass.

"Oh, that's not good," Nick said to himself, louder than he meant, since he hadn't meant to say it out loud at all.

"No," big scary dramatic stereotyped biker guy said. 'It's not." Maybe he saisd "it ain't", cause he's a redneck, too. (Atre there rednecks in Vegas?)

Greg laughed again, for no apparent reason than to provide a reason for biker dude to get angrier, and Nick shot him a look. Besides, it was his mess up. Why in the hell couldn't he kick back a few (eight…nine?) shot and a coupla (four) beers like he could in college? You're gettin' old, man. Not too bad, but you're gettin' there.

"Why don't' I get you another drink," Nick offered, reaching for wallet…which pocket is that in? Was he right-handd? Right pocket. In the back, jackass, stop groping yourself.

"I don't want another drink," big whatever I made him be dude said, growling. Ha, growling. "I want this one."

"You think you can swallow that ball okay?"

Dammit. POkay, maybe Greg wasn't holding his own obscenely OOC amount of liquor all that well either. It made him even more…Greg, than usual. And everyonr knows that a little Greg goes a long way…a lot of Greg…they were going to get their asses handed to them.

And they were drawing a crowd. Lovely. How come he was perfectly aware of that, but he couldn't even remember where his damn wallet was? Ooh, found his car keys, though.

"Please excuse my firned," Nick said. "He has a bad habit of talking uot of his ass." It was kind of an apology. "Why don't we get you another still undecided what it is that you're drinking drink, and then we'll all get back to enjoying out night."

The big…let's make him really big, just for shits and giggles, guy didn't just throw the drink. No, he threw the whole glass. Maybe a pitcher would be more effective, and I bet it hurt worse. Okay, so he maybe picked up a pitcher from a nearby table, and hurled it at Nick, just because it's fun to hurl things at Nick.

Nick brought his hands up to keep the pitcher from crashing into his face, dropping his pool cue in the act – but we don't' care aboyt the pool cue. I'm not sure if the pitcher would break or not, but if it didn't break, then he would only have a bruise, and only in the morning, so let's just say for the sake of a little blood that the pircher breaks. It shatterd – ooh, much more effective – upon striking his forearms (ouch), and tiny pcies of glass pierced his skin.

"Hey," Greg yelled. So it was really more like "Hey!" Gotta have that exclamation pioint. And Greg, poor poor pretty little Greg, all scrawny and apparently sweater vest loving six feel of him, lauched himself at the aforementioned pitcher thrower.

It wasn't even theortically a good plan, because this guy, if I haven't mentioned before, was huge. Like a big montraous hairy (yeah, let's add hairy) ape-like man. Who as a redneck – did we decide on the redneck thing, I don't' remember. He was immediately knocked to the ground, and was probably gonna have a pretty nice, and by that I of course mean ugly, bruise in the morning. And it hurt, too.

Nick wasn't gonna watch little Greggy get pummeled because he was too drunk to even be able to hit the ball (okay, seriousdly – what ios it called) in a game of pool. He pulled a shard to glass from his arm (yes there's blood gotta be pouring out of it now, and it's really thin cause he's been drinking so it looks like there's even more than there really is – how's that for a visual image for ya?) and…throws it at the big guy like a Chinese throwing star? Catxches him in the shoulder? Too much?

It's either that or he leaps into the fight, and picks up a few bruises of his own before other standerbys (that's not even a word) pull all of the guys off of each other. Let's go with that one, as I suppose it's a bit more realistic.

Okay, so he leapt into the battle, a battle that seems to only be between big monkey man's foot and Greg's side, and took a kick in the face. This of course propels him onto the floor beside Greg, and they're both too freaking wasted to be properly coordinated enough to carry this thing on very well, though quickly sobering from the whole ordeal.

It's okay, though, because there's those hypothetical standerbys that pull the big guy away from our boys, because they see the CSI IDs, and it's kind of frowned upon to beat up on cops. Even in Vegas. The bartender had called the cops (the real ones) pretty quickly, and they came to arrest the big hairy biker monkey ape man.

Some other people helped Greg and Nick up, and one person, Nick coulsn't remember and I really don't' care if it was a man or a woman, but they gave him a towel from the bar o hold to those cuts on his arms. Someone else told them to sit tight while they called for an ambulance, just to be careful.

"Some night out, huh?" Greg asked, turning to Nick with a smirk, though he held a hand to his side and was breathing a little shallowly.

Nick raised his eyebrows and winced as he pressed the towel harder on his bleeding arms. "Happy Birthday, Greggo."

Um...yeah...